By The Dawn of Arts & Activism
ALI 400 — Chapter 14
In 2007, I moved back home to Louisville after spending ten years in New York City.
While in New York, I worked extensively with the Jewish community in the household and commercial relocation industry.
I had been working since childhood—my first job came at eleven years old—but I had never attended college. What I encountered in New York, particularly among Israelis fresh out of the Israeli Armed Forces, permanently altered my understanding of human capacity.
Their work ethic was unlike anything I had ever witnessed.
They worked sixteen-hour days on holidays. If there was money to be made, fatigue, hunger, frustration—none of it mattered.
At one point, I worked seventy-two hours over the span of three days.
I had never imagined that was possible—much less sustainable.
What shocked me most was not them.
It was myself.
I discovered that I had far more power dormant inside me than I had ever been told.
Back home, when I asked people in the African American community whether taking on a second job was wise, the response was unanimous:
“No—you’re going to kill yourself.”
But in New York, I learned something uncomfortable and undeniable:
the people who control capital also work harder than anyone else.
Returning Home
I left New York a different man—
disciplined,
relentless,
and certain that if I maintained even half of that momentum back home, I would outrun most of my previous limitations.
Kentucky moved slower than New York.
But I hit the ground running.
What surprised me was how visible the difference was.
Friends, family, and community members were stunned by my work ethic and intensity.
One night, a close friend—who had developed a strong relationship with Louisville’s mayor—saw me perform spoken word poetry and insisted on introducing me to the mayor the very next morning.
I was offended.
In New York, nobody sees the mayor without months of advance planning.
The idea that a young Black man in Louisville could simply call the mayor and bring me to him within minutes sounded absurd.
Nevertheless, I agreed to meet my friend the next morning at 10:00 a.m.
I arrived on time.
He had just woken up.
I assumed the idea had passed.
At 10:12 a.m., he said casually,
“Oh snap—I’ve got to call the mayor.”
I watched in disbelief as he dialed a number and said,
“Good morning, Mayor Fischer.”
Then he declared confidently,
“Mr. Mayor, I’m about to bring you the guy who’s going to take your programs to another level.”
I was humiliated.
Within ten minutes, we were standing on the steps of the mayor’s office.
He introduced me again—just as boldly—and to my surprise, the mayor saw something in me that he needed.
I walked away with a sense of purpose and belonging I had never experienced before.
Although I had begun ministry earlier in life, this marked the beginning of my work as a social justice advocate in the secular world.
Entering the Activist World
My friend introduced me to Louisville’s activist ecosystem.
We traveled the city performing spoken word, producing concerts, and amplifying the voices of the poor and marginalized.
Eventually, I found myself at the Anne Braden Center for Social Justice Research, home of the Kentucky Alliance Against Racist and Political Oppression.
There, elders pressed me to swear that I would run for mayor.
I refused—repeatedly.
I had no political background.
I had been incarcerated more than thirty times.
I had no money.
They didn’t care.
Counsel from an Elder
I sought counsel from one of my most trusted elders,
Nana Yaa Asantewaa.
Her advice was unequivocal:
“Don’t do it. Don’t fall headfirst into the belly of the beast.”
Her words resonated deeply.
I believed in sociopolitical sovereignty, but at the time I did not yet understand what true sovereignty looked like.
Still, I had already sworn to serve.
Even if running for mayor was not the path, I knew I had to begin somewhere.
That beginning became Arts & Activism.
The Birth of Arts & Activism
I asked myself a simple question:
What do I actually have to offer my community?
The answer was clear.
I was an artist.
And I was an activist.
Arts & Activism was born as a nonprofit organization with a simple mission:
to stimulate political literacy and civic engagement among everyday people.
Soon after, a close friend invited me to produce an event at the Borders Books Café in downtown Louisville.
The experience was electric.
Music, poetry, and open mic performances filled the space with an energy that felt almost forbidden in that part of the city.
Downtown Louisville had become a place many African Americans no longer felt safe.
Police brutality was routine.
Racism was overt.
And this was the same area where Muhammad Ali—despite being an Olympic gold medalist and heavyweight champion—had once been barred from eating due to segregation.
That realization hardened my resolve.
Next door stood the Hard Rock Cafe.
I wanted that venue.
The Hard Rock Activation
When I approached the manager, Billy, he was eager—almost relieved.
He explained that every time an act of racial violence occurred downtown, the press photographed the area near the Hard Rock’s iconic guitar sign.
The venue had become a visual symbol for something it did not believe in.
Hard Rock, he explained, was owned by Native American interests.
Their mission statement was simple:
Love All. Serve All. In Unity.
Billy gave us the venue for free.
He handled promotion.
He contacted the media.
He even tried to bring the mayor.
It cost us nothing.
The Event
I recruited artists from open mics—raw talent hungry to be heard.
I partnered with seven activist organizations.
Artists created work reflecting those causes.
Each group brought its own community.
Before selling a single ticket, we had mobilized more than three hundred influential people across the city.
On the night of the event, the energy was undeniable.
Five teenagers—fourteen and fifteen years old—opened the show performing live hip-hop with musicianship far beyond their years.
Act after act followed.
Each more powerful than the last.
People came in off the street just to ask what was happening.
That month, police brutality incidents downtown dropped from sixteen to two.
The City Changes
By the second event, the mayor walked in—unannounced—with less than twenty-four hours’ notice.
Media followed.
The city took notice.
Within months:
Racist incidents downtown ceased entirely.
The entertainment district’s general manager was fired.
He was replaced by an African American.
And the transformation held.
What decades of protest had not achieved,
activation accomplished swiftly.
The Ripple Effect
From there, I appeared on television multiple times each month.
I helped launch AMP’D, a positive hip-hop diversion program for at-risk youth.
One student—Jecorey Arthur—absorbed not only the music, but the political vision.
Years later, AMP’D became the largest funder of African American initiatives in Louisville.
Years later, Jecorey became a leading political figure in Kentucky.
When he found me again, I did not recognize him at first.
But he remembered me.
The Lesson
This is what led me to write ALI 400.
For me, this is positive hip-hop.
This is activation.
This is how culture becomes infrastructure.
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