A March To Manhood A Rite With Ancient Roots Helps A Youngster Steer A Steady Course On Life’s Voyage

On the eve of his 13th birthday, Marcus Solomon walks slowly down the aisle at St. Luke Community United Methodist Church.

Drums are beating softly, the thump-thump-thump rhythm filling the sanctuary. His mother, Driselda, leads the way. His father, Marion, follows close behind. The Rev. Zan Holmes waits at the altar. And in the pews, more than 150 relatives, classmates, spiritual guides and teachers watch the youngster make his way to the pulpit.

This is Marcus’ march to manhood.

Now at the altar, Marcus, elegantly dressed in a black African robe with gold trim and a matching kofi, stands before his community, ready to begin a rite-of-passage ceremony with ancient African roots.

“Are you ready to accept the challenge that you are about to take, to accept the responsibility of being a man? If so, say ‘I am,”’ Holmes says.

“I am,” he answers.

“Are you ready to uphold the family name and to carry yourself in a manner that will be pleasing to God, yourself and your community?”

“I am,” Marcus repeats.

“Let the passage begin,” Holmes booms.

This moment began years ago as a dream and desire of Driselda Solomon’s. What Marcus needed, she and her husband thought, was a spiritual, cultural and community anchor to keep him rooted to the right path - and a public ceremony to cement the tie.

The Solomons say that while they have worked hard to raise their sons, Marcus and 11-year-old Matthew, they know that as African-American men, the boys will face difficult choices in the years ahead.

“It really scares me to think that our young black men are not being spiritually led down the right path,” Mrs. Solomon says. “I was seeking a way to uplift my son.”

“I want him to know that it’s OK to become an adult and it’s OK to be smart and not to compromise that,” she says. “I’m hoping that he takes away today that he can take care of his own.”

More than three years ago, Solomon began to prepare her son and plan his ceremony. She searched her own church, enrolling Marcus, a lanky young man of quiet demeanor, in St. Luke’s Mandela program.

Through the weekly lessons on history, practical skills and faith, the class is designed to give young men spiritual and cultural guidance.

She studied Judaism’s bar and bat mitzvah ceremonies. And she turned to rite-of-passage programs, American classes based on African traditions to help prepare both boys and girls for adulthood.

In African villages, elders have traditionally taught children how to become adults. Sometimes boys spend days in the jungle, learning how to hunt and survive. Girls learn expected moral behavior and other skills from village women. At 13, most youngsters were once expected to be ready to head their own families.

Village customs have long ago given way to disconnected neighborhoods and isolated families in America. Children at 13 no longer leave their families but must instead navigate difficult social choices.

In American rite-of-passage programs, the values that underpinned those African traditions have been held out to African-American youngsters in hopes of instilling in them a sense of community, historical pride and personal responsibility.

The programs have sprung up over the past two decades in community centers, churches and schools across the nation. St. Luke’s has such a program, but only for its girls. At the end of each rite-of-passage program, the youngsters are celebrated during a group ceremony. The Mandela program is similar but offers no ceremony.

On this recent, gray Saturday, Solomon, with help from Gwen L. Corbett, a friend and professional coordinator, has taken elements of the public ceremony and woven them into a personal rite of passage for Marcus.

The ceremony is a first for St. Luke’s and one that the Solomons and church officials hope will become a new tradition. They know at least one other ceremony will be scheduled - for Matthew, the Solomons’ younger son, when he turns 13 in 1999. Marcus will also be confirmed in a separate ceremony.

“When I heard about this, I was really pleased,” says Mittie Jordan, assistant pastor for programs at St. Luke’s. “This takes a program that has been very institutionalized and makes it a personal, family-focused ceremony, which is as it should be.

“As African people in America, we often have to reinvent traditions when we adopt ancestral customs since we have not upheld those rituals or practiced them for centuries. We, as a people, are reinventing our culture,” she says.

Part of that reinvention includes restoring the community sense of the village, say Jordan and Holmes. While the ceremony is meant to impress upon Marcus his responsibilities as a young man, it is also meant to remind his village - his church, friends and relatives - that they, too, have a role to play in his life.

With elaborate gold and black invitations, the Solomons have invited Marcus’ entire seventh-grade class at Dallas Christian Academy. And they have invited family, close friends, his former and present football coaches and others who have helped nurture him throughout his childhood.

“This is very important,” Holmes says. “I think we need to all be reinforced that it indeed takes a village to raise a child.”

On this day, his parents are the first to offer the young man their love and words of wisdom.

“As a father, I have tried to teach you by precedence and example,” Marion Solomon tells his son as the ceremony begins. “Despite all my fears, hopes and efforts to teach you, I realize that the ultimate decisions are yours.”

A family friend recounts waiting for Marcus’ birth. A former football coach recalls the youngster’s tenacity and athletic ability. His principal reminds him to remain focused on his education. And his Mandela instructor, Randy Luster, reminds him of his adult duties.

“You represent another link in the chain of black manhood,” he tells Marcus. “It’s my job to help you realize the legacy, pride and responsibility that comes to you at this time.”

At the end of the reflections, Holmes picks up the kikombe cup, filled with salt, vinegar and honey. Traditionally used in rite-of-passage ceremonies, salt represents wisdom. Vinegar is to remind Marcus of life’s difficulty, and honey, offered in the largest quantity, represents the sweetness of life.

After Marcus drinks from the cup, his father welcomes him into manhood. His mother offers him a silver ring, engraved with the words “True love waits.” With acceptance of the ring, she says, she hopes that Marcus will later sign a pledge to refrain from sex until marriage. She also offers the young man a pendant, a gift that he can offer to a future girlfriend so that they will share the same vow.

Mrs. Solomon realizes that only Marcus can uphold the pledge. But a tangible reminder, the ring, can’t hurt.

“I tell him every morning, ‘Marcus, have a super-duper day and I’ll be praying you’ll do the right thing,”’ Mrs. Solomon says. “If he has that ring on his finger or even on his dresser, then maybe before God, his congregation and his friends, he will keep that thought in mind.”

The ceremony is over and Marcus is busy greeting his schoolmates and posing for family pictures in front of a long table, called the ancestral table, filled with memorabilia of his young life.

Guests nibble on cake, admire the huge ice sculpture inscribed with a map of Africa and walk the length of the table covered with baby clothes, artwork, football trophies and family photos.

Kerry Sugg, Marcus’ hygienist, has come with her two young daughters. The ceremony, she says, touched her. And it is something she would like to do for her own children when they reach a similar age. It does not matter that Sugg is of another race. The message of personal responsibility and community ties is universal, she says.

“It’s just such a neat thing,” she says. “I think so many times kids feel left out because their parents are working so hard. But what a neat way to tell them that you care. I told my children I would like to do this for them.”

Although Marcus knows that his childhood is no longer, he doesn’t feel much different just yet. He is sure that the skills he learned in the Mandela program will help strengthen his patience and spiritual growth, he says.

“It’s kept me focused,” he says of the class he has attended on Wednesday nights for the past two years.

On this Saturday, though, the day before his 13th birthday, he is looking forward to opening the pile of presents resting on a nearby table. He is enjoying seeing his friends. Every so often, he holds out his hand with the new silver band to show an admirer.

“I think for me, I’ll still be a kid. But now I’ll have my responsibilities, too,” he says about his passage into young manhood. And then he returns to his circle of friends.