{leg a cy of hope}
would you want to do that?” “He was like, ‘How do you feel?’ I said I feel okay. I don’t
want to jeopardize my future. Jim told me, ‘No, don’t leave. Don’t let nobody tell you you can’t do what you want to do.’ ” Leatherman stayed and recovered after learning to incor-
porate frequent rest periods into his study sessions. While Leatherman was recuperating on the sidelines,
Nesbit was out with torn ligaments in both shoulders. They recovered, then both hurt their knees. “It was really painful for me, because I know I was a top re-
cruit for them and they were looking to get a lot from me, and I was looking to contribute to the team,” Nesbit says. Still, they hung on, creating new roles for themselves.
They noticed that younger black students on campus looked as shell-shocked as they’d once felt. They made it their busi- ness to reach out to those students. “I didn’t know certain plays,” Alex Johnson, a
21-year-old junior football player, says while sit- ting on Leatherman’s twin bed in his dorm in April. Leatherman would pull him aside and “explain it better than the playbook.” Other black students on campus say that with
Nesbit and Leatherman, they found a place where they could simply hang and be themselves without constantly having to explain their language or their tastes. Quentin Liggins, a 21-year-old graduating senior, recalls starring in video spoofs of Michael Jackson and scary movies, shot by Leatherman and Nesbit. The videos were “our way to creatively ex- press ourselves and highlight a part of our culture that was near and dear to us,” Liggins says.
LeaTherMan’s and nesbiT’s jaWs droP when Ruth Jones, their Ballou tour guide, escorts them inside the school’s new library. The alums are clearly impressed: Apple computers line the tables by a wall. Old books, many of which had been in circulation since the school opened about five decades ago, have been replaced. Principal Rahman Branch joins them as they head into
the gym. It, too, has had a makeover: bright new white paint on the walls and a new floor with the school’s logo. A student wearing a gold Lady Knights basketball uniform asks Branch about the two visitors. When Branch rattles off a few of their accomplishments, the girl recalls reading about them in the newspaper. “I want to make a difference,” she adds. She sticks out her hand to Nesbit. “I’m Tanisha. What
school do you go to?” “Holy Cross,” Nesbit replies. “What was one of the changes you made at Ballou?” “We started mentoring people and helped them out and
letting people know that academics are important,” he says. “It started catching on. Everybody started realizing the im- portance of it.” “What advice would you give me?” “You got to start with yourself,” Nesbit says. “Once every-
thing is straight, you can use what you did to help others.” Later, Jones escorts the duo to the third-floor freshman
22 The WashingTon PosT Magazine | OctOber 24, 2010
academy to address a class of 10 boys. “I’m Jachin, and I was valedictorian, and this is Wayne.
He was salutatorian,” Leatherman says, standing in front of the class. “We played football. That helped us stay focused. It was a good thing to get into. You have a place to go after school instead of being in the streets, where you can get into trouble. Stay in school and keep your grades up.” Nesbit chimes in: “The No. 1 thing is your academics. Even
if you want to be a rapper, you have to be able to know what you’re talking about. You’ve got to have an education. You’ve got to take it seriously. College will be the funnest time of your life. The only way to get there is to get good grades now.” One boy asks about football, then the questions dry up.
Blank faces stare back at the speakers. Leatherman and Nes- bit wrap up their remarks and leave, disappointed that their main point about studying was lost.
“jaChin! jaChin!” The familiar baritone cuts through the noise of thousands
gathered at the Holy Cross stadium on this late May afternoon. Leatherman is in a long line of students in caps and gowns, inching across the football field. His puffy ponytail sticks out of his black cap, and a sash made of African print covers his black gown. He scans the crowd to connect with the voice. Leather- man had heard the same chant countless times at his Ballou games. He knew even before he found the face: Dad was there again for this important day, college graduation. John Leatherman, 69, sits in the front row on hard metal
bleachers. He has not lost his distinct Santa Claus look from his Ballou days: a round white man with white hair and a thick white beard. But debilitated by strokes, he now uses a cane. He retired from Ballou and works as a private security guard. Seated next to him are his former brother-in-law, and a few rows back are his former wife, Uwana Collins, their two daughters, two granddaughters and her mother. At Ballou, John Leatherman worried that his son would
become another teenage murder victim. At Holy Cross, he worried that his son wouldn’t fit in with the white students.
PHOTOGRAPHS BY MATT TEUTEN
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