(7 of 7)
The eldest Banks says he sympathizes with the economic fears of many black men. Especially during his child-raising years, he felt that his own comfort could evaporate in a moment. "When you're trying to support a home, a car and children, if you miss two paychecks, then where are you?" he says. David, who gave up law when he saw that New York City's schools needed more black male role models, wanted school kids to see a sea of support in Washington. He observes that nearly every troubled boy in his school does not have a father who lives at home. "When you ask, 'Do you miss your father?,' they say, 'Yes,'" explains David, who has three sons and a daughter. "If you say, 'Would you act like this if your father was here?,' they say, 'No.' It breaks your heart." Middle-son Philip, father of a boy and a girl, has a "general fear of being pulled over by the police," despite nine years with the N.Y.P.D. He still bridles when he recalls being stopped by four cops, who ransacked his car and threatened to plant a bag of marijuana on him until Philip showed his badge.
Finally, there is Terence, who feels passionately about set-aside programs for minority entrepreneurs. "For years we've not been privy to some contracts," he says. "[White contractors] don't even understand we've been cheated from the playing field." Terence admits to having smoked marijuana and drunk malt liquor as a teenager; he remembers his father's strong words on the matter. "He found stuff on me and sat me down and explained to me what it could do." He concedes that his father was right. Next month Terence has a court date with Olympia Hester, a woman who claims he is the father of her 10-year-old daughter and says a blood test backs that contention. "If [the child] is mine, I'm not going to contest it," says Terence. "By no means will I run away from my responsibility, but I won't step forward until I know."
All four Banks men have fixed on voter registration because they believe every person can make a difference. "People are looking for another Malcolm or Martin, and they shouldn't," says David, who aspires to become New York City's schools chancellor. "The problem is within us." "We have to become part of the system," Terence says. "I know quite a few brothers who aren't registered, but until you try to do something, you can't keep complaining."
Like many African-American women, Janice Banks encouraged her husband and three sons to attend the march. She packed Philip's lunch for the bus trip and says she wouldn't have allowed him to miss that day. "Most times," she says, "you can call women together. If it's just coming together to iron out differences, women don't have a problem doing that. But men usually hold back. This was a man thing." In Janice Banks' view, the meaning of the march was simple: "Brothers need to stand together."
--Reported by Sharon E. Epperson/New York, Elisabeth Kauffman/Nashville, Wendy King and Ann Simmons/Washington