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In my family, we have a naming tradition. Your first name is whatever your parents fancy, your middle is your father’s name, and your last is your grandfather’s name. For my parents the name Hassan really spoke to them it was the religious significance of the name that really drew my mother in. I am Muslim just as much as I am African. Both identities have created a conflicting and troublesome dynamic. However, that isn’t all that defines me I had barely understood myself until the spring break of my sophomore year. To set the stage, I was in my room listening to Chance the Rapper’s song “Prom Night” feeling every lyric in my core; I was sprawled on my bed with photoshop pulled up on my banged up laptop. I started bobbing my head yelling the lyrics out. Graduation night teachers Ferris buellerd my name. It seemed to anyone else but me like a seizure had been stitched into a private musical performance. You got a mixtape good job I hope you get a good jump we were all outcasts only listened to good mob. I performed at fun fair fun fact I’m never going back to school been there done that. My brother stuck his head in my door unannounced.
“Hey bro you trying to go to this photoshoot with me?” he asked.
“Where that joint at?” I inquisitively asked looking up from my computer screen.
“You coming or not?” he asked looking impatient and in a rush to get out of the house.
“Yeah alright let me get ready right quick,” I yelled as he walked through the small hallway that connects the upper floor of our house.
At that point, I had put on my clothes at roadrunner speed and was out the door. My brother and I drove out of our hood, which was located in East Nashville. First, we went by the home of my brother’s business partners, Tre and Brandon. This was the first time that I met people who looked and came from the same cultural background as me doing something like running a business. It in a way inspired me to pursue something bigger than what I had known. Growing up African, my immediate community was full of people whose only dreams were to be soccer players or people who had no real ambition at all.
We drove back into East Nashville passing run-down businesses and local schools. The female models were unable to make but the male models were already there. I wasn’t even sure how I could contribute. The shoot was in the in the courtyard of a recently built condo right across from an abandoned church sprayed with beautiful graffiti. Down the street was a Family Dollar across from it was a Burger UP and First Tennessee Bank. It was a sunny day; we looked out of place a bunch of African American men in East Nashville. The photoshoot was shot by local photographer Keptfrozen. I watched my brother command the photographers. It was then that I was asked to be the one who recorded behind the scenes. I found myself joking, ordering people, and capturing the small moments. I asked questions about everything, by the end, I couldn’t shake the feeling that that was where I was supposed to be.
This moment in time began the conflict between how I was raised and what I aspired to be. Art was the complete opposite of how I grew up. All I had known was the isolation of my room and the confines of religion. My brother inspired me to pursue my own path. Seeing the need to have more places where kids can express themselves, my nonprofit that I called Censor. Our mission: create a safe and uncensored environment for teens to express themselves through collaboration and mentor ship. It’s funny how all of this started from a small photo shoot during one spring morning.
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