If you want a case study in what happens when America sowed voter suppression and attempted to harvest democracy, look no further than Fannie Lou Hamer and the 1964 Democratic National Convention.

On February 15, 1968, tension was building in Orangeburg, South Carolina. Black students at South Carolina State College were protesting segregation at a local bowling alley. They were unarmed. They were organized. They were disciplined. They were not rioting. They were not looting. They were asking for dignity. Three days later, on February 8, state troopers opened fire on those students, killing three young Black men and wounding many others.

This Favor Fridays with Tony™ — on the 13th day of Black History Month — we honor the favor that turns survival into proclamation, and endurance into testimony. Today, we spotlight Frederick Douglass, a man who understood that sometimes favor doesn’t just free you — it commissions you.

In Chapter 2: Destiny’s Call from Book I of S.O.L.A.D.™: Soldiers of Light Against Darkness™, Kevin Darryl Edwards wakes up shaking. Not from pizza. Not from imagination. Not from random anxiety. But from a recurring dream. Same unknown people. Same key moments. Same message building toward something bigger. And what does Kevin do? He looks out the window at the storm and asks: “God, what are You trying to tell me through these dreams?”

Soldier of Light Against Darkness™, one of the greatest acts of courage is not rebellion—it is refusal. Refusing to bend. Refusing to blend in. Refusing to become what the system expects you to be in order to survive it. Throughout Black history, courage often looked like staying clean in environments designed to soil the soul. And that kind of courage still matters today.

On this fifth day of Black History Month, there’s no more fitting subject than A Different World — a series that did far more than spin off from another hit sitcom. It shifted conversations in Black households. It reframed what “college” looked like on TV. It normalized Black intellect, Black community, Black debate, Black love, Black discipline, and Black joy — all inside the same half-hour.

Monday, February 1, 1960, four young Black men sat down at a Woolworth’s lunch counter in Greensboro, North Carolina. They did not raise their voices. They did not raise their fists. They raised their resolve. They sat—and refused to move.

Premiering in 1987, DuckTales didn’t just entertain kids after school. It invited them into a world of adventure, curiosity, history, danger, humor, and heart—and it trusted its audience to keep up. That trust is why it still matters.

Before Miami Vice, police dramas were gritty, procedural, and visually plain. They lived in shadows, rain-soaked streets, and muted palettes. Then came pastel suits, speedboats slicing through turquoise water, nightclubs pulsing with music, and a city that felt alive—beautiful and deadly at the same time.

Ray Kinsella isn’t looking for meaning when the voice comes to him. He’s just walking through his cornfield, living an ordinary life, carrying unresolved questions about his past and his father. And then, out of nowhere, the impossible happens. A voice speaks. It doesn’t identify itself. It doesn’t provide credentials. It doesn’t offer proof. It simply gives instruction. Build… and trust.

Today marks 11 years since my father passed. Yesterday, I stood in Memphis and attended the funeral of my cousin. Life continued. Faith remained. But the weight was present. There are moments when grief doesn’t scream—it sits. It doesn’t demand attention—it simply exists. And faith doesn’t erase those moments. Faith walks through them. This message isn’t about loss taking over. It’s about faith that carries us through loss—steady, grounded, and unbroken.

Mark Waid and Alex Ross’s Kingdom Come (1996) is one of the rare graphic novels that transcends genre. It is a warning wrapped in beauty. A scripture of superheroes. A meditation on justice, mercy, pride, faith, and humanity’s never-ending war between hope and despair.

Born in the pages of 1970s comics during the Blaxploitation era, Luke Cage's journey from prisoner to protector reshaped what a superhero could be—an everyday man who rose above injustice to become an icon. Today, we dive deep into his history, legacy, and lasting impact on comics and culture.