By Hasan Davis, J.D. – The Hope Dealer Hasan circa 1985 Forty years ago, this week —August 1985—I picked up the p hone in my mother’s kitchen in Atlanta, Georgia and made a collect call to a place I had never visited, in a state I had never been to. I was 18 years old, freshly expelled, freshly certified with a GED, and clinging to a thin thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, Berea College would say yes. I didn’t understand how college admissions worked. I didn’t know that if you hadn’t heard anything by the week before classes were supposed to start, it usually meant they didn’t want you. But I also didn’t know how to give up—not after everything I had already survived. 8 Months Before In December 1984, I turned 18. That same week, I completed seven long years of court-ordered probation for an arrest and adjudication as a juvenile offender at just 11 years old. While most teens were planning prom and college visits, I was still trying to dodge the wreckage of desperate choices and early systems involvement, fighting for the right to keep dreaming. That same week, as we were all preparing to go home for the Christmas holidays, I was called into the administrator's office at Horizons School—the school I had attended since 8 th  grade, the place I lived since 10th grade. I sat in that office many times before, usually on the wrong end of a disciplinary meeting. I remember two years earlier being sent to that same office where Dr. Lorraine Wilson looked at me, unblinking, and said something I’ll never forget: “I believe you can accomplish anything you set your mind to, Hasan, and all you can do now, is make me a fool for believing such things about you.” That moment has stayed with me since. But so does the one that came two years later, I had been called back into that same office. But this time, Lorraine explained to me that I’d just failed a class that is required for graduation, and the school would not be offering it again in my final semester. Which meant I wouldn’t be eligible to graduate in the spring—so I wouldn’t be welcomed back to Horizons School after Christmas break. Just like that, Horizons, my safe harbor, had closed its doors. More clearly, I feared that I had jeopardized my last best chance to dream… 6 Months Before Back in the house of my parents, Alice and Jikki, by February 1985, I was working at Southwest Montessori with my best friend Derrick, running the streets with him and my brother Sean, and doing what I could to keep my youngest brother and sister Tony and Shawnta safe. While my oldest sister, Theresa was off trying to crack the code of college. Derrick, Sean and I had all found ourselves out of school for one reason or another. Derrick and I made a pact: we’d get our GEDs, go to college, and make something of ourselves. That spring, we both signed up for the GED exam. 4 Months Before Sean-Derrick-Hasan In April, Derrick and I showed up to take our test. We finished way too early, looked around the room at everyone still working, and wordlessly agreed: this is all we’ve got. Either we are secretly brilliant, or we just bombed our last chance at a different life. So, we handed in our booklets and walked out. Back into the hustle. A few weeks later, the results were in... I don't know if we were secretly brilliant. But, we did pass. 2 Months Before I had no plan, no backup. But, at the beginning of the school year, I remembered Lorraine bringing a guest in to talk about this little college in Kentucky called Berea. They said Berea only accepted students from low-income backgrounds. The college didn’t charge tuition, and the students all worked campus jobs, they called it a work study college. And they had a committment to educating students who might otherwise never get access to a high quality education. Horizons was also work study school, all of the students there were expected to have jobs around the campus. We built green houses, did arts and crafts booths at festivals, printed and sold greeting cards, and much more. Berea sounded like my kind of place. Sounded like the only shot I had left. So, I sent in an late application. I didn’t know much about Berea. I didn’t know much about Kentucky either—except what I had seen on TV, and that didn’t give me much hope. Still, I applied. The application was free, so I figured I had nothing to lose. 1 Day Before By the end of July, I had heard nothing from Berea. Then I learned that two of my classmates from Horizons—Tina and Monica—had already been accepted. Then it finally hit me: college was starting soon, and I hadn’t received an acceptance letter. That could only mean one thing… My letter had gotten lost in the mail, maybe was sent to the wrong address. So, I marched into the kitchen, picked up the phone receiver off the wall mount, and dialed Berea College. It was a collect call because I could not afford to pay for a long-distance call. So, I hoped that whoever answers phones at a college would be nice enough to accept my call. When the campus operator accepted the call, I was a little surprised, when she asked who I wanted to speak now, I was shocked, realizing that I had not really imagined getting this far. I didn’t have a clue who I was supposed to talk to. So, I quickly composed myself and spoke with as much confidence as I could muster, “I would like to speak to The Director of Admissions.” I heard a click… then a buzz. Just as i had convinced myself that she had hung up on me, I heard “John Cook, Director of admissions, how can I help you.” WHAT?!?!?! I froze. Then I blurted out that I was calling from Atlanta, had applied to Berea but hadn’t heard anything, and i know that classes start next week, so I was just calling to see where my acceptance letter was. Mr. Cook listened patiently, with more than a few deep calming breaths, I imagine. He then put me on hold to retrieve my application from wherever they put the “you got to be kidding me” applications. When he finally returned, he explained the plain truth: Berea was one of the most competitive application processes in the nation. They had thousands of applicants each year for a couple of hundred openings. He said that the freshmen class had already been filled, and he had a few promising applications on his desk as substitutes for students who had been invited but decided not to attend. Then he paused. “I don’t think this is going to work out for you.” Replaying those last words in my head I thought,  I don’t think it’s going to work out for you doesn’t sound like an answer.  And before I could catch myself, I blurted out “Mr. Cook, I kinda need to know for sure...” I think he was as surprised by my words as I was. But before I could apologize, he spoke. “Ok, Mr. Davis. How about I call you back to confirm that after I look over my papers.” I stammered a clumsy thank you and quickly hung up. An hour later, the phone rang. “Mr. Davis?” The voice on the other end questioned. I recognized Mr. Cooks voice immediately. Suddenly my whole world felt like it was hanging by a thin tangled phone cord. My heart stopped. “Mr. Davis," he continued, "I think we’re going to give you a chance.” I don’t even remember speaking or hanging up the phone. But, contrary to my earlier confusion, I believed with my whole heart that "I think we are going to give you a chance" DID sound like an answer! It sounded like a YES. And just like that, I was going to college. What It Took to Get There Excited for this unknown next chapter I began to pack. By pack I mean I stuffed all of my possessions into my old gym bag and a few garbage bags. My family threw together a “Hasan is going to college” party. As friends and family gathered in our living room. My mentor, Bill Prankard, whom I had been apprenticed to as a screen printer, showed up with a wooden trunk—steel-gray, rope handles, padlock on the front. I recognized it. It was an old, junked box he’d found on the side of the road and hauled into his truck weeks earlier. Now it was painted, polished, and gifted to me. “College students need a place to keep their things,” he said. I made this on for you. I smiled. I guess I am a college student , now , I thought. I had something to put my things in. On Sunday we gathered my belongings, backpack, coat, gym bag, and that chest. Then we loaded everything into Jikki’s old Gremlin and set off for Berea. As things often go with Gremlins, the car broke down in Tennessee. They scraped together enough to get what we needed to patch it back together. We arrived at the Berea exit close to midnight. In front of Bingham Hall The streets were empty. The town was quiet. The campus was closed. We finally found one student at the information desk. Orientation concluded hours ago. Rooms had been assigned. Parents said goodbyes. My name wasn’t on any room assignment list. They called someone from Student Life, and we were sent across campus to Bingham Hall. The Head Residents of Bingham, Virgil and Jackie Burnside, explained there were no rooms left—but there was a makeshift sleeping area set up in the lounge, where other students without a room assignment were sleeping a row of beds. There was room for one more. Before my mother left, she pressed $20 into my hand and said, “It’s time for you to decide who’s right about you—and who’s wrong.”  She clasped my hand between hers, “but you have to make a choice, now.” Thus began my journey as a college student at Berea College. My Secret life My first dorm room I eventually got a room and a roommate, Marcus. People were friendly, but I didn’t know how to be part of this world. I wore my aviator sunglasses and my Army jacket like a shield. I tested into 010 math and 015 English—zero level remedial courses that wouldn’t earn me credit but would hopefully get me ready for general studies classes. Every night, after Marcus fell asleep, I would quietly reach into my drawer for one of the first-grade penmanship pads my mother had subtly tucked into my trunk. you know, Blue line, red dotted line, blue line. I would trace a few pages of letters like I had been doing since kindergarten. I practice my handwriting in secret, ashamed and afraid thst someone would eventually find me out. I still struggled with quick reading comprehension. I had dyslexia, undiagnosed for years. So, my strategy was,  pick one book for the next day’s classes, read, four or five pages, repeating those pages over and over, memorize enough that I could say something relevant at the start of  class the next day and maybe seem like I belonged. Most nights, I went to sleep thinking,  you talked your way into college. Now you’ve got to figure out how to stay here. Graduation 1992 Berea College Belonging The culture shock hit hard. I wasn’t used to small town living. I didn’t think that many of the other students looked like me, talked like me, or shared my experience of the world. Back home, I had my brothers. We covered each other’s blind spots. Here, I thought I was alone. I had stereotypes about this place and its people. Just like they probably had some about me. At first, I kept to myself. But eventually, I started to see glimpses of the familiar in the people around me. Slowly, I let the armor come down. And just as slowly, I began to transform. Photo by Berea College Alumnus Magazine Staff 40 Years Later Forty years ago, I made a call that changed my life. It took me from G.E.D. to J.D., from Juvenile delinquent on probation to Commissioner of Juvenile Justice. Today, I get to walk into schools, courtrooms, and conference halls as “The Hope Dealer.” I’ve been blessed to share my story in the ballroom of a castle in the Swiss Mountains, testify before the United States Congress, perform before audiences of thousands and published books. At Berea I found a partner who was willing to stand beside me through some of the most tragic and sometimes self-destructive moments during my fight be more. And together we have raised two amazing sons. But none of it could have unfolded like this if John Cook, Director of admissions hadn’t looked beyond the surface of a poorly written application at see the scared boy who was just brave enough to pick up the phone and call, collect.  When he pulled my file from the “I don’t think so” stack, I hope he was thinking “maybe this one will prove me right.” Berea College didn’t just accept me. They invested in me. They dared to believe that my past didn’t define my future. And they gave me the space to become who I was meant to be. Everyday since I’ve spent trying to ensure they never regret it. But, it all started with a phone call, a question, and a chance.

find the original Interview here STORIES & INSIGHTS JULY 14, 2025 MEET HASAN DAVIS We caught up with the brilliant and insightful Hasan Davis a few weeks ago and have shared our conversation below. Hasan, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today Can you talk to us about a project that’s meant a lot to you? As a living history interpreter, I have breathed life into the stories of Civil War Soldier: Angus Augustus Burleigh an Boxing Legend: Joe Louis. But the most meaningful project of my career so far, has been the journey of bringing the story of York—the only Black team member of the famed Lewis and Clark Expedition—to life. This work has spanned almost three decades and taken many forms: a one-man theatrical performance (researched, written, and performed by me), a published children’s book, and most recently, the ongoing Big Medicine: York Outdoors Project with the National Park Services, including the recently released documentary Big Medicine: York Outdoors , a film that invites communities across the nation to reckon with whose story gets remembered, who’s presence gets honored, and why. Growing up, I never saw myself in the pages of history books. I vividly recall the day I received my first social studies textbook at Ashland Elementary in St. Louis, Missouri. With eager hands, I flipped through each chapter looking for a glimpse of someone who looked like me—someone who might show me that I, too, belonged in the American story. I found only one image: a photograph of an enslaved man, his back marked by brutal scars. The caption read, “The American Negro, Slave.” That image, and its message, burned itself into my young mind: you are not the explorer, the hero, or the architect of this nation. You are the footnote—if mentioned at all. But at home, my parents—Alice Lovelace and Charles “Jikki” Riley—refused that narrative. They raised me on oral traditions rich with stories of African kings, Black trailblazers, and Black resilience. It was through them that I came to understand the power of story, not just to inform, but to transform. And as I became a man—through law school, through my time as Kentucky’s Commissioner of Juvenile Justice, and as an artist—I made a commitment to use my life and my work to tell the stories too often left untold. York’s story found me at the intersection of historical erasure and cultural recovery. Here was a man who endured the yoke of slavery, was essential to one of the greatest expeditions in U.S. history, earned the respect of Indigenous communities along the trail, and yet was denied his freedom upon return. His contributions were monumental, and still, his name barely survives the footnotes of textbooks. I created a one-man show to embody York’s story, not only as an act of remembrance, but as an offering. I wanted young Black boys—especially those who, like me, never saw themselves reflected in American triumphs—to witness York’s courage, curiosity, and contributions. I wanted them to see that we have always been a part of the journey, even when history books refuse to make space for us. This project has been deeply healing for me, and transformative for audiences. I’ve performed in schools, museums, correctional facilities, and national conferences. I’ve heard young men say, “If I had known this story earlier, I might have made different choices.” That is the power of storytelling. That is why this work matters. And it doesn’t stop here. With the Big Medicine documentary and the continued search for York’s descendants and resting place, I’m committed to ensuring York doesn’t just live in the shadows of history—but in the hearts and minds of a new generation who deserve to see themselves as co-authors of this nation’s story. So, as we approach the Semi-quencentinniel of the United States, I will be launching the next phase of this work. America 250: Hope Rising, centering the York Legacy to Explore History, Healing, and Hope for Another 250 Years. Hasan, before we move on to more of these sorts of questions, can you take some time to bring our readers up to speed on you and what you do? The story of York—and the journey to bring him into the light—says a lot about who I am and why I do this work. For over 30 years, I’ve dedicated my life to helping young people and the adults who serve them discover the power of story, identity, and hope. My name is Hasan Davis, and I’m a Hope Dealer. I came to this work honestly. I was a kid who struggled—labeled early, suspended often, pre-teen arrest, seven years of supervised probation, then expelled from alternative school. But I was also blessed. Along my path, there were individuals who didn’t give up on me. They offered support, accountability, and something even more powerful: belief. They were my Hope Dealers. And because of them, I made it—through college, through law school, through service as Kentucky’s Commissioner of Juvenile Justice. And because of them, I made a commitment to be that kind of presence for others. Through my company, Hasan Davis Solutions, I partner with schools, community organizations, human service agencies, and youth-serving systems across the country. My work weaves together history, lived experience, performance, and personal development. I offer keynote speeches, workshops, leadership coaching, historical performances, and community residencies that help organizations inspire courage, build connection, and deepen their impact. What sets me apart? I don’t just talk about hope—I practice it. Every engagement I lead, whether it’s a training for juvenile justice workers or a theatrical performance in a school gym, is designed to awaken something real. I use history—especially the stories that have been left out—to remind us that we come from strength. I use my own story to show that transformation is possible. And I invite every person I meet to see themselves not as a bystander to change, but as a Hope Dealer in their own community. The people I serve are often the people who show up every day in hard places—teachers, counselors, caseworkers, parents, advocates. They don’t need a savior. They need reminders that their work matters. They need tools to sustain themselves and each other. They need fuel. That’s what I bring. I’m most proud of the spaces I’ve helped build—spaces where people feel seen, challenged, inspired. Where youth who’ve been counted out see themselves in the story of York or Burleigh or Joe Louis and think, “If he did that, maybe I can too.” And where adults feel reconnected to their purpose and power. Hope is not a wish—it’s a practice. And whether I’m performing for a thousand students or sitting in circle with five returning citizens, my mission is the same: to spark a fire that keeps burning long after I’ve left the room. At Hasan Davis Solutions, we believe every person has a story that can change the world—and we help people remember how to tell it, live it, and pass it on. We often hear about learning lessons – but just as important is unlearning lessons. Have you ever had to unlearn a lesson? One of the biggest lessons I had to unlearn was the idea that “the job” and “what you love” have to live in separate lanes. I trained as a lawyer. I served as Kentucky’s Commissioner of Juvenile Justice. I’ve held titles, sat at tables of power, and worn the suits to match. And for a long time, I believed that my creative work—my storytelling, my performances, my writing—was something I had to squeeze in around the edges. I thought the art was what I did after the workday ended. What I had to learn—what I’m still learning—is that the art is the work. It wasn’t easy. There’s a deep, sometimes unspoken pressure—especially for those of us who navigated from the edge, from those communities where economic security is a hard-won prize—we are encouraged to choose the path that seems most “legit.” Being a lawyer, a commissioner, even a speaker—those were roles people understood. But telling people that you’re going to make a living sharing forgotten histories, dressing up as York, or helping systems rediscover their humanity through story? That took some re-framing—both for me, and for the folks around me. I had to learn how to treat my craft as both sacred and sustainable. That meant setting real rates, building out Hasan Davis Solutions as a business, and being unapologetic about the value of what I bring into a room. It meant educating clients—schools, human service agencies, youth programs—that art is not an “extra.” That hope is not fluff. That courageous storytelling is a strategy for impact. I had to believe that my ancestors didn’t pass these stories down just so I could starve quietly in the name of purpose. They passed them down so I could carry them forward—with power, with intention, and yes, with a plan. So today, I wake up every day and do the work I was made for. I show up as a Hope Dealer. I honor the art, and I build the business around it. And I keep unlearning the lie that purpose and prosperity can’t walk side by side. That’s the lesson: your calling is not a side hustle. It’s the assignment. And it’s worth the investment—from you, and from those who benefit from it. For you, what’s the most rewarding aspect of being a creative? For me, the most rewarding part of being an artist and a creative is the chance to show up as a powerful presence that helps others remember their own power and presence. Whether I’m on a stage, facilitating a story circle, or standing in front of a group of young people behind prison walls, I see my role as sacred: to create spaces where people feel seen, known, and reminded of their worth. That’s the real art. The performance is just the invitation. There’s one moment I come back to often. I was speaking at a correctional facility, sharing the story of York, this unsung Black hero who traveled the full length of the Lewis and Clark Expedition and was critical to its success. Afterward, a young man stood up—eyes locked, jaw tight—and said, “If only I had known these stories when I was young, maybe I’d have made different choices.” That moment wasn’t about regret—it was about revelation. And it broke something open in me. Because I knew exactly what he meant. When you grow up never seeing yourself as the heroes, the builders, the dreamers of history, it gets harder to imagine yourself in the future. That’s why I do this work. To make sure young people—especially young Black men—know that their legacy didn’t start with pain, and it doesn’t have to end in punishment. To share the stories of Burleigh, York, Joe Louis—not as victims, but as visionaries, warriors, scholars, and change-makers. Being an artist means I get to plant seeds of hope, courage, and identity in places that have been overlooked and underestimated. And when someone walks away from a performance or a conversation not just entertained, but empowered—that’s the reward that keeps me going. Because in the end, the most powerful art isn’t what you create for people—it’s what you awaken in them. Contact Info: Website: https://www.hasandavis.com Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hasandavis/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/hdsolutions/ Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/hasandavis/ Twitter: https://x.com/HasanDavis Other: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUxVu5sqfKQ&t=1401s&pp=ygULaGFzYW4gZGF2aXPSBwkJwwkBhyohjO8%3D https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0kjbCY43cWA&t=10s&pp=ygUXaGFzYW4gZGF2aXMgZmFtaWx5IHRpZXM%3D Image Credits Photos by Erica Chambers https://www.ericachambers.com Suggest a Story: CanvasRebel is built on recommendations from the community; it’s how we uncover hidden gems, so if you or someone you know deserves recognition please let us know here.

Photo by Erica Chambers By Hasan Davis, J.D. – The Hope Dealer What if the most powerful weapon against oppression was a sentence? Two hundred and forty-nine years ago, a document was signed, the spark that lit the fuse for American Revolution. But it also did something bigger. It laid the groundwork for a vision of justice and freedom that even its authors couldn’t live up to. And that’s what makes it so important today. Whether you consider yourself ultra-progressive, MAGA conservative, or somewhere in between, this is for you. Because if you believe in dignity, liberty, and opportunity,  you’re already part of the promise Jefferson drafted.  Here are ten things you need to know. 1. “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness” Was a Revolutionary Rewrite Jefferson could have followed John Locke’s classic formula:  “life, liberty, and property.”  Instead, he made a deliberate choice to swap out “property” for  “the pursuit of happiness.”  Why? Because “property” had been used to justify slavery. In that system,  people were property . Jefferson’s revision undermined that foundation. By naming happiness—not possession—as an inalienable right, he left a crack in the wall that upheld human bondage. That crack became a doorway for abolitionists and civil rights leaders to walk through. 👉🏽  This wasn’t a mistake. It was a pivot toward justice. 2. The Declaration's Power Is in Its Contradictions Jefferson owned over 600 enslaved people. He called slavery a “hideous blot” while continuing to profit from it. He condemned the system publicly in early drafts—but let it go silent in the final version. It’s tempting to throw the whole thing out because of that. But Jefferson’s contradictions are also what make the document usable. He  knew  the words outpaced the world around him. And that tension—between what is and what should be—became fuel for every generation that followed. 👉🏽  The contradiction is the point. It gives us something to correct. 3. “All Men Are Created Equal” Was Meant to Be Inclusive Unlike earlier drafts by George Mason that limited rights to those “in civil society,” Jefferson’s version was open-ended. There was no clause excluding women, Indigenous people, or enslaved Africans—just the assertion that all are created equal. He even capitalized the word  “MEN”  in his draft when condemning slavery, emphasizing the full humanity of enslaved people. 👉🏽  The door was cracked open on purpose. Our job is to walk through it—and hold it open for others. 4. Jefferson’s “Loophole” Set the Stage for Abolition By removing property from the founding rights and emphasizing happiness—linked to dignity, moral growth, and human flourishing—Jefferson didn’t just describe freedom. He created the intellectual trap that would later help kill slavery. Abraham Lincoln saw it. So did Frederick Douglass. Both used Jefferson’s own words to argue that slavery was not only immoral—it was  un-American. 👉🏽  The same words used to justify revolution against kings were used to dismantle chains. 5. The “Pursuit of Happiness” Is About Dignity, Not Comfort This wasn’t about chasing wealth or personal pleasure. Jefferson, like many Enlightenment thinkers, saw happiness as  moral fulfillment —a life of meaning, purpose, and human growth. A nation built on  that  idea had to eventually confront systems that degraded people. 👉🏽  Happiness isn’t selfish. It’s sacred. And everybody deserves a shot at it. 6. The Founders Planted Seeds They Couldn’t Grow Many of the signers were complicit in oppression. Yet the language they chose—the ideals they inked—were bigger than their own behavior. They drafted a map that others could follow, even if they never reached the destination themselves. That map has been used by suffragists, civil rights leaders, LGBTQ+ activists, veterans, poor families, and anyone demanding to be seen and treated as fully human. 👉🏽  If the tree of liberty still stands, it’s because others kept watering the roots. 7. The Declaration Challenges Every Generation Jefferson didn’t just want to win a war. He wanted to define what kind of country we could be. That’s why Lincoln called the Declaration “a rebuke and a stumbling block to tyranny and oppression.” It set the  standard,  even if we failed to meet it. It is not a relic. It’s a ruler. A mirror. A mission statement. 👉🏽  It doesn’t let us off the hook. It calls us higher. 8. This Document Was  Supposed  to Make You Uncomfortable Jefferson’s draft included a scathing indictment of slavery. It was deleted—not because it was false—but because too many delegates, including Jefferson, were economically invested in keeping people enslaved. That discomfort never went away. In fact, it’s the reason the Declaration still matters. It demands that we wrestle with the gap between our ideals and our reality. Our aspirations and our failings. 👉🏽  The discomfort is a feature—not a flaw. It's the engine of progress. 9. You Don’t Have to Agree on Everything to Agree on This Do you believe every person should have the chance to live, be free, and pursue their own purpose without fear or domination? More importantly do you think that you should? Then you believe in the heart of the Declaration. Whether you’re marching in protest, serving your country or flying a flag on your porch, the call is the same:  Be true to these truths. 👉🏽  We may argue about policy. But we can agree on principle. 10. The Declaration Was a Beginning—Not a Finish Line When Frederick Douglass spoke in 1852, he said the Declaration’s values were “saving principles.” Not because they were perfect—but because they could evolve. Grow. Expand. Every movement for freedom and justice in America is a chapter in the unfinished story the Declaration began. 👉🏽  We’re not here to worship the past. We’re here to finish what it started. So Where Do We Go From Here? We go forward by  returning  to what was true from the beginning: that every human being has worth. That freedom is not domination, but dignity. That happiness is not about hoarding but becoming. The words that launched a revolution still belong to all of us. Whether you're working in a classroom, walking a picket line, sitting in church, raising kids, or running for office— you are part of the pursuit. Let’s stop arguing over who owns the past and start living into the promise of our shared future. Let’s make  “We hold these truths to be self-evident”  the truth, for everyone, finally.

By Hasan Davis, J.D. – The Hope Dealer Photo By Erica Chambers Success Has a Backstory When people hear my story, they often focus on the highlight reel: Arrested at 11 Expelled senior year GED to J.D. National speaker. Author. Former Commissioner of Juvenile Justice But what they don’t see—what no one really tells you about success when you’re battling the odds. .. is how lonely it can be in the climb. No one tells you: That fighting to believe in yourself, while the world around you expects your failure, won’t feel inspiring—often it will just feel exhausting. That even after you “make it,” the echoes of doubt don’t automatically fade into nothingness. That the applause doesn’t silence the memories of being labeled, locked out, or left behind. That if this was easy everyone would be doig it, and everyone is not doing it. The Journey Isn’t About Polish—It’s about Process When you come from systems that weren’t built to ensure your survival, success isn’t a destination. It’s a daily practice. It’s choosing to: Show up when you feel invisible Speak life into others while you're wounds are still healing Hold HOPE for others, even while you’re rebuilding your own That's exactly why I created the  HOPE Framework —not just to transform systems, but to  sustain  those of us who’ve been through them. The H.O.P.E. Framework is Built for the Battle Humanity: Start with grace and self-compassion. Your imperfections don’t disqualify you. They connect you. You are allowed to struggle AND are still worthy. Your humanity  is  your strength. Optimism: Not toxic, the fake-it-‘til-you-make-it, positivity. Real optimism. The kind that says,  “Even now… something better is still possible.” Perspective: Never forget where you came from, but don’t let you your past trap you there. Your past may shape you, explain your pain—but it doesn’t define your promise or future. Empathy: Extend it to yourself first. You can’t give what you haven’t claimed. And the world is starving for the kind of empathy born from lived experience. The more you allow space for your own healing, the more capacity you have to heal the world. Hope Is Heavy—but you are Worth It Success when you’re battling the odds is rarely instant, clean, or celebrated, in the beginning: It looks like showing up for class when everyone witnessed you fail. It looks like applying for college after you fought to earn a GED It looks like giving the graduation prayer at the college that expelled you twice. It looks like the determination to walk back into a courtroom—but, this time, not as an Offender to Justice, but as the Defender of it. It looks like becoming the kind of Hope Dealer you needed when you were a child. Success isn’t the end of our struggle. Just more proof that we were worth the fight. So, If You’re in the Fight Right Now… Let me be clear: You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not alone. If you are reading this: You are on a well-worn path. You are tempered steel being drawn from the  forge . You are becoming dangerous—in the best possible way. So, the next time someone sees your brilliant light and calls you lucky, you can just smile. Because the truth that no one told  them,  is how you learned to build a fire in the dark. And now… You choose to pass this torch, just provide a little more light to brighten someone else’s path. ✊ Keep Dealing HOPE. The whole world is waiting. Photo by Erica Chambers Hasan Davis is a national speaker, author, and advocate who empowers youth and professionals through storytelling, justice reform, and the HOPE framework—Humanity, Optimism, Perspective, and Empathy. From GED to Juris Doctor, he inspires transformation through lived experience. Want to read more from Hasan? 📚 Check out  Hasan’s Books availabe on Amazon

Ed Hamilton's York, Overlooking the Ohio River in Louisville, KY Friends, Last week, the nation got another glimpse of something I’ve experienced for years: The story of York still unsettles people. The recent vandalism of Ed Hamilton’s powerful statue of York , standing watch over the Louisville Belvedere, wasn’t just an act of damage to bronze and artistry. It was a reminder of how fragile memory can be—especially when it comes to the lives and legacies of Black Americans who gave everything but were promised nothing. And like the attack on the prominent bust of York that appeared in Portland Oregon’s Mount Tabor Park a few years ago, this was a strike at memory. At legacy. At truth. For over 25 years, I’ve worked in schools, juvenile facilities, museums, and public spaces across this nation, sharing stories that too many of our history books skip. For that quarter-century, I’ve stepped into York’s story as a Living History interpreter. I’ve carried his voice, his grief, his humor, and his dignity into rooms where he’d never been allowed when he was alive. I’ve stood in his shoes before thousands of students, educators, and community members, trying to give voice to someone who history tried to silence. And even now, 220 years later, some would rather this memory remain still, hidden, wounded. But, as America prepares to commemorate its 250th anniversary, we will not let that happen. York was the only Black man on the Lewis and Clark Expedition. He proved himself, A soldier, A hunter, A diplomat, A brother in the storm. Forced into service he endured, contributed, and sacrificed to prove he was more than up to the task. He crossed mountains and rivers for a country that denied his basic humanity. And like so many, when the great journey ended and the mission complete, he was denied the very freedom he helped mythologize for an entire nation. But still, he stands. That’s what makes this statue important. It’s not just about bronze and stone. It’s about the record. It’s about refusing to let another Black life be written out of the story. York’s presence challenges us to remember that this nation has always been built on the backs, and with the brilliance, of people who were never given proper credit. From Indigenous peoples whose care and presence of these lands for millennia has been bulldozed, and immigrants who fueled and fed the industrial revolution, to the Africans human trafficked to built and maintained the entire infrastructure of a new nation, our stories can no longer be sanitized. This act of vandalism couldn’t silence York’s story. But serves as a call to amplify it louder than ever, a demand we teach it more boldly, tell it more fully, and ask ourselves why honoring Black history still feels threatening to some. So, while someone may have carved into the statue’s arm, they didn’t wound York. They simply revealed just how difficult we have made it to erase historical memory, and how much work we still must do to properly celebrate it. York stood resilient, with dignity, in service,  gazing into the face of injustice. Today, he stands as a symbol of what it means to persist, even when history has tried to forget you. This act of vandalism doesn’t silence York’s legacy. It reminds us how necessary it is. This is not a moment for outrage alone… It’s a moment for resolve. An opportunity to amplify York’s name, his story, and what he represents. We will not back down from telling these truths. And we will not let York be erased, again. York deserves that much. And honestly, we do too.   In purpose and hope, Hasan Davis, J.D. Hope Dealer | Educator | Living History Interpreter www.hasandavis.com Hasan Davis Portrays York of the Lewis and Clark Expedition

By Hasan Davis April 15, years ago – Reno, NV Some mornings stay with you. Not because of the sunrise or the skyline—but because of a person who reminds you that the smallest acts of kindness can shape someone’s journey. It was the last morning of a national juvenile and family court judges conference. Like many post-conference mornings, it started in a blur—suitcases zipped tight with swag and session handouts, a rush to make the first shuttle, and the quiet hope that I might catch a nap on the plane home. But at the Reno airport, just past the slot machines and the hum of overworked baristas, I met someone who turned that routine morning into something unforgettable. A Stranger at the Terminal He was young, maybe mid-20s. Clean white T-shirt. Brand-new boots. Expensive jeans. Tattoos climbed his arms and wrapped around his neck like vines. In one hand, a boarding pass. In the other, a bulging manila envelope—his life stuffed into a single folder. “How’s it going?” I said casually as I passed. He looked up. “I’m just trying to figure this all out,” he said. Then added, “I just got out of prison, man.” He explained that the last time he was on a plane, the feds had escorted him. But this time, they just dropped him off at the curb with a ticket and directions. We reached a fork in the terminal. “What gate are you headed to?” I asked. “B-5, I think.” “Perfect. I’m at B-8. Just roll with me.” First Time for Everything As we walked, he admitted, “I ain’t ever done this before.” “It’s cool,” I assured him. “I’m right here with you.” I noticed the logo on my navy polo: the seal of the Department of Juvenile Justice. I wondered—would it make him more comfortable or less? At the TSA checkpoint, I led the way: shoes, belt, laptop—off and in the bins. He mimicked each movement carefully. “My people sent me these clothes,” he said. “Did you know they let you get clothes mailed in for the trip home? I’m glad they did.” When the TSA agent made him remove a leather tag from his jeans and send it through the scanner, he retrieved it and examined it. “These jeans cost $145! I can’t believe they spent that kind of money on pants.” He shook his head, not with pride, but with disbelief. Sometimes it takes losing everything to understand the value of something. Two Hours, A Lifetime of Questions He asked, “Now what? My flight isn’t till 6:30. I’ve got almost two hours.” “I’ve got time too,” I said. “We can sit together.” We passed the gates and settled into a quiet corner. “How long were you down?” I asked. “Two and a half years, man. I can’t believe it.” I slid into mentor mode—something I do when a young person ends up next to me for more than five minutes. “Did you get your GED? Learn a trade? Anything that’s gonna help you move forward?” “They let me take the GED,” he said, a bit of pride rising in his voice. “And I took a parenting class. I got a certificate. That’s gonna help me be a better father.” He smiled when he said it. That smile said everything. Rediscovering a Name At Gate B-5, I explained how Southwest’s boarding worked. Letter. Number. Poles. No assigned seats. “What does that mean?” he asked sharply. Prison had taught him that ambiguity could be dangerous. We stood in front of the gate monitor and I broke down the process. As I explained, I realized—boarding procedures sounded eerily familiar. Lines. Priority. Controlled movement. It wasn’t that different from prison. “What’s your name?” I asked finally, extending my hand. “Frank,” he replied. “Well Frank, I’m glad to meet you.” And then something shifted. “You don’t know how good it feels to hear somebody actually say my name.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his red prison-issued ID. A grainy photo. A line of small print. And one big number. “That’s who I’ve been for two and a half years,” he said. “It’s nice to have a name again.” Crossroads “I’m going to a halfway house,” Frank shared. “They said if I get a job and stay steady, I can go home in three months. I can’t wait to see my girls.” But then came a quiet confession. “I’m still in a gang. A Blood. My family too. I don’t think I can just get out of it… but I’m not up for all that drama anymore. I just want a job. Take care of my girls.” “You think they’re just gonna let you walk away?” I asked. “They’re your people, right?” He sighed. “I’ve been in that damn hole for two and a half years… not one of them sent me a card. Not even an email. And we can get emails now.” Silence sat between us. Unexpected Introductions I saw a familiar face—an African American judge I’d met at past conferences. Built like a linebacker. As he headed to Gate B-8, I nodded toward him. “See that brother right there? He’s a judge.” Frank looked back at me, surprised. “Yeah,” I said. “And you know what he tells me? He’s tired of seeing young men who say they want to change but won’t change the people they surround themselves with.” Frank said nothing. He didn’t need to. Anchors and Hope We got breakfast. I grabbed a panini. He went for a Sprite. “I can’t eat now. I’m too excited. But when I land, I’m getting a real cheesesteak sandwich,” he grinned. We sat and talked about his girls—ages 9 and almost 7. He showed me photos. Beautiful little girls with beaded braids and wide smiles. “My whole life is in this envelope,” he said. I told him I’d had the same envelope when I left the Army—certificates, orders, awards. It wasn’t a prisoner’s envelope. It was a transition packet. He held up his parenting class certificate like it was gold. “I’m giving this to my mom. She’ll hang it up.” His smile dimmed as he showed me a photo of his daughters’ mother. “She wants me to live with her… but I don’t think it’s a good idea. She’s a Blood too. And she’s still about that life. I don’t want that anymore.” Choosing to Live “So what are you going to do when they come for you?” I asked. “They’ll know you’re back.” He looked me in the eyes. “I’ve got to let those young dudes know—prison ain’t what they think it is. These people are just handing out time, and they don’t care who catches it.” As he shuffled through his paperwork, he found his travel orders. A furlough from 4:00 AM to 6:15 PM. “If your plane’s delayed, you need to call and explain,” I said. “Don’t wait. Don’t assume. Ask for help if you need it.” I introduced him to the Southwest gate agent, who walked him through the boarding process. The Last Word “Now, when you get on that plane, you won’t get to choose your seat,” I told him. “Just buckle in and rest if you can.” He nodded. I gave him space, then circled back. “Alright little brother, it’s time. You’ve got work to do.” I handed him my card. “You don’t have to call. But if you need to talk—ever—I’ll be here.” We shook hands. I pulled him in for a hug. “You’ve got a lot to do if you want to take care of those girls.” “Thank you,” he said. “No need,” I replied. “Good luck," and for emphasis I looked him square in the eyes and said his name again, "Frank.” As I walked to my gate, I looked back and saw him watching the monitor at B-5, slowly making sense of it all. Reflection: What We Pass On As I boarded, I caught on last glimpse of Frank, standing at his boarding post. I whispered a prayer: “Good luck, Frank.” And I gave thanks—for every person who took five minutes out of their day to help me believe that my life could be more than survival. That morning, I got to pass a little of that forward. And that’s what this work is really about. You never know who’s standing at the gate of transformation. You never know what someone carries in their envelope. And you never know what can happen when you simply say someone's name. Let’s Keep Walking Have you ever had a “You Never Know” moment —one where you were reminded of your power to make a difference ? Drop it in the comments or share it with a young person who’s finding their way. Let’s keep creating space for second chances, for humanity, for hope.

I am feeling humbled and blessed by the sincere and powerful feedback from readers or THE JOURNEY OF YORK. Thank you Macsbooks for your thoughtful reflections! I think this is an absolute must-read for all young American readers, for teachers of young students, parents, and perhaps even adults who are clueless regarding the real heroes of the expedition. I love Lewis and Clark but I know, without a doubt, where the credit for their expedition’s success truly lies. Read the full review here. #JourneyofYorkBookReview

Hasan Davis, an author, actor and youth advocate, will visit Western Carolina University as part of the 2018-19 interdisciplinary learning theme “Defining America,” with two public presentations. On Wednesday, Oct. 24, Davis will tell his life story of a troubled youth who overcame obstacles to become commissioner of the Kentucky Department of Juvenile Justice in a 6 p.m. presentation Blue Ridge conference room. The program is part of WCU’s Cultural Awareness and Sensitivity Education conversation sessions. Read full article on wcu.edu #DepartmentofInterculturalAffairs #WesternCarolinaUniversity

Hasan Davis was featured in Fall 2012 issue of the Kentucky Law Enforcement magazine in an article titled “Beating the Odds.” He shares his journey from juvenile delinquent to Commissioner of Kentucky’s Department of Juvenile Justice. Kentucky Law Enforcement is a publication for the law enforcement community as well as public officials and others involved with law enforcement. Read the full story here.

Vera’s Family Justice Program sat down with Hasan Davis, acting commissioner of the Kentucky Department of Juvenile Justice (DJJ), to discuss the influence of family in his life and his work. Read the full interview here.

by Chris Davis “You throw the sails up and they catch the wind, once you catch the wind you can make it take you wherever you want to go” On May 14th Hasan joined his friend Cristian Moore on “The Resilience Breakthrough Podcast” which is a podcast built around resilience and used to share stories and strategies of resilience to inspire listeners. Christian Moore is a long time friend of Hasan and a fellow hope dealer. Like Hasan Christian uses his past life experiences to inspire and instill hope in people around him. “Hasan Davis knows about hope. It’s the only thing that kept him going through the loss of his cousin, as a soldier, and as the Commissioner of Juvenile Justice for the State of Kentucky.” Hasan told stories from his past about how hope and resilience are what allowed him to accomplish the things he’s done. He stressed the concept of “Harnessing the wind” of life in order to create opportunity and use hope to reach higher places. To listen to Hasan and the rest of the podcast you can find it on Apple Podcasts under the Resilience Breakthrough Podcast, Episode 7.

Vermont Family Network has chosen Hasan Davis as their Keynote Speaker for their Annual Conference on April 3, 2019. Vermont Family Network empowers and supports all Vermont families of children with special needs so that all children reach their potential. Their vision is that all Vermont families help their children reach their potential, which makes Hasan’s message perfect for their event. Read the full announcement on VFN’s website. #AnnualConference #VermontFamilyNetwork