When the Standard is No Longer the Standard

From his inaugural season in 2007 as head football coach of the Pittsburgh Steelers, Coach Mike Tomlin has demonstrated a profound understanding of standards. His leadership style and his unparalleled ability to motivate men to give the very best of themselves had never been questioned. As both a devoted fan of the franchise and an avid reader of daily sports analysis, roster moves, and front-office decisions, I had long observed that his sustained success was anchored in his unwavering approach to leadership. At times, his reluctance to make drastic changes may have cost his team a few victories; yet, that same steadfastness allowed him to remain composed in the face of adversity. His stubborn commitment to consistency had made him a perennial winner and firmly planted his name in discussions of future Hall of Fame induction. What echoed most powerfully from players past and present, from assistant coaches, and even from fans around the world was his familiar mantra: the standard was the standard.

Within that organization, excellence was not optional. A standard of consistency was demanded of every player. A standard of expectation flowed downward from upper management to the practice squad. A standard of preparation and execution guided the team toward disciplined performance and, ultimately, victory. A standard, by definition, was an established level of quality, achievement, or performance serving as a point of reference for comparison. Anything that fell short of that benchmark generated subpar effort and diminished outcomes.

Those reflections led me to consider the countless African American boys and young men I had encountered throughout my career as an educator, role model, and mentor. I reflected on my influence in their lives and questioned whether they had been held to standards that would sustain or elevate them as they moved through life’s journey. In my classroom and community, I attempted to mirror what the standard looked like, sounded like, and demanded through conduct and character. I could not be certain whether their families had established clear expectations or whether these young men had been left to navigate life without a compass. I hoped otherwise. I thought deeply about the standards my own father had set for my brothers and me as we transitioned from boys to men. I wondered whether today’s Millennials and Generation Alpha youth would ever come to understand what standards were, why they existed, and how they served as both guardrails and goals. I also questioned who, if anyone, was setting the standards for them—and whether accountability would follow.

In my childhood home, standards were not abstract ideals; they were lived realities. There were expectations for how we behaved in public, at school, and in church. There were standards of dress—laced shoes, socks properly worn, clothes pressed and clean—and the constant reminder that cleanliness bordered on godliness. Grooming was non-negotiable because our appearance represented our family, our community, and ourselves. My father, a veteran of the U.S. military, and my mother, grounded in old-fashioned values, were intentional in crafting these expectations. Before leaving the house, there was often an inspection. My parents, who had come of age in the 1960s and 1970s, understood how African Americans could sometimes avoid unnecessary conflict simply by “looking the part.” They had witnessed racial profiling and observed who was most often targeted by law enforcement and authority figures. There were also standards of speech—respectful tone, upright posture, and a clear distinction between how we addressed adults and how we spoke among peers. Many of these expectations were rooted in Scripture, reinforced with consistency, and carried with them lifelong lessons.

As I looked at the present day, I could not easily conclude that such standards remained widely intact. I questioned whether they were being used to cultivate growth and moral development—whether they had become internalized structures that guided behavior. I wondered aloud whether society had quietly surrendered its responsibility to demand excellence from its youth. Had we failed to insist upon the very expectations that once transformed lives? Had we, as a community, relaxed our grip on accountability and replaced it with comfort and convenience?

The answer, in many respects, appeared unsettling. We had grown increasingly willing to accept mediocrity. The evidence was visible all around us. Somewhere along the way, we began to tolerate less—from our youth and from ourselves. I recalled Sundays in my childhood when dressing up for church was not a debate but a demonstration of reverence. While other children wore jeans and sneakers, we wore pressed slacks and wool suits, even in the heat of summer. On Saturday nights, my brothers and I polished our shoes under our father’s watchful instruction. I vividly remembered my mother’s words when we questioned why we had to dress that way: “On Sundays, we give God our best. When you put your offering in the basket, put your best in there.” Today, I observed an increasingly common posture among youth that declared, “Accept me as I am, how I am; if you don’t like it, deal with it.” I struggled to understand where that mindset had originated. While I acknowledged and appreciated those in my generation who had upheld the responsibilities of parenting, teaching, and standard-setting, it was unmistakable that something had been lost along the way.

Nowhere was this loss more evident than in education. As an educator, I could not ignore the data. According to the National Center for Education Statistics (2023), African American students had a dropout rate of 5.7 percent—down from prior years but still significantly higher than their Asian and White peers. On-time graduation rates hovered around 80 percent for African American students, compared to 90 percent for White students and 94 percent for Asian students. African American boys remained disproportionately represented in suspensions, expulsions, and special education placements. College enrollment stood at 36 percent, and college completion rates lagged well behind national averages.

These statistics stood in painful contrast to the legacy described by historian John Hope Franklin, who observed that no group in American history had demonstrated a deeper reverence for education than African Americans. Education had once been forbidden by law, yet the desire for learning burned so fiercely that men and women risked their lives to read and write. Following emancipation, African Americans built schools, trained teachers, and elevated education as a communal standard. By the mid-twentieth century, teaching had become one of the most respected professions in Black communities. Education was not merely encouraged—it was expected.

So when contemporary data were presented, they did not merely inform; they indicted. They asked us difficult questions about what had changed and what had been abandoned. As society increasingly glorified sports and entertainment as pathways to wealth and recognition, the foundational work of building stable families, strong institutions, and resilient communities had been quietly minimized. Yes, young people were achieving extraordinary success in medicine, law, technology, and education. But isolated triumphs, scattered like sparks, were not enough to ignite sustained cultural transformation.

At some point along the way, the standard had stopped being the standard.