Mansfield Frazier is my uncle. My father, his half brother, is Thomas Frazier. I was born in Cleveland and raised in East Cleveland. Mansfield was a part of my life from 1979 until his passing. Outside of his daughter Alyson, we are the ones in the family that were the closest and saw his evolution to the man we miss and revere today. This is a story of remembrance, transformation, and carrying on my family tradition of writing about him, every year, as his birthday is 4/20. Enjoy the true stories.
It’s that time of year again. And every year, I’m still in disbelief that Mansfield is gone. Sure, I know no one lives forever. But losing my Dad, his brother, and him, 48 days later, is something I’ll be processing for the rest of my life. This year, as I think about my uncle as his birthday approaches, I’m reminded of the idea of transformation. I saw Mansfield transform from a very successful street dude into a community activist. I was there in the mid 80’s at Lancers (if you know you know), having big seafood plates, watching Mike Tyson win a fight in the first round on the flatscreen TV, then, watch my uncle and his crew hit the streets and did what they did, in the streets.
I remember one Saturday, at the stash house where Mansfield and his crew would count money, bag up “stuff,” and strategize on their street moves, I really was starting to consider asking to be somehow involved in the street moves I saw happening. Especially the stacks of cash that became so regular, I wanted IN. I remember I was in the room with everyone, soaking it all in, and all of a sudden, I noticed my uncle Mansfield, staring right at me. He saw me looking at all the money on the table, checking the whole scene, and studying him and his crew. I was excited to be so close to danger and learning the game of the streets. I’m a visual learner, so watching how they moved, the cars, the women, the jewelry, and the whole vibe had excited me to the core. Until I saw the deadpan stare of my uncle. I was 16.
He finished his conversation, collected his cut from the night’s earnings, then told me to take a ride with him. This was the Brown Chevy Blazer days. I loved that car. My uncle always let me drive it way before I had a license. He trusted me with his car because he knew I understood the consequences if something happened to it while I had it. Mansfield was not the overly aggressive, and all in your face type. He was that quiet strong type that commanded respect. And he knew I had the ultimate respect for him, even though I was witnessing him making street moves, and being enamored by it all.
Anyway, Mansfield says, “Let’s take a ride,” and threw me the keys like he often did telling me to drive. We went somewhere near some train tracks, not far from the stash pot. After passing a stoplight, my uncle said pull over. It wasn’t a familiar spot, and I wasn’t sure why he wanted us to stop at this spot because it was almost like a commercial area over a residential neighborhood. It was near the railroad tracks and the rapid transit, near maybe 55th street. I pulled over, and my uncle grabbed me by the collar and said, “If I ever catch you selling, using, or being involved in any of this street shit, I’ll kill you myself, and dump your body over there where the trash bins are. You got it?”
Quickly, clearly, in fear of my uncle for the first and only time, I gave him a clear and serious YES. I grew into a man that day. And I also knew that my uncle was way more than what he was doing at the time. It was the first time I didn’t just look at him as my uncle, but as a man looking out for me in the way he knew. And, as much as I was excited about seeing all the street moves, my uncle was in a situation that, in hindsight, although he was very good at it, if America, Cleveland, and the world would have gave more attention to the brilliance of Black men, he might have been making very different choices and moves in the 80s.Then we drove back to the stash spot, and everyone in the crew, and my uncle, gave me $100 each to wash their cars. I made a cool $800 and learned a lesson of a lifetime. I became a man that day.
Fast forward. It’s the late 90s. My uncle gets out of prison, and upon his release, he was clear, focused, and ready to put that part of his life behind him. He shared a lot of plans of what he was going to do at this stage in life and his transformation. Always a man with an idea, and an inclination to help others, he was at first selling greeting cards by incarcerated artists. Many whom he had met while in prison. During this time I was doing deep community work in Cleveland, I had a house I was rehabbing and Mansfield stayed in the downstairs of that house for a few weeks. He started to ask me more about the cultural and community work I was doing. We talked about community activism, and what that meant in terms of the dedication to community work and social change.
Mansfield also shared during this time his plans to marry, settle down, build and buy a house, and transform his life so much that when it was his time to go, that his past would not be what defined him, but his present and his future. Transformation. Fast forward. Mansfield passes and, in the Plain Dealer, the local newspaper that he read everyday, in a bold headline, it read “Community Activist, Advocate of Formerly Incarcerated, Has Died.”
He did it. He transformed his life so much that his past was transformed from street dude into an advocate, and he earned the title of community activist by the many people he helped in Cleveland and all over the world. Mansfield is a reminder of the idea of growth and evolution. He was a hard-working man. He was from that generation that you wake up early, and you, as the young people in Oakland say “stand on business.”
He would have written his articles he would publish in Cool Cleveland or other publications by sunrise. He was disciplined. He was a straight shooter who took no BS, and even if he was wrong at times he was still strong in his beliefs always. Many speak of heroes and leaders whom they never met, and how they’ve helped shape or transform their lives. Thankfully, I didn’t have to look at any history books for a shining example of manhood. I had one in my life, until the end.
Rest in Power, Mansfield. And I know you were never big on celebrating birthdays, but Happy Birthday, Dude. Say what’s up to your brother for me.
One Love,
Your Nephew TJ
One Response to “Celebrating Mansfield: Transformation by TJ”
Peter Lawson Jones
A wonderful panegyric, TJ. In a few eloquent paragraphs, you captured the essence of your uncle and my friend. Bravo . . . and Happy Heavenly Birthday, Mansfield.