A line in the movie A Knight’s Tale cuts deeper than most people realize: “A man can change his stars.” It’s the heartbeat of the film — a poor peasant who dares to defy the rules of birth and destiny to become a knight. The system tells him no. His hunger tells him yes.
That line has always stayed with me because it’s not just medieval jousts. It’s about life in America when you’re Black. It’s about what happens when you refuse to stay in the cage built for you centuries before birth.
My Black Tale
My tale didn’t begin in castles or with noble blood. It started in the projects of the South Bronx — in defunded communities, grotesque living conditions, gun violence, and drug houses.
I was a kid collecting cans from garbage, packing bags at supermarkets, doing whatever I could to carve out something. And even back then, I knew this couldn’t be life. There had to be more. There had to be a way to change the stars I was born under.
The Lie of Birth and Place
William Thatcher was told his birth decided his worth. Society made him unworthy of knighthood, no matter how skilled, brave, and capable he was.
That’s slavery’s shadow. That’s America’s caste system.
With my hands always reaching for more, I’ve lived in this country’s poorest neighborhoods and the wealthiest suburbs. I’ve changed my zip code more times than I care to count, and what I’ve learned is brutal: birth is a cheat code. If you’re born in the right neighborhood, the right family, the right school district, doors open for you on day one.
If you’re not, you start life like it’s Dark Souls on new game+ — no armor, no guidance, just a barbarian beaten down until you want to quit.
That’s not “equal opportunity.” That’s the lie of birth and place.
The Joust We Never Asked For
In the film, William had to sneak into jousts under a false name just to compete. That’s us too. To survive in America, I learned to code-switch so long that I forgot who I was.
I drank the Kool-Aid, believed the company man dream, and checked the master’s boxes instead of my own. Caesar’s gifts — the titles, the salaries, the access — looked like rewards, but they only masked the trauma I carried from the beginning.
The joust we never asked for is losing yourself just to be allowed to compete.
Sympathy for the Devil
Let me put a disclaimer here. I do not condone assassination, celebration, or mockery of any man. But the turning point for me — and for many other Black folks in this country — came when we were asked to hold a moment of silence for open racists.
Why should I bow my head for a man who spent his life sowing discord against us? Why should I mourn those who mocked our pain, diminished our struggle, and used their platforms to poison the air we breathe?
It hurts more when the people who came from the same dirt I came from stand with that racism. Because here’s the truth: no amount of money or job title can erase where you’re from, or change how you’re viewed in the rooms you’re only allowed to visit briefly.
I won’t be guilted into false sympathy. If your life was built on denying mine, don’t expect me to carry your coffin with tears in my eyes.
The Crew That Carries You
William didn’t fight alone. He had Roland, Wat, Kate, and Chaucer. That’s how it’s always been for us — survival is collective.
But for a long time, I thought my salary absolved me from the struggle of where I came from. I thought money meant freedom. That was because I didn’t have to stay up late worrying about the same things that haunted me as a kid in the Bronx; I was somehow “better off.”
The truth? That salary isolated me. I couldn’t hang with the people I used to because they couldn’t afford what I wanted to do. When I did those same things with new people, I had to be on my best behavior: careful, silent, and grateful just to be there.
It left me trapped in an awkward space — high above the hood, but still entering corporate America through the servants’ door.
And for those in our community who stand shoulder-to-shoulder with racism, I want you to hear me: I understand you’ve “made it out.” You’ve got the title, the house, the status. But don’t fool yourself — for your legacy and your children to remain free, you will need more people who look like you. Please don’t write us off for a salary that seeds self-hate.
Because history is clear: we pay for the sins of our fathers. And when you align yourself with hate, don’t think your children will escape the bill when it comes due.
Legacy Beyond Titles
William didn’t just want to fight. He wanted to be seen. To be recognized as more than a servant.
That’s the Black pursuit too — not titles, not scraps of validation, but dignity. Peeling back all the layers of Black identity, we just want to be seen. Not the rope chain, the fast car, the “bad bitch” imagery society reduces us to. I want to be seen entirely — not three-fifths of a man. I want to walk into an establishment and be engaged like any Caucasian, prejudice-free.
So, understand this: Mrs. Officer, Mr. Administrator, Director, or whatever title you hold. Your title can’t be passed down to your heirs. Nepotism doesn’t work the same for us in corporate America. The ladder you climbed may be pulled away before your children can touch the first rung.
Look beyond your current situation. Love your legacy. Build something that survives your title. Because when the business card fades and the salary ends, what remains is how you were seen — and how you saw your people.
Our Knight’s Tale
The movie ends with William beaten, mocked, stripped of armor — but still standing. That’s us. Stripped of wealth, denied justice, mocked by the media, yet still rising every single day.
But here’s the difference: William’s story is a feel-good fable. Ours isn’t fiction. We don’t get swelling soundtracks or happy endings guaranteed. We get survival. We get rebellion. We get the daily choice to keep moving, even when the world is rooting for our fall.
Growing up in the ’90s, I saw Roots so many times I could probably reenact it. Whenever the conversations came, everyone wanted to relate to Kunta — the rebel who refused to bow. But here’s the contradiction: the same people log onto social media today and play the house negro, appeasing master, protecting his feelings, defending his violence, excusing his hate.
Our knight’s tale isn’t about pretending to be Kunta on the couch and then selling out your people online. It’s about standing in defiance even when the blows come down, even when the crowd boos, even when it costs you everything.
So, yes — a man can change his stars. But changing your stars isn’t ambition when you’re Black in America. It’s defiance. It’s survival. It’s refusing ever again to let someone else hold the pen to your story.
