Activist Jedidiah Brown Ended 'Abusive' Relationship With Chicago

ATLANTA — At the corner of 10th and Piedmont, where rainbow crosswalks mark the heart of Midtown, Jedidiah Brown shocked me with a smile, of all things.

It was the first thing I noticed about the former Chicago activist, political candidate, Baptist minister and gangland whisperer who loved his city and the folks who suffer for living there so much that it nearly killed him.

I don't remember ever seeing Brown smile in our hometown while leading protests against police brutality, or when he got national attention storming the stage at an aborted Donald Trump rally in Chicago.

There was no sign of a megawatt grin in February 2017 when Brown drove his car inches from Lake Michigan in an act of suicidal desperation, put a gun to his head and said goodbye to his supporters and family in a social media video.

“I’ve always loved this city and I love my family," Brown said on Facebook Live that day. "I love everybody, and I’m so sorry, but it’s over, I can’t recover from this."

He did recover, of course. And he kept fighting for his city even after he visited Atlanta during the height of the pandemic and quietly decided he would stay.

The last time I saw Brown was a year ago, on the corner of 71st and Chappel streets in Chicago's South Shore neighborhood, where protesters clashed with police in riot gear as the city became engulfed in acts of civil unrest in the wake of George Floyd's murder under the knee of a Minneapolis cop.

Days later on Facebook Live, Brown declared he was too "privileged" a Black man to speak on behalf of young African Americans engaged in acts of civil unrest following Floyd's murder.

MORE ON PATCH: 'Privileged' Activist Urges Chicago To Stop Shouting, Take A Knee

"I have to realize that I am a privileged black man," Brown said in June 2020.

"I am more aware that we have no idea how these kids are experiencing pain. And we are not qualified to speak for them. And now we need to shut the f--- up and listen."

In some ways, Brown was saying goodbye to Chicago.

And saving himself.

A Phoenix Rising In ATL

On a recent Wednesday afternoon in Atlanta, where I met up with Brown as part of a post-pandemic summer tour of America, he told me he's a different man — and showed off tattoos symbolizing his transformation, including a phoenix bird atop his right hand.

"It's a symbol of, what do you call it? Reincarnation. Resurrection," he said.

Moving to Atlanta, Brown says, has given him freedom to embrace his true self.

"I've been able to experience life for myself here after realizing I had missed out on so much of it fighting for other people's pain. Now my fight is to experience life for myself because I missed out on so much. I never had a hobby. I didn't know what it was like to make a friend without being part of a cause," he said. "I found that I'm very social. I didn't know how much I enjoyed nature. I didn't know that I could dance, for real."

In some ways, Brown says his identity was born from a necessity to survive in Chicago gang territory. As a young man, he was able to avoid having to declare allegiance to any particular gang by becoming known as "that activist guy."

He had dedicated his life to taking on the pain of his neighbors and fighting for things such as "justice" and "change" that frankly never materialized despite the efforts of so many people fighting for the same things.

Brown became a notable enough voice in the activist community to get an audience with three Chicago mayors and a handful of the city's top cops, only to eventually feel like a "token" who was being manipulated by the city's Democratic Machine.

"Chicago was my first love, and the best relationship I ever had until the domestic violence and bad days out numbered the good and I could no longer accept it," he said after taking a sip of a whiskey cocktail served in a martini glass.

"The worst thing is how many times the police in Chicago beat me up and nothing happened. I didn't say anything, because what was the point, because no one would believe me."

Despite the change of address, Brown is still fighting a criminal case for allegedly fighting with police during a 2018 protest, and recently settled a civil case against the city and five police officers in federal court alleging police brutality during the same incident that confidentiality agreements prevent him from talking about.

Leaving Chicago was like "ending an abusive relationship … and we got kids," Brown said.

He still owns a house in Chicago. He travels home to visit family, use his years of connections and vibrant social media presence to get the attention of powerful politicians and raise awareness to help people and righteous causes in need of support.

On Tuesday, for instance, Brown returned home to attend the funeral of Jamari Dent, a Chicago teenager who hanged himself after being bullied at school.

From Atlanta, Brown said shared the story of Jamari's death with millions of people on social media as the boy's family raised cash to pay for his funeral expenses.

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"I still feel love for my city, and I will always try to respond when someone calls on me. … I can still call the mayor, and I have, and I've seen her respond. I can call people in the police department I have developed relationships with, and I've seen them respond. I'm in touch with fellow activists, and if I call them they'll try to help," he said.

"I might not be in Chicago, but I love the city and the people. I feel like I've become a satellite. And I don't feel obligated to exhaust myself with the constant fighting anymore."

'Disqualified' In Chicago

During his first year in Atlanta, Brown says he struggled to let go of fears that were part of daily life in Chicago, such as petting the dogs of strangers — and being open about his bisexuality.

"In South Shore, the neighborhood I come from [in Chicago], I'm used to dogs that are aggressive. Come near 'em and they'll bite you. They're trained to protect their owners. And I come down here and there are 20 to 30 dogs just running around together. People are talking to each other and touching each other's dogs," Brown said.

"I had to go talk to people and ask, 'Why are your dogs not attacking each other? What is going on here? Certain things like that really has reshaped my mind, and I feel healthier as a person. It's really messed me up. … I don't see the world the same anymore just because I was able to get out of Chicago."

Brown lives in Atlanta's Midtown neighborhood, the affluent, racially diverse center of the city's LGBTQ community.

A few months back, he came out as a bisexual man.

"What I have here that I didn't have in Chicago is the ability to be myself fully because Black liberation in Chicago does not tolerate Black fluid sexuality. And I knew that back home I couldn't fight for the city and Black people if I was going to be a man of the LGBTQ community. That disqualified me," Brown said.

"Black people in Chicago are just as hateful toward same-sex relationships as we cry about other races being hateful against us. The point is I couldn't be me, an advocate for Black Chicago and a bisexual at the same time. I'm healthier. I'm happier. And I'll never go back."

Still, Brown wishes the first city he ever loved a happier and healthier future without him.

"I think that the only thing that you can't change about Chicago is the f------ snow. Everything else can change. What I wish for Chicago is a real, genuine opportunity for people to thrive like I've seen in every other city I've been in," Brown said.

"If that happens, maybe we can reconcile some s---, even though I know that bitch is cold."

Mark Konkol, recipient of the 2011 Pulitzer Prize for local reporting, wrote and produced the Peabody Award-winning series, "Time: The Kalief Browder Story." He was a producer, writer and narrator for the "Chicagoland" docu-series on CNN, and a consulting producer on the Showtime documentary, "16 Shots."

This summer, follow KONKOL ON THE ROAD:

• In Atlanta, Everybody Influences Everything For Better And Worse
• It's 'Insane' Chicago Isn't The Sweet Home Of A Blues Museum
• Time To Drive — Out Of The Land Of Fakequity and Faux Reforms