An Open Letter to Stephen A. Smith — From a One-Time Admirer

Dear Stephen A.,

This one right here hurts, man.

Seriously.

Because before I ever disagreed with Stephen A. Smith, before I ever rolled my eyes at something you said, before I ever found myself wondering what the hell happened to the man I grew up watching — I admired you.

I remember being a young Black kid in high school with dreams of someday working at ESPN. Back then, you were the standard.

You were successful. You were Black. You were living my dream.

But more importantly, at least from where I was sitting, you appeared to be doing it without compromising who you were to get there.

That HBCU swagger and flair seemed to ooze out of your pores every time you appeared on television. You were loud. You were passionate. You were unapologetic. You didn't seem interested in sanding down the edges of yourself to make anybody else comfortable.

And I loved that shit.

Every award? Deserved.

Every promotion? Deserved.

Every interview? Every television appearance? Every opportunity?

Deserved.

You weren't just somebody I enjoyed watching. You were proof of concept.

Proof that maybe somebody who looked like me could walk into sports media with personality, opinions, culture and a little swagger and not have to leave pieces of himself at the door just to be invited into the room.

And when people started calling you out of your name years ago?

Not me.

We could disagree about LeBron. We could disagree about the Cowboys. We could disagree about damn near anything.

A difference of opinion was never going to erase my admiration for what you had accomplished.

But this isn't about a difference of opinion anymore.

This is about responsibility.

With Great Power Comes Even Greater Responsibility

Stephen A., you constantly remind people what you've accomplished.

And you should be proud.

You climbed one hell of a mountain.

You've become one of the most recognizable and powerful personalities in American sports media. Your voice travels further than almost anybody else's in the business.

But that's exactly why this conversation matters.

Because somewhere along the journey to becoming Stephen A. Smith, the media empire, I believe you've lost sight of something Stephen A. Smith, the Black journalist, once understood:

With great power comes even greater responsibility.

And the bigger your microphone becomes, the more responsibility comes with understanding what happens after you speak into it.

That's why I understood the National Association of Black Journalists' decision to give you its 2026 Thumbs Down Award.

You apparently don't.

Or at least that's what you keep telling us.

The NABJ cited what it described as a recurring pattern of disparaging public commentary toward prominent Black women across politics, sports and media.

And instead of sitting with that criticism, criticism coming from an organization dedicated to Black journalists, your response essentially became:

Oh, y'all want smoke? Bet.

But brother...

What if they aren't your enemy?

What if this isn't a declaration of war?

What if people are simply asking somebody they once respected to look in the mirror?

The Jasmine Crockett Situation Should Have Been the Wake-Up Call

Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett is probably the clearest example of what many of us have been trying to explain to you.

You criticized her rhetoric and questioned whether what you characterized as "street verbiage" belonged on Capitol Hill.

Now, let's establish something.

Jasmine Crockett is a public official.

She is not above criticism.

Black women aren't above criticism.

Black politicians aren't above criticism.

Hell, Black people aren't above criticism from other Black people.

That's not my argument.

My problem is context.

When Black women in public life are already routinely stereotyped as loud, angry, ghetto, unintelligent or unprofessional, you cannot pretend that questioning whether a highly educated Black congresswoman's language belongs on Capitol Hill exists inside some magical vacuum.

Especially when some of the same people hearing your criticism are more than willing to weaponize it against her.

And eventually, you acknowledged that yourself.

After the backlash, you apologized and admitted that you understood how your comments could provide Donald Trump additional ammunition to attack Black women.

That's important.

But Stephen A., my question is:

Why did it take the backlash for you to see it?

You're an experienced Black journalist.

You've spent decades navigating predominantly white spaces.

You've talked endlessly about your journey.

So if anybody should understand the difference between criticizing a Black woman and unknowingly reinforcing a stereotype that has been weaponized against Black women forever...

Shouldn't it be you?

Then Came the NABJ

Fast-forward to last weekend.

The National Association of Black Journalists gives you its Thumbs Down Award.

And you're offended.

I understand that.

Hell, I would be offended too.

If an organization representing the profession and community I spent decades championing essentially told me, "Brother, we think you're doing harm," that would hurt.

But maybe that's precisely why it deserves more consideration than you're giving it.

Because criticism from people who hate you is easy to dismiss.

Criticism from people who once celebrated you should make you think.

Instead, you declared that NABJ had "started something."

And now we're watching this become another media battle.

Another Stephen A. Smith versus somebody storyline.

Another opportunity to remind everybody about your résumé, your accomplishments, your platform and everything you've done for Black people throughout your career.

But sometimes your résumé isn't the answer.

Sometimes the answer is simply:

Maybe I need to listen.

And Then You Went to Fox News...

This is where you really lost me.

Because of all the places to litigate a dispute with the National Association of Black Journalists, watching you take that grievance into conservative media spaces just doesn't sit right with me.

Maybe you see it differently.

Maybe, in your mind, you're simply going wherever you're invited and defending your name.

Fine.

But surely you understand the optics.

My grandmother and damn near every Black elder I grew up around taught some variation of the same lesson:

We handle family business inside the house.

We can argue.

We can disagree.

Hell, we might damn near come to blows.

But we don't need company standing in the doorway applauding while we tear each other apart.

That's what bothers me about this press tour.

Why not go directly to NABJ?

Why not sit across from its leadership?

Why not ask them to explain exactly what they believe you've done wrong?

And then explain exactly why you believe they're wrong?

You're a journalist, Stephen A.

Go to the source.

Have the uncomfortable conversation.

Because going into spaces where people may already be hostile toward organizations dedicated specifically to Black journalists and saying, essentially, "Look what these people did to me" doesn't prove NABJ wrong.

For some of us, it reinforces exactly what we're worried about.

And Yeah...I Noticed the Chain

Now this next part might sound petty.

Maybe it is.

Maybe I'm reading entirely too much into something that means absolutely nothing.

But I'm a Virgo, man.

I notice shit.

Watching your appearances during this media blitz, I noticed something small.

On Sean Hannity's show, your chain appeared tucked beneath your shirt.

Then, during your conversation with Chris Cuomo, there it was out and visible.

Again:

Maybe that means absolutely nothing.

Clothes move. People style themselves differently. There could be a hundred explanations.

I'm not going to pretend I know what's inside your head.

But here's why something that insignificant caught my attention:

When you've spent years watching someone you once admired seemingly become more comfortable criticizing Black people in rooms where Black people historically haven't always been afforded the same grace, you start noticing the little things.

And I found myself asking a question I never thought I'd ask about Stephen A. Smith:

Are you changing depending on which room you're standing in?

I don't know the answer.

Only you do.

But the fact that somebody who once admired you as an example of unapologetic Blackness even wonders about it should mean something.

I Don't Think You Understand Why People Are Hurt

That's the part I think you're missing.

People aren't angry simply because Stephen A. Smith has opinions.

You've had opinions your entire damn career.

Hell, having opinions made you rich.

Nobody expected you to suddenly become quiet.

Nobody expected you to agree with every Black athlete, Black journalist, Black politician or Black woman simply because they're Black.

That's ridiculous.

What we're asking is whether you still recognize the disproportionate weight your voice carries when you speak about them.

Because there's a difference between refusing to participate in groupthink and appearing to reserve some of your sharpest knives for people who look like you.

There's a difference between independence and isolation.

There's a difference between being willing to criticize your community...

and becoming so committed to proving that nobody can tell you what to think that you stop hearing your community altogether.

And Stephen A., from where I'm sitting?

It feels like you stopped hearing us.

“My Idols Lied to Me”

There's a song by Aiyana-Lee called My Idols Lied to Me.

That title alone stopped me in my tracks.

Because there is something uniquely painful about growing up admiring somebody, following the path they helped illuminate, and eventually realizing the person standing at the end of that path doesn't look like the person who inspired you to start walking it.

I can't speak for the entire Black community.

And I won't pretend to.

There are Black people who agree with you.

There are Black people who love what you're doing.

There are Black people who probably think everything I'm writing right now is complete bullshit.

That's fine.

But I also know I'm far from the only Black person who looks at Stephen A. Smith today and asks:

What happened?

And maybe that's unfair.

Maybe you've changed because people change.

Maybe you've always been this person and some of us simply saw what we wanted to see.

Maybe money changed the rooms you occupy.

Maybe success changed your perspective.

Maybe nothing changed at all.

I don't know.

What I know is what it feels like watching from this side of the television.

And it feels like losing somebody we were once proud to claim.

Stephen A., Look Back Down the Mountain

I don't know you.

You damn sure don't know me.

I'm just a 37-year-old Black father from Chicago trying to build a little sports-media platform of my own, hoping maybe one day somebody will care about the words I write half as much as people care about yours.

But that's exactly why I'm writing this.

Because once upon a time, I was that high-school kid watching you on ESPN thinking there was room for somebody like me.

Somebody Black.

Somebody opinionated.

Somebody with personality.

Somebody with some damn swagger.

Somebody who didn't have to leave pieces of himself at the door just to be invited into the room.

You helped make me believe that.

And despite everything I've written here, nobody can take that away from you.

You climbed the mountain.

You kicked doors open.

You made millions.

You built something bigger than most journalists could ever imagine.

Congratulations, brother.

Seriously.

But every once in a while...

look back down the mountain.

Look at the young Black journalists still climbing.

Look at the Black sports-media personalities trying to find their voices.

Look at the Black kids sitting on couches watching you today the same way I watched you twenty years ago.

And understand that the things you say matter differently because you said them.

That's not a punishment.

That's the responsibility that comes with everything you worked so hard to earn.

Maybe NABJ got some things wrong.

Maybe some criticism of you is unfair.

Maybe you've got receipts we haven't seen yet.

Bring them.

Have that conversation.

Defend yourself.

But while you're doing all of that, leave just enough room for the possibility that the people criticizing you aren't all jealous, sensitive, "woke," uninformed or out to destroy Stephen A. Smith.

Maybe some of us are simply disappointed.

Because we remember what you represented to us.

I certainly do.

And that's why this one hurts, man.

So I'm not asking you to shut up.

I'm not asking you to become somebody you're not.

I'm not asking you to blindly defend Black people simply because they're Black.

I'm asking something much simpler.

Remember the people who were cheering for you before the whole world knew your name.

Remember the community that celebrated every door you kicked open.

Remember that kid somewhere watching you right now wondering whether there is room for him too.

Remember Stephen A. before Stephen A. became an empire.

And if somewhere along this incredible journey you've gotten disconnected from that man...

Brother...

Are you going to fix it and come home?

— Jamor Pearson
Founder, The312Report
By Chicago. For Chicago.