Maurice J. Norman
Maurice spoke to us about role models, fear, artistry, and seeking out the tools and resources he needs to become a better man.
You can read our conversation with Maurice below, or watch the entire conversation here.
Hi, my name is Maurice Norman. I am from Mino Springs, North Carolina. I am the younger brother of two older brothers. I am a lover of eggs and anime. I'm also a writer and a poet—those are the things that fill my heart.
What is your definition of ‘a good man?’
I define a good man as someone who doesn't shy away from responsibility, whether it’s the responsibility of being a friend, a father, a brother, or any sort of communal responsibility. A good man is someone who can rise to the occasion and support others, be attentive to the feelings and emotions of others. My definition of a good man often goes back to the absence of my father or men who have harmed me in ways I’m only realizing now as an adult. But now, my definition is shaped more by the solid men in my life—role models who, if I were younger, would probably be father figures. These are men who are solid contributors to their families, who tend to their mental and emotional health. They don’t bottle things up—they’re not perfect, of course, but they’re aware.
Sometimes I adopt mentors, and they don’t even know they’re in that role. I’ll just think, “I like you,” and start observing them from a distance. Other times, I’m more direct and ask them to get coffee every few months or something. One man, Dr. Bill Keys, was around when I was just a young man in college, 18 or 19. I joined an internship program called the Charlotte CIA Institute, which brought together young Black men from Davidson College, Queens University, and Johnson C. Smith University every couple of Saturdays. It brought us together to be exposed to each other and to professionals and opportunities in the city we might not have known about otherwise. Mr. Bill Keys was the mastermind behind it all. He was available during and outside the program if we needed emotional support. He’s still available to this day, always reminding us that he’s just a text away. He was one of the first people who, alongside his son in the program, showed us a strong family unit supporting young Black men.
Another role model is someone I work with closely now. Even though we bump heads sometimes because our personalities are so similar (and yes, if he’s watching this, he sometimes irritates me to my core), I respect him because he’s been building a life with his family for over 15 years. He’s a family-oriented man who comes from a culture that isn’t as individualistic as American culture; he comes from an African culture that values collective support. It shows in how he does business, in the social connections that tie our work and the business we’re building together, and in his family.
Another key figure for me is my grandfather. Without him, my life wouldn’t have been possible. My grandfather became highly successful in construction during the 1920s and 1930s, the Jim Crow era when Black people faced grave danger. He worked himself to the bone, building his own construction business. Though I didn’t inherit the wealth he created due to family dynamics, he was my first example of discipline, work ethic, and taking care of one's needs while having enough to give to others.
What is something you are grieving or letting go of?
I’m grieving and letting go. I grew up in a single-parent household; my father wasn’t around in the ways I needed. Last year, I finally acknowledged to my partner that I’m no longer yearning for what I needed as a child. Letting go of the desire to rewrite history, imagining a safer, less painful past, is a heavy burden to release. Recognizing my father's humanity and understanding him as more than someone who didn’t meet my needs helped me move on and forgive, for my own sake. It’s taken a long time to feel the hurt of what happened, especially since I thought certain moments were normal, only to realize later that they weren’t. Letting myself feel all of it is something I’m just starting to do in recent years.
I’m in a relationship now, my first in five years. For a long time, I shied away from romance due to past relationships. Facing the fear of intimacy in real time has been a recent development. It’s scary, and it’s easy to slip back into old habits or less helpful communication styles. It’s convenient being alone sometimes, and it’s more affordable too. I’d forgotten the joys of being in love because I was so hurt by past romances. My current partner and I had a lot of patience with each other, waiting until we were both ready for this commitment. It’s a reminder of the opportunity for connection on the other side of fear.
What advice would you give the younger version of yourself?
I used to have severe panic attacks about death in high school, usually alone, when no one was around. I eventually told my older brother about it, and he was shocked. I told him that I thought about death and got really scared. He looked at me and said, “Maurice, it’s okay. Everybody has to die.” It wasn’t exactly what I needed to hear, but it stuck with me. He made me feel seen and reassured me that it was okay to feel scared. That’s the advice I’d give my younger self: It’s okay to feel fear and to let people in on what you’re going through.
Does poetry and masculinity influence one another?
Poetry has been my number one outlet throughout my life. In every stage, poetry has been there for me as a form of self-expression, helping me regulate my emotions and connect with others. It was a private sanctuary before I started using it in public speaking. Poetry also helped me find my people. When I travel, I look for the poets, the book lovers, and the writers. Poetry is my way of moving about the world. I grew up with poets like Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, and Langston Hughes. My mother would recite Langston Hughes’ “Mother to Son” because it was one of her favorite poems. These poets taught me how to process the world around me.
Right now, I’m reading a poetry collection about survivors of Hurricane Katrina, filled with heart-wrenching stories about home, belonging, and displacement. Poetry allows me to understand people’s feelings and gives me language for my own experiences. It’s one of the few things I can say I truly love. Poetry was the first place I allowed myself to be tender with myself, without judgment or shame, helping me navigate my experience of masculinity.
What does community look like to you?
Community means having people who let you be yourself in every sense—goofy, ugly, sad—all the different selves within us. It’s people you can lean on, who challenge you and hold you accountable. This year, my resolution was to deepen my relationships with loved ones. In a world where everyone’s building brands or businesses, it’s easy for relationships to become transactional. Community, to me, now means taking the risk of being vulnerable and open. It’s about people who challenge you and hold you accountable.
Do you have a mantra you live by?
One of my mantras is “Closed mouths don’t get fed.” I’m realizing the limits of what I can accomplish alone and the importance of letting people in, asking for help, and acknowledging my limitations. Another mantra from my mother is, “You have to know when to love people with a long-arm spoon.” Sometimes you have to love people from a distance, protecting your own well-being. My third mantra is “Don’t lose heart.” This world can break your spirit, with so much violence and hardship around us, but it’s important to stay committed to making your small contribution forward.
If you had full financial freedom, how would you live your life?
If I had the resources, I’d prioritize my family’s security, align my life fully with my passions, and eliminate any compromises to my happiness. I would travel extensively, experiencing different cultures and building community worldwide. I’d want to be surrounded by people exploring the big questions of humanity, like those trying to make healthcare more accessible or extending human life.
Anything that we haven’t touched on that you would like to add?
Masculinity is a journey, like many things. You’re never going to get it perfectly right; you just do the best you can with the tools you have. I’m trying to take care of myself and love myself better so I can love others with more intention. It’s a journey, and you’ll stumble along the way, but it’s liberating to know you get to write this story for yourself. Despite the many messages about what a man should or shouldn’t be, we have agency over our lives, and that’s something I stand by."