Calling in a post-martyr culture

Florida means land of flowers
It was on a Christmas night.
In the state named for the flowers
Men came bearing dynamite
It could not be in Jesus’ name
Beneath the bedroom floor
On Christmas night the killers
Hid the bomb for Harry Moore
                Langston Hughes

 “I have to go to law school for me,” a friend told me after months of reflection. “I have to do it not for others, but because it’s the right thing for me.”

Her words struck a loud chord.  I told her I’ve never been able to make that statement.  Everything I’ve chosen has been for others.  None of it, when it comes to the work I do, has been for me.

I wonder if this is the consequence related to being part of the post Martin Luther King, Jr. generation.  Those who entered ministry after the assassinations of Medgar Evers, Fred Hampton, Harry and Harriette Moore, Malcolm X and King did so out of a deep allegiance to the sacrifices they made.  We entered this work committed to continue what they started, and we did so knowing the costs associated with taking those bold steps.

Ours was no cheap grace with promises of mega-congregations and massive expense packages.  We did it for the people we served.  There was work left undone, and, we believed, God was calling us to finish what the ancestors started.

My friend’s words reminded me of the enormous burden that comes with saying yes.  No, we weren’t carrying crosses that fed an unhealthy martyr complex. We didn’t bring dysfunctional emotional baggage to the work of ministry.  We regarded the calling, and work of ministry, as the continuation of work started long ago. We felt and embraced the pain that stirred revolts led by Gabriel Prosser in Virginia in 1800, Denmark Vesey in Charleston, South Carolina in 1822, and Nat Turner in South Hampton County, Virginia in 1831.

We embraced the model of theologically trained ministers like Henry McNeal Turner, the first southern bishop of the African Methodist Episcopal Church after the Civil War. Turner was elected to the state legislature in Georgia in 1868.  We took pride in his accomplishments, and sought ways to follow his footsteps.

We did it for the cause. It came out of a sincere commitment to the work behind us and the enormous challenges ahead.  This, we believed, is what it means to be called.  We walked away from more lucrative professions.  The pay in ministry was derisory comparative to other options.  We said yes to the people. 

I say we with the assumption I’m not alone.  When I consider the sacrifices of the men and women who mentor me to this day, I’m reminded of why we do this work.  As I read the emails from Dr. J. Alfred Smith, Sr., who ministered in Oakland, California during the turbulent years of police brutality, I recall what it means to sacrifice.  When I read letters sent to me by Jeremiah Wright, who taught people in Chicago, Illinois to say it loud, I’m black and I’m proud, I’m grateful for the positions he took during extreme ridicule.

This is what it means to serve. It’s about standing for right even when it could result in conflict.  We’re reminded of why we say yes to this work.  Never should it be said we do it because of ourselves.  Our being called means doing it because we are called to make a difference, not because it’s the fastest path to fulfill our personal agenda.

This is my frustration with the work we do.  The calling to serve has been supplanted by the desire to achieve.  Lost in the quest to hear the voices of the least of these, is the personal thirst for achievement.  The calling to transform the world is supplanted with ecclesial political maneuvering essential in remaining planted within positions of power and ceremonial privilege.

Is that a calling, or the ego interfering with a higher purpose?

Or, have the notions regarding calling changed for the generation once removed from the deaths of Evers, Hampton, Harry T. and Harriette Moore, Malcolm and King?

Those are questions worth pondering.

As for me, I’ve never been able to decide based merely on how it impacts just me.

I wish I could, but there’s this thing we call a calling.

 

 

 

The deaths of Maya Angelou and Vincent Harding leaves a deep void in the soul of black America

I’m sitting here fighting the paralysis caused by the news of Maya Angelou’s death.  Vincent Harding died last week. It’s too soon.  The feeling of decomposition has occupied a space once vacated by hope.

What will morning bring after midnight comes to blind travellers headed toward a dream?  What do we do after two great prophets take comfort in a place beyond our knowing?

I’m stuck in the silence.

Who will remind us of the lessons from before we were old enough to comprehend?  Who will tell us stories about wadding in water deep enough to drown optimism? Who will be there to calm the weariness stirred by images large enough to conjure fear?

I’m stuck in disappointment.

Who will challenge us not to forget?  Who will mold the minds of the next generation?  Angelou and Harding kept us focused. They kept our eyes glued on the waiting prize.  Who will tell us stories about life before the election of a black president?  Who will remind us of the heaviness of walking on soil tainted by the blood of those slain for refusing to go home?

Harding was a scholar baptized in struggle.  He was a Mennonite who participated in the Civil Rights Movement. Harding worked in the campaigns of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) and the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). He drafted many of Dr. Martin Luther King’s speeches.

Harding wrote books and served as the senior academic consultant for the PBS television series Eyes on the Prize. He made the connection between scholarship and activism that shadowed the work after King’s death.

“There’s a lesson for us: If we lock up Martin Luther King, and make him unavailable for where we are now so we can keep ourselves comfortably distant from the realities he was trying to grapple with, we waste King,” Harding said during a lecture at Goshen College in 2005.  “All of us are being called beyond those comfortable places where it’s easy to be Christian. That’s the key for the 21st century – to answer the voice within us, as it was within Martin, which says ‘do something for somebody.’ We can learn to play on locked pianos and to dream of worlds that do not yet exist."

Angelou was also active in the Civil Rights movement. She worked with Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, and was deeply involved with Malcolm after his split from the Nation of Islam. Before becoming a poet, she held jobs as a night-club dancer, fry cook, prostitute and a cast-member of the play Porgy and Bess.  She became a coordinator for SCLC, a journalist in Egypt and Ghana, an actress, producer and director of plays, movies and television programs. 

Angelou is known best for I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, her autobiography that exposed aspects of her personal life.  She taught us that telling the truth can set you free. 

Mary Lee, her maternal great-grandmother, was emancipated after the Civil War. Lee became pregnant by her former white owner who forced her to sign a false statement accusing another man of being the father of her child.  It was part of a past that many were too ashamed to tell.

Angelou described Lee as "that poor little Black girl, physically and mentally bruised."

Who will tell us it’s empowering not hide from the truth?  Who will be bold enough to encourage others to avoid being delineated by the views of those unwavering in their attempt to curtail faith in more?

“Prejudice is a burden that confuses the past, threatens the future and renders the present inaccessible,” Angelou said.

Who will teach black women not to be coerced into accepting less by men?  Who will massage the conviction of those broken by old decisions?  Who will elevate the cognizance of those fading into a shell of their vast possibility?

Who will speak from a place beyond the narrow analysis of former days? We need men and women who have stood on the banks of promise while the footsteps of hate marched rapidly to prevent the next step.  We need people who were there when courage was found in the middle of enormous distractions.  Those voices will remind us of who we are, and why it’s important never to go back.

Who will stand in the pulpit with Martin and Vincent? Who will write poems brewed in the spirit of Maya?

I’m sitting here begging God to redeem a world bruised by arrogance and apathy.

Listen to the whisper in the wind.

I’m sending you. Stand with the ancestors.  Tell the story of how you have overcome. Tell them, as you travel along the way, a few more footsteps are required before you stand on the other side of the river.

Eyes closed now.

It’s time to read again There Is a River: The Black Struggle for Freedom in America.  Teach me Dr. Harding.  Teach me in your death.

“If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude.”  I hear you Dr. Angelou.

My tears have been wiped away.

President John F. Kennedy: Five years of assassinations

Today is the 50^th anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. The past week has been jam-packed with images and commentaries on the event. From trhe new book written by the secret service agent who was there when it happened, to the ESPN report regarding the NFL’s decision to play games the following Sunday, this week has been a trip down memory lane.

Kennedy’s assassination, on November 22, 1963, was the first among five that exposed a critical divide concerning America’s communal image.  Medger Evers was killed on June 12, 1963. Malcolm X was killed on February 21, 1965.  Martin Luther King, Jr. died on April 4, 1968, and Robert “Bobby” Kennedy, Jr. was killed on June 6, 1968.

It was an era of both domestic and global confusion.  America’s persona as the world’s body ground against all forms of tyranny was juxtaposed against bloody battles regarding race. The nation was engulfed in redefining its identity.  The melting pot experiment was exposed as a colossal contradiction. 

Public servants imitated the message of Hitler

In 1963, the world watched as Theophilus Eugene "Bull" Connor , commissioner of public safety for the city of Birmingham, Alabama, authorized the use of fire hoses and police attack dogs against peaceful demonstrators, including children.

The nation and world took notice on January 14, 1963, as George Wallace stood on the gold star where Jefferson Davis took oath, 102 years earlier, to become president of the Confederate States.  Wallace boldly stood to take his oath of office as Governor of Alabama.

“In the name of the greatest people that have ever trod this earth, I draw the line in the dust and toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny, and I say segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” he said.

In North Carolina, Jesse Helms emerged as a critic of the civil rights movement.  His columns in the News & Observer reflected a growing view among southern whites. Helms claimed he civil rights movement was infested by communist and “moral degenerates”, and argued that Medicaid was a "step over into the swampy field of socialized medicine".

The deaths of the Kennedy brothers, Medger, Martin and Malcolm are imbrued within a context were the battle to celebrate particular perspectives is hindered by a universal mandate.  Those clinging to Dixiecrat views were forced to concede a world were black people exist beyond functioning as their servants.  Democracy was tested in a way that reflected the rationale for the Civil War.

The deaths of John and Robert Kennedy, Medgar Evers, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Malcolm X are, in part, about America’s unresolved issues with race. It was also about the fear of Communism and liberalism. They all died due to America’s ongoing dilemma with dreading the unknown.  The years between 1963 and 1968 reflected the nation’s fear of the other. 

Are we a nation that kills the best of what we could be?

Remembering JFK uncovers the agony related to being nurtured in an era of assassins. The phantasmagoria of better days was quickly eradicated by the deaths of those who tried to lead the way.  The subtle message regulated the ambitions of those who followed - be careful when you challenge America’s contradictions. 

The essential question for today regards the lessons learned since the assassinations of those who tried to make a difference.   Has America changed since then, or are we quick to kill those who expose the things we fear?

Jesse Helms argued that Medicaid is socialized medicine. Sounds familiar.  States should be allowed to enforce laws consistent with the views of its citizenry.  He’s a communist.  He’s a liberal intent on destroying America. 

The force of rhetoric stirs the unruly ways of lunatics. That’s a lesson taught by the death of President John F. Kennedy.  We will never be a diverse union until we celebrate the message of those we fear.

I wonder if we will ever learn from our mistakes.

The decade after the deaths of Martin and Malcolm raises questions related to black radicalism, rage and black identity

The decade after the death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was bunched with massive conflict.  It was a period filled with deep angst after the shedding of a dream.  Inner cities were consumed with a lingering blues that made it hard to believe in freedom.

The time between the deaths of Martin and Malcolm left the black community dazed by what was left behind.  Some held firm to the promise of equality after integration.  Others fought hard to find space among those unwilling to share a bite of the American dream.

The benefactors of affirmative action were left enraged by their continued struggle after making their way to class privilege.  Ellis Cose wrote about it in his book Rage of the Privileged Class: Why Are Middle Class Blacks Angry? Why Should America Care?  Cose cites a large group of well educated, competent, and prosperous black people who are frustrated.  They feel the disdain of white people who see them as weak and unintelligent. They feel the resentment of unsuccessful blacks.  They endure the complexion-based discrimination of blacks against blacks, while fighting the assumption that all blacks are criminals.

The black community swayed between black pride and self-hatred.  The quest for revolution was met with condescension among those dedicated to promise of integration.  Afros and dashikis were exchanged for low-cut fades and three piece suits. The pursuit to claim a unique racial identity was viewed as a barrier in finding space to fit into the American melting pot.

The decade after the deaths of King and Malcolm witnessed the unfolding of Roots.  Alex Haley made It trendy to claim pride in being connected to the motherland.  Massive imagines of blacks dancing and singing to African beats was juxtaposed against the need to fit.  It was a period of striving blended with a need to claim African roots all while fighting the inner city blues.

It was the decade of black exploitation films.  The rage of the inner cities led to the rise of a counterculture unwilling to bow to the demands of white privilege.  It was the age of redefining black identity by celebrating ghetto culture.  Keeping it black meant more than the celebration of African pride.  It meant keeping it gangsta.

Richard Majors and Janet Billson talk about it in the book Cool Pose: The Dilemmas of Black Manhood in America. They related the mask of cool used by inner-city youth to defend themselves against the injuries of ghetto life.  The pose is yet another way to define authentic black identity.  Does anyone know what that means?

The decade after the death of King and Malcolm forged a deep wedge among a people seeking to define what it means to be black.  Some embrace the culture of the ghetto.  Others find solace in claiming African roots.  Others seek to melt into the larger culture through education, politics and by celebrating the privilege of middle-class social identity.

Lost in most dialogue related to study of race and class in America is a clear focus on the decade after the death of King and Malcolm.  It was an era of protest fueled by police brutality.  Most studies of the decade leave people bewildered by black protest.  Few stop to consider why they were fighting the police while demanding rights many felt had been achieved.

What motivated Huey P. Newton and Bobby Seale to start the Black Panther Party?  Why was Angela Davis arrested?  Why did Assata Shakur escape prison and flee to Cuba?  What is the truth behind the arrest of Mumia Abu-Jamal?  What hasn’t been told, and why is the Fraternal Order of Police fighting so hard to keep people from hearing the rest of the story?

What is the politics behind the telling of the story?  What happened with the Wilmington 10?  What happened in Watts to start that riot?  What happened in Detroit in July 1967 that left 43 dead, 467 injured, over 7,200 arrested, and more than 2,000 buildings destroyed? 

Why did black people burn down their own neighborhoods?  Why did it happen after major Civil Rights victories? Something was wrong in Newark, NJ where Assata Shakur was arrested. 

What led to the armed standoff between Philadelphia police and the group MOVE on May 13, 1985?  Another decade of indifference fueled even more discontent in America’s inner cities. A police helicopter dropped two one-pound bombs on the roof of the house occupied by members of the group. The fired destroyed 65 houses and killed 6 adults and five children.

It’s a period that deserves to be studied.  Underneath the assumptions of guilt are motives and fears that stirred a revolution.  What are those untold stories, and how do each help facilitate views of racial identity and pride?

These are some of the questions that led me to bring Mumia – Long Distance Revolutionary to the Carolina Theatre.  I hope you can join us for the beginning of a broader conversation related to the decade after the death of King and Malcolm.

There’s so much to learn.  Let the learning begin.

Durham resident is the author of the Willie Lynch Letter

Dr. Kwabena Ashanti dropped the bomb as I prepared to sign books at the Beyu Café in Downtown Durham. 

“I’m the author of the Willie Lynch Letter, “he said as I waited for a crowd to line up for me to sign my new novel.”

It was the biggest news of the year, I thought as I begged him to tell me the rest of the story.  Ashanti, who lives in Durham, NC, is the mastermind of the biggest hoax since the claim that Microsoft had purchased the Roman Catholic Church.

The Willie Lynch Letter is mentioned in the movie The Great Debaters.  The notions of the letter became popular after Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan quoted parts of it during his speech at the Million Man March in 1995.  Farrakhan later used the letter to support his claim that slave owners used the letter to control slaves.

The letter purported to be a verbatim account of a speech delivered by Willie Lynch to an audience gathered on the bank of the James River in Virginia in 1712 regarding the management of slaves. Lynch, a slave owner, tells other slave masters that he had discovered the secret to controlling black slaves by setting them against one another.

Ashanti claims that he wrote the letter in 1970 as a way to present his theory related to the current division inherent in the black community. The document was assumed to be an authentic account of slavery during the 18^th century, and was used by members of the academy, ministers and activist to draw attention to the ongoing implications of slavery.

The letter advises slave owners to take advantage of the differences among the slaves – dark skin versus light skin, straight hair versus nappy hair, house slave versus filed slaves.  The philosophy of the letter fit already existing assumptions within the black community.  The letter gave credibility to the notion that deep division within the black community is a carryover from enslavement.

Malcolm X used the same thought process in his speech Message to the Grassroots.  Malcolm spoke about the two types of enslaved blacks: “the “house Negro” and the field Negro”. The house Negro lived in his owner’s house, dressed well, and ate well.  He loved his owner as much as the owner loved himself, and he identified with his owner.  If the owner got sick, the house Negro would ask, “Are we sick?”  If someone suggested to the house Negro that he escape slavery, he would refuse to go, asking where he could possibly have a better life than the one he had.

Malcolm X described the field Negro, who he said were the majority of slaves on a plantation. The field Negro lived in a shack, wore raggedy clothes, and ate chittlins. He hated his owner. If the owner's house caught fire, the field Negro prayed for wind. If the owner got sick, the field Negro prayed for him to die. If somebody suggested to the field Negro that he escape, he would leave in an instant.

Malcolm X said that there are still house Negroes and field Negroes. The modern house Negro, he said, was always interested in living or working among white people and bragging about being the only black in his neighborhood or on his job. Malcolm X said the Black masses were modern field Negroes and described himself as a field Negro.

The Speech to the Grassroots has been used to define and celebrate authentic black identity.  It led to the usage of the label “Uncle Tom”.  Malcolm’s words were rendered within the context of a revival to define blackness in a way that repudiated thoughts and actions that mirrored a celebration of white identity.

Ashanti has authored at least ten books that focus on the importance of an Afrocentric culture and the education of African beliefs.  His book Psychotechnology of Brainwashing examines what he calls the system of White Supremacy’s niggerization process.  He concludes that all areas of our society conditions black people to fear and seek acceptance from White people, while degrading black lives. His work seeks to reverse that process.

A librarian at the University of Missouri-St, Louis, posted the Willie Lynch Letter on the library’s Gopher server in 1993.  The librarian later revealed that she obtained the document from the publisher of the St. Louis Black Pages, a local newspaper.  Although she was convinced the letter was a forgery, she elected to leave it on the Gopher server because she believed that “even as an inauthentic document, it says something about the former and current state of African America.”

Roy Rosenzweig and William Jelani Cobb, two respected historians, have been on record that the letter is hoax before Ashanti’s confession. The opinion of the academic community has not tainted the relevancy of the letter in the eyes of many.  Like the librarian at the University of Missouri-St. Louis, the assumptions of Ashanti’s hoax are real enough to transcend his hoax into the realm of truth.

The questions related to Ashanti’s game are many.  What does it mean when you formulate a philosophy based on assumptions that are not validated by true scholarship?  What are the dangers connected to teachings lessons tied to historical pain devoid of a clear connection between the past and the present.

It can be assumed that Ashanti’s hoax is relevant to the discussion involving the psychology of black people.  We could assert a high level of continued brainwashing and niggerization.  All of that may be true, but can we make that claim simply because it feels that way?

With that being said, what are the consequences of embracing any theory based on thoughts created by the person who uses the hoax to justify their claims?

Sounds like brainwashing to me, but it could be argued that I’m brainwashed.

 

OMG: He Called Me a House Nigger

“That’s because you’re a house Nigger,” a distraught poll worker yelled at me for refusing to vote for his candidate. I had declined to take the sheet of paper promoting the virtues of the man he supported. I knew who I was voting for and had no need to waste the paper. I’m a green friendly kind of dude.

“That’s okay,” I responded when asked. “I’m not voting for him.” I then made my way to vote for the man he opposed Bill Bell for Mayor.

“I really appreciated your saying that,” a woman passing out the slate for the People’s Alliance told me when I returned. We chatted a bit about the significance of the two tax measures on the ballot. She expressed concern that teachers and assistant teachers would be terminated if it didn’t pass. I talked about the need for a rail system connecting the three counties. That’s when the man yelled at me-“You a house Nigger.”

“And that’s why I’m not voting for Sylvester Williams,” I roared back. “It’s because of people like you that I will never support him.”

I left disgusted with myself for allowing the idiocy of that man to get under my typically thick skin. I’m accustomed to being called names. It comes with the territory of putting your neck out to be chopped by those incapable of reading between and around the lines of what I write and say.

What he called me speaks to the politics of race and pronouncements of legitimate blackness. The expression house Negro comes from Malcolm X’s speech “Grassroots.” He spoke about two ranks of enslaved Africans: the “house Negro” and the “field Negro”. The house Negro lived in the owner’s house, dressed well and ate well, Malcolm X argued.

“He loved his owner as much as the owner loved himself, and he identified with his owner,” Malcolm said. “If the owner got sick, the house Negro would ask, ‘are we sick?’ If somebody suggested to the house Negro that he escape he would refuse to go, asking where he could possibly have a better life than the one he had.”

“The field Negro lived in a shack, wore raggedy clothes, and ate chittlins,” Malcolm argued. “He hated his owner. If the owner's house caught fire, the field Negro prayed for wind. If the owner got sick, the field Negro prayed for him to die. If somebody suggested to the field Negro that he escape, he would leave in an instant.”

Malcolm X claimed there are still house Negroes and field Negroes. His comments were a direct criticism of the nonviolent resistance movement led by Martin Luther King, Jr. It was a consistent theme of Malcolm X while he served as the primary voice of the Nation of Islam. His commentary continues to manipulate and influence the way blackness is affirmed or censured based on the judgment of a few.

What Malcolm X’s speech did within its historical context was to place the power of assimilation at the forefront of public discourse involving the rights of people of color. It revealed the thrust of the persuasion regarding the desire to live within the comforts of being accepted by those with power. Malcolm X unveiled the scandal involving a strategy, planned or not, to pit black folks against one another, and the benefits that come with compromising racial solidarity.

It’s a rhetoric that continues to resonate within sectors of the African American community. It’s the cousin to being called an Uncle Tom. It assumes that a person maintains a position of prominence due to succumbing to the interest of white people. It demands a level of hatred that denies the possibility for moving past the wounds caused by those long ago.

There are a number of assumptions correlated with the contemporary interpretation of Malcolm X’s analysis. To cling to his argument demands the embrace of the submission that all white people are blue eyed devils. One must conclude that white people are created with incapacity to transcend the hatred they have toward black people. One must adopt a logic that refuses to concede the possibility of any good within an entire race of people. To that end, anyone who embarks on developing any form of relationship with the blue eyed devil is, by nature, given into the psychosis of a house Negro.

This is a mindset that continues to fragment advancement toward the celebration of a diverse community. Progressive minded black people are constantly engaged in proving and protecting their status as a legitimate member of the black community. If you write for the white press, you are a house Negro. If you vote Republican, you are a house Negro. If you are highly educated, send your children off to college at a school that isn’t a historically black college or University, you are a house Negro.

The term is often used as a way to demoralize those living with the rewards of hard work. It elevates those on the bottom of the economic threshold by belittling those reaping the advantages normally reserved for white people. The field Negro disputation assumes that those in the house are there because of deep love for the white people in the house.

History suggests that Malcolm X’s analysis of the house Negro is laced with suppositions that we are forced to question. It denies the evidence that indicates many of the houses Negros were placed in the house to serve as the sex toy of the master. It refuses to acknowledge the evidence that points to boys lying at the foot of the bed to warm the master’s feet. It denies the myriad of cases that indicate that boys and girls were raped by the master. The house was a place of torture, not privilege.

What Malcolm attempted to do was bring meaning to the consequences of class division within the African American community. It assumed a position of privilege among those in the house that requires deep critical scrutiny. It also requires an examination of a view of history that fails to considers the particularity of humanity. In other words, not all white people are the same. Not all African Americans are the same. To suggest that everyone in the house felt the same gives far too much power to the influence of living in a given place.

I looked at my critic with rage filled eyes. How dare he make an assumption based on one vote. How dare he make that statement in the presence of white people. How dare he discredit me as a person due to my unwillingness to do things his way.

It only confirmed my vote. Birds of a feather flock together. That bird needs to be locked in a cage to sing alone. That bird sings because he refuses to fly after the doors of the cage have been open.

And for the record, I move between the house and the field. That’s what freedom brings