My reflection on the second principle of the Nguzo Saba of Kwanzaa is Kujichagulia – Self-Determination
“To define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves and speak for ourselves” is often commonly articulated as the definition of Kujichagulia. For many this principle has been all about identity and selecting names, memorizing phrases from different African cultures, and suggesting Pan-Africanism is the ideology we must take on. But all this still seems to miss part of the boat when it comes to Kujichagulia. In fact, many take this principle as a call to develop our individual identities rather than determining the direction of our community. For so many, the process of developing a strong Black identity or African centered identity is a highly personal one. You struggle with who you are, where your people are from, what you and your people have contributed, so inevitably it starts with one questioning their relation to the greater whole. Finding answers to these questions can lead to an identity, but not necessarily self-determination.
This is my reflection on Umoja, the first principle of Nguzo Saba of Kwanzaa…
Does it make sense that fighting could lead to unity? On its face, my first thought is, absolutely not. I could imagine for “highly evolved beings” we could probably resolve our differences quickly, with out malice or attitude, and unify for the strengthening of community. But then, I’m reminded of reality. Most times the things that are most important to unify around are also the most controversial. Yesterday, I watched and listened to a number of conversations occur around Kwanzaa, its relevance, its creator, and whether or not we should celebrate it. In fact, a year ago when I wrote Quit Frontin on Kwanzaa my goal was to provide a base that made people feel informed and comfortable about celebrating and reflecting. What I forgot is that, no matter how much I believe in a thing, everyone has the right to feel differently and do as they please. As an African people, we too often have been told what to do, what to believe in, and when to do it. This is not a cycle I wish to re-create.
A year ago, I began a series on Kwanzaa, this year I will finish it (thanks to all who remember I didn’t and reminded me all year, accountability) Here’s entry one! Habari Gani?
“Pro-Black like Craig Hodges but my dashiki’s in the cleaners.” – Common
Being Pan-African is a weird thing. To many folks it means wearing dashikis, avoiding swine, and shouting ase at every opportunity. I, however, realize that you aren’t going to do that. For most Black folks, the holiday of Kwanzaa is one tied to Pan-Africanism and thus gets mentioned more in their living rooms on TV commercials than at family gatherings. I’ve decided we’ve been frontin’ on Kwanzaa for no real good reason. So here are some pre-emptive responses to questions and concerns.
Read more of why you should Quit Frontin on Kwanzaa here
So for the past X months everyone who visits NYC finds it necessary to sing some part of Empire State of Mind or insert a line of it into conversation as they’re visiting … very annoying. If you’ve done this, no need to apologize, just stop it! But in other news, Stephen Colbert ripped it the other night with Alicia Keys performing Empire State of mind 2.
Back in May, I wrote the Possible and the Probable part 1 which dealt with questions of gender, expectation, and realities. This time I’m onto a subject near and dear to my heart, education. Last May, David Brooks penned an editorial called, “The Harlem Miracle” which reported on the Harlem Children’s Zone’s Promise Academy charter schools. Brooks bases the editorial on a correspondence with Roland Fryer, economist at Harvard and NYC public schools Chief Equity Officer, who had just completed a study with Bill Dobbie says they found the Promise Academy “eliminated the Black-White test score gap.” For Brooks and Fryer, this was a miraculous occurrence which created a firestorm of attention and riled voices of “what can be done in high poverty school, when there are no excuses.” I have been working with urban schools since the early 1990s and I know that “miracles” are possible but they are not probable. I must admit, I approach claims of unmitigated success, miracles, and beating the odds with a degree of skepticism, not because I don’t want these claims to be true, but because as folks often say, “if it’s too good to be true, it probably is.”
They deserve better, but do we know how to make better for all?
A year ago, I did a tribute post to the late Fred Hampton on Uptownnotes.com and one year later I sit in front of the computer reflecting on the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Fred Hampton. For me, Hampton represents an idyllic portrait of young organizing, fire, and revolutionary praxis. His life, cut down at the age of 21, reminds us of the power of youth in struggle, but also must bring sobering reality. We’ve got to garner young energy for fighting against oppression and building a different social world but we must also be honest about the stakes of engaging full-on in this struggle. There is little glamorous about authentic revolutionary struggle. There are no pensions, benefits, or cameras for people working from the grassroots to transform communities and the world. In fact, their lives are ones that tend to go uncelebrated and are at best acknowledged in memorial. As I reflect on Chairman Fred Hampton’s life and his work with the Black Panther Party I am glad to continue to grow in understanding of him and struggle. Because that is what he would have wanted…
“If you ever think about me and you ain’t gonna do no revolutionary act, forget about me. I don’t want myself on your mind if you’re not going to work for the people. If you’re asked to make a commitment at the age of twenty, and you say I don’t want to make a commitment at the age of twenty, only because of the reason that I’m too young to die, I want to live a little longer, then you’re dead already. You have to understand that people have to pay a price for peace. If you dare to struggle, you dare to win. If you dare not struggle then damn it, you don’t deserve to win. Let me say peace to you if you’re willing to fight for it.”
I am an African-American man. I am a heterosexual man. I am a middle-class man. These three statements are the basis for my social justice work and advocacy, but each carries its own hazard for working on social justice. While many will assume my position as a Black man in America makes me sensitive to “minority statuses”, in reality, over the past 10 years I’ve learned nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, in many ways, my status as Black man in America has the potential to undercut my work of engaging the pursuit of equality of opportunity, equality of outcome and the right to self-determination for all people. I am both privileged and disadvantaged. I have identities that I celebrate, identities I conceal, and all these decisions matter for my view on the world and what I choose to fight for and against.
Sorry, this image was hilarious to me.
I didn’t really begin to grapple with my privilege as a Black man until I was a student in Beverly Guy-Sheftall’s class on Black Feminism at Spelman College. I can remember rebutting each point she made about the Million Man March (MMM) as an extension of patriarchy, heteronormativity, and an attempt to further embed misogyny. Besides being a slew of words I didn’t fully understand, I could not understand why she fixated on all the “negatives” of the March. In the class, she essentially argued the MMM because of the patriarchy, etc. she could not support it and thus thought it held little value. By the time I landed in her class I was a senior at Morehouse and certainly had come to believe the MMM was one of the most transformative events I’d ever personally experienced and I refused to have the event mischaracterized.
I paraphrase, but I told her, “Yes, it does ask men to come back into the family, but it doesn’t always mean that have to be at the head. I know some talked about being at the head of the household, but not everyone believed that. We didn’t invite sisters because it was our time as Black men to redefine our commitment to the Black family and Black community.” I wanted to her to see the value of the event beyond her points. She let me finish and sagely replied, “It must be a nice privilege to tell someone to overlook the oppressive elements of a program, because it was helpful to you.” My face fell, my mouth shut, and I sat sheepishly quiet. My head spun between realization, frustration, and confusion. For the next few classes, I sat quietly and tried to figure out how I had not “seen it coming.” I realized that the lesson I had learned on the athletic field so many times applied to social justice work, “sometimes you got to get the wind knocked out of you to bring you back to earth.”Guy-Sheftall had pointed out what I’d seen done so many times but by those who came from outside of a community to do social justice work in my community. Someone(s) coming from the outside, declaring themselves an ally and expert and overlooking the view of those who were subject to the oppression in favor of their own perspective.
Recently, I had the pleasure of being on the Addicted to Race podcast. I was on with Tami from What Tami Said, Andrea Plaid who guest blogs at Racialicious, and Deesha Philyaw of CoParenting101. The conversation was a great one which started with a discussion of Black women and women of color’s absence in the growing body of Mommy Memoirs.We then talked about my post “I’m for Gay Rights but…” and issues of civil rights, gay rights and social justice in the African-American community. Followed up with a discussion of the movie Precious which has been received with very mixed results and why we think this has been and what it means for Black media representation. We concluded with a discussion of CNN’s Black men in the Age of Obama. We talked about the ways that CNN has met the challenge of covering ethnic communities but questioned what could have been done better. Great topics, witty commentary, what more are you waiting on? Click here to hear it!
I just watched Precious, Lee Daniel’s film based on the novel Push by Sapphire, and the only way I can find to describe it is extraordinary in the superlative and literal sense. Extraordinary, in the superlative sense, for its craftsmanship in visually and textually telling a narrative of the composite character Precious. It is extra-ordinary (beyond ordinary), in the literal sense, in that it concentrates on a particular set of lives ravished by sexual abuse, physical abuse, and poverty. This is not the tale of all in poverty, but it is a tale that exists. I’m only at the computer writing this because the debate about Precious seems to catapult between a discussion of poverty porn, a Winfrey and Perry produced fetish film to being called a diamond or the Audacity of Precious (a play on Obama’s autobiography). I read the reviews, watched the film and come down somewhere inside and outside of these takes. I did not read the book, I am not a cultural critic, heck I even took a group of friends to see the wrong movie, despite these things I came to Precious open to what it had to offer and enjoyed what I received.
