Baba Malcolm

I have never missed a person, as much as I miss Malcolm. Yeah, that’s crazy because I was born many years after he was assassinated. But his impact on my identity, my ideology, on my being is unmatched.

I think I’m going to go to his grave site on Sunday. Lay some flowers, burn some Frankincense and Myrrh and just talk to him. That feels like what I need right now.

Fugitivity: Freedom as a Practice of “Quotidian Refusal”

In other words, fugitivity is refusing to comply with a system that assumes you are either deserving of inevitable subordination because of your very nature (pathologized), or else you are some intriguing exception to that inevitable logic of subordination. (I’m not sure at this point whether my ‘other words’ are helpful or not, but there they are…)

The lynching

Friday, we went to the memorial. On the shuttle ride over, I kept on wondering when would this pain I was feeling end? When would this distance I was feeling evaporate?
When will this injustice against Black people be over?

And because my teacher brain is never turned off, I wondered, how would I share this experience with students? How would I prepare them to visit these sites? How could I ensure that they felt safe and full of self agency after their visit?

It is HARD to stand in the midst of so much pain and injustice and not feel hate.

The Quality of Our Love

I think the vision for us White folks could be grounded in the idea of going home.  That might be literal, like it has been for me in the past few years as I try to rekindle and build anew my relationships with my family in the south, and my ancestry in Ireland.  I think it can also be a more figurative calling- one rooted in the idea that as Whiteness gets smaller (which is so important) White people will need to find a home in identities outside of the power and domination that Whiteness represents.

Assata: She who struggles

By the end of my Freshmen year, I was a rebel, as Bob Marley sang, a soul rebel. I had a fire in my belly that was unstoppable. I had acquired all of this knowledge and had what I thought were all of these tools to restart the revolution.

What I hadn’t realized was that my view was totally distorted. I saw the world only through the eyes of Black men. I didn’t respect Black Women revolutionaries …because I didn’t know they existed.

Then one day, while at Barnes and Nobles while perusing the Black Panther section as I often did, I saw it.

In big red block lettering it said Assata. She was the only woman in the section. I slowly pulled the book off of the shelf and opened her up.