Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: activism, college, conscious hip hop, education, hip hop
Almost three years ago to the day, I began my college education as an incoming student enrolled in the Penn Center for Africana Studies Summer Institute for Pre-freshmen. At the time I fit the prototype of a black (male) campus activist, a la Dap from School Daze. I rocked a large afro (with the black fist pick), cycled through a wardrobe of Afrocentric-themed t-shirts, and armed myself with an already substantial library of literature by revolutionary black authors. My penchant for the writings of Malcolm X and relentless pursuit of social justice causes earned me the title “socially conscious brother” from a group of upperclassmen, a distinction that quickly set me on a path toward campus leadership positions and an interest in academia.
As a burgeoning emcee and avowed “hip hop head,” I emphasized my affinity for the “conscious” and “underground” subgenres, celebrating the potential hip hop music held as a source of cultural expression and political resistance. Admittedly, in my high school years, I was the brother who would chastise fans of popular acts like Dipset while singing the praises of dead prez. Now three years later, though, I’ve traded in the afro for a caesar, the 2XL t-shirts are down to a large, and I equally appreciate the intricate lyrics of Jay Electronica, the personal complexity of Lil’ Wayne, and the performative energy of Soulja Boy. Not coincidentally, recent years have seen the lines between mainstream and underground, conscious and street, become blurred. Mychal Smith’s recent blog contribution, “Talib Kweli and The Demise of the Conscious Rapper”—which denounces Kweli’s choice to collaborate with the noticeably less socially aware Gucci Maine—and Kweli’s incisive response, exemplify to this trend. To briefly summarize, Smith outlines a number of not-so-conscious slips by purportedly conscious rappers, while Kweli conditionally rejects the conscious label, readily accepting the contradictions inherent in all artists—or individuals for that matter.
I can easily identify with the debate they raise, both as a fan of hip hop music and a bearer of the “conscious” tag. While I agree with Kweli’s critiques, I believe Smith correctly observes that the 90’s and early 2000’s conscious aesthetic is fundamentally different in 2010. To think that emo-hipster emcees Kid Cudi and Drake are even suggested as “conscious” alternatives to the familiar hood tropes of Gucci and the Clipse is proof that the worlds of hip hop and black America are shifting significantly. If Kweli’s collaboration marks the demise of the conscious rapper, does it mark the end of the socially conscious brother (or sister) as well?
Though my individual passion for social justice remains—yes, even in the absence of the Huey Freeman afro—it bears noting that “conscious brothers” have become an endangered species of sorts. Whereas black alumni from the 90’s recall community led discussions of seminal texts in the black literary canon, some of my black mentors are shocked to learn that few students read outside of their assigned coursework, and former mainstays like Cheikh Anta Diop’s The African Origin of Civilization, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and Toni Morrison’s Beloved are largely absent from the black campus consciousness.
I by no means think this is true of all campuses nationwide, but Penn is nonetheless representative of comparable PWI’s. While Ivy League students of color are expected to represent the pinnacle of educational success in our respective communities, we too are distancing ourselves from those very communities, as the gap between the haves and have-nots widens. In the age of Obama, it seems, few aspire to be the “conscious brother” on campus. While this signals a certain air of progress, it also means that we are growing less historically informed and socially engaged.
Like Kweli, I have come to see the contradictions and limitations inherent in the “socially conscious brother,” a label that implies a masculinist and heteronormative understanding of black leadership. In my college years, (thanks to black women peers and mentors) I have sought to continually reflect on my black male privilege, a privilege that granted me many of the opportunities I received. However, as post-“conscious” moment gains momentum, I don’t see brothers embarking on the same journey to understand their potential as allies in the struggle for women’s and queer liberation. Instead, the demise of the conscious brother aesthetic appears to indicate a moment of widespread apathy among the privileged few that reach the promised land of our country’s elite institutions. In the absence of “conscious” iconography, are we truly viewing the demise of campus social consciousness as well?
As a college student mentor in the Ase Academy, an African-centered Saturday enrichment program for middle and high school students in the Philadelphia area, I often discuss the contemporary significance of “African-centered” education with my colleagues. While I don’t plan on retiring the conscious t-shirts anytime soon, I realize that younger brothers are more likely to opt for skinny jeans and a skateboard. Regardless of their fashion choices, I have witnessed time and time again the impact of educating young black men and women in African Diasporic history, something lacking in public high schools and Ivy League social circles alike. So is the socially conscious brother a thing of the past, or is he being rebranded?
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: labor, LeBron James, NBA, Oscar Grant, race
A frequent reaction to the media hoopla of LeBron James’ now infamous “decision” to sign with the Miami Heat has decried the lack of attention afforded to the conclusion of Oakland BART officer Johannes Mehserle’s trial for the shooting of 22 year-old Oscar Grant. This reaction is both poignant and praiseworthy, but as a contemporary of both James and Grant, I am surprised to find few attempts to place their narratives in productive conversation about the state of young black men in America.
Born less than two years apart, LeBron and Grant represent opposite poles on the spectrum of black male progress in this country. For the former, we have collectively watched his ascent from a high school phenom to a successful (albeit individually) career in the pros. Regardless of the implications of his choice to air “The Decision” in a one-hour special on ESPN, it is fascinating to think that a 25 year-old black man with no college education captivated the country for the weeks prior to his announcement.
Grant, conversely, embodies the collective fears of America’s racial subconscious, one that yearns for the promises of the civil rights era, yet forces black mothers to worry about the safety of their sons (and daughters) when “walking while black.” The trial further illustrates what my mentor, John Jackson, terms “racial paranoia,” where we are left to speculate—and in the case of Mehserle’s defense, establish reasonable doubt for—the racial nature of Oscar Grant’s death. Of course, we are yet to see a young, handcuffed white man shot execution style in a subway station. But in today’s world of post-racial fantasies, some have convinced themselves that the fate of Grant was not tied to his skin color.
Still, while the situations of James and Grant appear miles apart (about the distance from Oakland to South Beach perhaps?) both speak to a legacy of black male stereotypes perpetuated by media outlets and the popular imagination. So, when Rev. Jesse Jackson recently commented on Cavaliers’ owner Dan Gilbert’s widely circulated response to LeBron, citing the “slave master mentality” of individual control expressed by Gilbert, I was intrigued, if not fully in agreement. While, yes, it may have been more useful to address the verdict in the Grant trial, and it is difficult to imagine LeBron as a slave when he makes tens of millions a year (though sportswriter William Rhoden might disagree), the impressions of LeBron as a disloyal, arrogant athlete have troubling origins.
As I noted in a Facebook comment thread earlier this week, the slave metaphor was often invoked throughout the historical struggle for free agency in professional sports. Stemming from the efforts of Curt Flood—an outfielder for the St. Louis Cardinals who played his best years in the 1960’s—the challenge of the reserve clause was tied to the rights of professional athletes as members of a lucrative industry that often benefitted white owners at the expense of minorities. Although I am yet to read it in its entirety, Brad Snyder’s A Well-Paid Slave appears to offer a strong introduction to Flood.
Flood’s efforts, which he paid for by being forced out of major league baseball, laid the groundwork for the spectacle of LeBron James as a free agent. As a free agent, LeBron was able to negotiate and enter a contract under terms of his liking. While some decry the end of an era when players remained loyal to a single team, it is important to note that athletes in bygone years were often forced to be “loyal” without the right to free agency. Still, amidst assertions of LeBron as arrogant and disloyal, this point, among others, has been too easily forgotten.
In my conversations about LeBron I have encountered a number of points of contention I would like to briefly address. First, LeBron was not employed by the Cavaliers at the time of his signing with Miami. As a free agent, LeBron was not obligated to inform his former team, or any other team for that matter, of his decision to leave for Miami. Also, if Gilbert’s reaction is any indication, LeBron likely knew better than to engage an emotionally unstable man who stood to lose millions of dollars upon his departure from Cleveland. No person or city owns LeBron. Second, LeBron sacrificed millions of dollars to sign with Miami, and donated the proceeds from his one-hour special to the Boys and Girls Club of America. While I consistently hear that “LeBron could’ve just donated the money himself,” this sentiment fails to acknowledge that the special drew upon an untapped revenue source to supplement his existing philanthropy. I, for one, value the potential to change the lives of our country’s young people above an individual’s status as a stand-up guy or a jerk. It appears that LeBron feels the same way.
Finally, I truly do sympathize with the city of Cleveland, who often turned to LeBron as a source of inspiration, especially in these tough economic times. But, please, let’s refocus our efforts from the basketball court to the plight of postindustrial northern cities, which minority populations have faced the brunt of for much of the past three decades. In other words, LeBron’s jump shot and a Cavs championship aren’t going to stop young brothers in Cleveland from becoming the next Oscar Grant.
What concerns me the most about the discussions surrounding LeBron, especially amidst the Oscar Grant proceedings, is the barrage of white and “better-educated” (black) commentators debating “what’s best” for LeBron. Grant was unceremoniously robbed of his ability to decide his future, while LeBron was privileged enough to do so as a 25 year-old reaching the pinnacle of his talent. Let’s not strip another black man of that freedom.
As a 20 year-old black American, I can only hope that my life more closely emulates LeBron than Oscar Grant. Still, even in my pursuit of an Ivy League degree, I am never guaranteed of escaping the latter. When we are so often denied the opportunity to decide our futures and protect our livelihood, I continue to support LeBron for choosing “to do what’s best for [him] and what’s gonna make [him] happy.” At least I can celebrate one brother’s happiness today.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: activism, Haiti, The Black Jacobins, Toussaint
While today marks the first post and official opening of Notes of a Native Son, the genesis of this blog has been months, if not years, in the making. For those close to me— friends, family, fellow students, and colleagues—you have already experienced early versions of this blog in campus publications, online comment threads, and casual conversations that I have had the privilege to contribute to over the years. If anything, I regret not beginning this journey earlier, after a few futile attempts to get this off the ground. I hope you all continue to be reliable supporters and productive critics as this project begins and continues to grow.
I open this blog six months removed from the devastation of the January 12 earthquake in Haiti, a disaster that the nation and its people will grapple with for years to come. Personally, as an Ivy League undergraduate and burgeoning scholar, the fallout of the earthquake was both a cause for self-examination and a renewed commitment to activism. I arrived at Penn, like some others, as an avid reader, resolute Pan-Africanist, and modern revolutionary—located somewhere between W.E.B. Du Bois and Immortal Technique. As I started on the fast track to graduate school and academia, though, I found that my revolutionary spirit was quickly tempered by the realities of college life and scholarship.
In light of the situation faced by the brothers and sisters in Haiti, I hope that this blog will serve as an outlet in times of struggle, both personally and collectively. I write this post from my apartment in Port of Spain, Trinidad, where I am currently conducting fieldwork for my senior thesis. My time here has reinforced the need for this blog, and rejuvenated my passion for activist scholarship, as I once again realize that the struggle of our people is truly a global one.
In my current research for a planned Emancipation Day exhibition on Haiti here in Trinidad I have fortunately rediscovered C.L.R. James’ classic history of the Haitian Revolution, The Black Jacobins. Those familiar with James’ work know this is no ordinary history, but rather one fashioned explicitly for the “coming emancipation of Africa” in 1938, and refashioned in a second edition for the impending moment of West Indian independence. Still, his words remain as striking today as they were more than seven decades ago. Toussaint L’Ouverture’s dream of freedom exists in rhetoric but not in the everyday realities of Port-au-Prince, Rio de Janeiro, Freetown, and Oakland.
Toussaint, born François Dominique Toussaint Bréda, later adopted the name L’Ouverture, meaning “the opening.” While the origins of the name is unclear, anthropologist David Scott hails Toussaint for “mythologiz[ing]” himself and the Haitian Revolution as the opening act in the global struggle of the oppressed. It is with this in mind that I open Notes of a Native Son.
