From Black Wall Street to Black Capitalism

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Too Black
BLACK AGENDA REPORT



Contrary to the Black capitalist myth, most Greenwood residents were low wage working people employed by whites and living in substandard housing. It was the super-exploitation of poor Black labor that facilitated both the function of Tulsa as a whole and the Black Wall Street District.

“As word of what some would later call the “Negro uprising” began to spread across the white community, groups of armed whites began to gather at hastily-arranged meeting  places, to discuss what to do next.” -- Tulsa Race Riot: A Report by the Oklahoma Commission to Study the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921

“For far too long, Black liberal, you have been allowed to domesticate Black radicalism. Because our oppressors prefer you to us and at any sign of trouble, rush out to find you to speak on behalf of all Black people, you have eagerly taken the chance to hog all of the mics and silence us. You weaken our revolt with your narration.” --Yannick Giovanni Marshall, Black liberal, your time is up Black capitalism  is still capitalism.” – Terrell

Intro

The Tulsa Massacre began 100 years ago on May 31st, 1921 when an angry white mob accused a 19-year-old Black man, Dick Rowland, of raping a 17-year-old white girl, Sarah Page. Flustered by the perceived “Negro Uprising ” of Black men armed to defend and protect Dick Rowland outside the Tulsa courthouse, the inflamed white mob, sanctioned by the state, responded with brute terror, burning down the Black segregated neighborhood of Greenwood destroying 1,256 homes, nearly 191 Black businesses and the killing roughly 300 (likely more ) people by the morning of June 1st, 1921.

One hundred years since these 16 hours of white barbarism occurred, suppressive forces  have steadily worked to delete this tragedy from scribing its crimson pages into the books of American history. But, as history shows, bloodstains prove difficult to remove. Recently, decorating over these stains as “blemishes” of an otherwise promising American Dream towards Black capitalism has proven to be a more sufficient means to quell dissent. What has materialized is an emphasis on what was destroyed over who was destroyed. Effectively, redeeming the state — the combined authority of government (elected), the bureaucracies (positions), corporate control, and private interests — in the process.

Decorating a Utopia that never was

As the summer of 2020 was steaming from protests against continued racialized state violence, the attention economy suddenly rediscovered the blood of 1921 by pivoting to what Booker T. Washington reportedly called “Negro Wall Street” or what is now known as Black Wall Street — the historic Black business district of the segregated Greenwood neighborhood destroyed in the massacre. According to Google Trends , the term “Black Wall Street” was googled more in June of 2020 than within the last 5 years.

Posited within 3-4 Blocks of the Greenwood neighborhood, this business district, disparagingly referred to by Tulsa whites as “Little Africa ,” was the home to a number of Black-owned enterprises including a fifty-four room hotel, a public library, two newspapers, a seven-hundred, and fifty seat theater, multiple cleaners, and two dozen grocery stores among more. Through these efforts, Black Wall Street produced a prosperous Black business class fancying “some of the city’s more elegant homes”  and successful Black businesses in the state.

Faced with only these facts, it’s understandable why one would view Black Wall Street as a wealthy “self-sustaining” utopia violently interrupted by a white vigilante mob as it’s widely reported to have been. However, a much more complicated narrative scrubbed from decorated legend lies underneath the folklore of a Black American Wakanda.

Although Black Wall Street certainly brought pride to the Black residents of Greenwood, that pride failed to translate to a prosperous economic status for most. A report by the American Association of Social Workers on the living conditions of Black folks in Tulsa at the time stated, “95 percent of the Negro residents in the Black belt lived in poorly constructed frame houses, without conveniences, and on streets which were unpaved and on which the drainage was all surface.” Furthermore, most Greenwood residents were not only living in substandard housing but were employed outside of Black Wall Street according to the Oklahoma Commission study  on the Tulsa Race Riot:

“Despite the growing fame of its commercial district, the vast majority of Greenwood’s adults were neither businessmen nor businesswomen but worked long hours, under trying conditions, for white employers [emphasis added]. Largely barred from employment in both the oil industry and from most of Tulsa’s manufacturing facilities, these men and women toiled at difficult, often dirty, and generally menial jobs — the kinds that most whites consider beneath them—as janitors and ditch-diggers, dishwashers, and maids, porters and day laborers, domestics and service workers.  Unsung and largely forgotten, it was, nevertheless, their paychecks that built Greenwood, and their hard work that helped to build Tulsa.” [Emphasis added].

“The vast majority of Greenwood’s adults were neither businessmen nor businesswomen.”

Truthfully, as the report makes clear, Tulsa and Black Wall Street were both consequences of de jure segregation. Segregation operated as a public policy purposely made to suppress Black wages for the benefit of white capital while simultaneously limiting where those suppressed wages could be spent — inadvertently creating a monopoly for a petite Black professional class. Put differently, it was the super-exploitation of poor Black labor that facilitated both the function of Tulsa as a whole and the Black Wall Street District. Neither could have existed without the presence of poor Black people. Yet, their presence is rarely acknowledged in the revisionist plot. The suffering of the Black poor typically only matters when it can be used to bolster the class position of the Black Elite — the appointed political, cultural, and social representative and a moneyed class of Black people — and reinforce the state.

Decorating Blackness

As previously indicated, last summer, while police precincts became bonfires illustriously lighting up the night sky, the terms “Black Wall Street ” and “Black business ” were receiving more Google searches than ever before. The presuppositions of the searches call for questioning: Will a world on fire be resolved by the memory of a business district burnt down by a white mob? What is the correlation between a cop kneecapping a poor Black man’s neck and buying Black? How can I buy my way out of a chokehold? Do corporate pledges to “support Black business” deflect the oncoming bullets of State violence?

All Black people are subject to a degree of state violence but in today’s post-civil rights era, those flung to the bottom of the capitalist ladder (George Floyd) experience the worst fate — police murders, stop and frisk, incarceration, poverty, homelessness, and worse. In essence, LeBron James’ sons could not be Kalief Browder because not only can LeBron afford to bail his sons out of jail but Brentwood, California is far from the overpoliced neighborhood Browder was originally profiled in. Despite her same race and gender, Oprah  is not Breonna Taylor. No knock warrants are unheard of in Montecito, CA, and gentrification  does not work in reverse.

The point here is not to diminish the racism experienced by the Black Elite but to challenge the universalizing of Blackness. Universalizing Blackness as a flat experience allows Amazon to proclaim #BlackLivesMatter , create a Black-owned business page  but crush the unions  organized by its Black workers. It allows the NBA to paint BLM on its hardwoods, highlight  Black business during the NBA finals but pay its predominantly Black and temp workers  dirt wages. Universalizing Blackness distorts Blackness itself. It is decorating at its worst.]” 

“How can I buy my way out of a chokehold?”

A repercussion of universalizing Blackness is elite capture  — what philosopher Olúfẹ́mi O. Táíwò defines as “how political projects can be hijacked—in principle or effect—by the well-positioned and resourced.” This begins to explain how a radical demand such as abolishing the police either becomes dismissed or co-opted while the state offers its full cosmetic support behind Black business and representation. The class of Black people most well-positioned to make demands upon the state is better situated to benefit from Black business creation and corporate diversity hires than police abolition or the unionization of Amazon. They are considerably less afflicted by the problems of the people they claim to represent.

Universalizing Blackness collapses the interests of Black people as if we’re all equally invested in the same solutions. It’s precisely how the knees of killer cops on Black necks correlate with buying Black because as Táíwò notes, “When elites run the show, the ‘group’s’ interests get whittled down to what they have in common with those at the top.” It’s how the poverty of Greenwood ceases to appear in documentaries  or presidential speeches when the Black wealth of a few needs attention. Commenting on sociologist E. Franklin Frazier’s groundbreaking 1954 text The Black Bourgeoisie Táíwò observes how two seemingly opposing ideas continue to find continuity, “Why did the myth of a Black economy as a comprehensive response to anti-Black racism survive when it was never a serious possibility? In Frazier’s telling, it did because it furthered the class interests of the Black bourgeoisie.” The class interests remain.

Black Capitalism, the Ultimate Decoration

The elite capture of a movement requires a series of decorative myths — ideas that obscure the nature of the problem for the maintenance of the status quo. Last summer Black capitalism emerged once again  as the most decorated myth. The revisionism of Black Wall Street, as an extension of Black capitalism, neatly fits the narrative of universal Blackness. It utilizes the universality of a tragedy suffered by an entire Black population to advocate for a solution (Black capitalism) that has shown to primarily benefit a particular class of Black people.

Black capitalism is a concatenation of propaganda. It relies on complementary myths such as Black buying power and Black dollar circulation  that are premised upon shaming Black people, particularly the poor ones, for their alleged frivolous spending. Besides the fact that Black people spend  their money no more recklessly than anyone else, Black capitalism feeds on stereotypes of broke Black people foolishly buying Jordans and weaves they cannot afford to justify its existence. The saying typically goes “if we spend with our own then we can have our own” as if Black people’s spending habits are moral barometers.

This decorative myth is exemplified in the creation of the Greenwood banking app. Popularized by rapper Killer Mike and actor Jesse Williams this app is “inspired by the early 1900’s Greenwood District, where recirculation of Black wealth occurred all day, every day, and where Black businesses thrived.” The website , littered with unsubstantiated claims of Black dollar circulation, conveniently fails to discuss the rampant Black poverty in the “1900’s Greenwood District” they claim to want to recreate. To highlight such a contradiction would ruin their business model.

Businesses such as “Greenwood” use the history of how collective Black wealth has been systematically destroyed by capitalism to leverage (guilt) white investors for funding. In the case of Greenwood, receiving 40 million  dollars from banking institutions including JP Morgan Chase, Bank of America, and Trust among others. The billions of corporate dollars injected into “racial equity ” campaigns this last year were all sparked by the militant response to the blatant murder of a poor Black man who was allegedly arrested for purchasing items with a counterfeit bill. Disturbingly, the death of poor Black people is a lucrative fundraising drive for everybody but the ones experiencing death.

Decorating an Empire

What rests at the heart of these issues is the Black Elite’s general unwillingness to confront the state and all the violence it subsumes. As a class, they are much more invested in collaborating — either for perceived survival and/or personal gain. What tends to go unsaid is that when they collaborate with the state they often lose even on their terms. The police still confuse them for poor “thugs .” They remain underrepresented  and underpaid in their respective fields. Laws that sustain their lifestyle are constantly eroded . Yet, historically, they have made the most “progress” in periods where the masses of Black people dissented. Due to their economic instability, they are unable to exist as a class by themselves — hence the need for the symbolic support of the masses analogous to how Black Wall Street needed the paychecks of the Black poor to thrive as a business district.

The state uses these decorators of empire, knowingly or not, to maintain its legitimacy. White supremacy may have obliterated Black Wall Street — 1st through violence, 2nd through policy  — nevertheless “if that massacre never happened who knows how that shapes America today .” The bloodshed of the past is decorated by the false promise of “a more perfect union.” Organizing for a world beyond American hegemony is scolded as unrealistic and sophomoric. The most moderate of Black radical demands such as “defund the police” are derided and blamed unfairly for costing congressional seats as if Democratic party success is synonymous with Black liberation.

“Black Wall Street needed the paychecks of the Black poor to thrive as a business district.”

Decorators of empire must corral dissent. This type of agency reduction  has a footprint leaping back to the Cold War and much further. Dr. Charisse Burden-Stelly, assistant professor of Africana Studies and Political Science at Carleton College, thoroughly documents how the Black Elite of the time — Black Cold War liberals — “reduced the collective agency of other African Americans by marginalizing or maligning the panoply of liberation strategies emanating from the Black left.” This was a necessary strategy because the Black Cold War Liberals “formed important relationships with powerful Whites to procure goods and services for the Black community while offering no challenge to exploitative economic and social relations.” Modes of thinking outside of these brokered relationships threatened to bring backlash from the state. Faced with the mounting repression of the anti-communist McCarthy era, “…Black Cold War liberals began to distinguish themselves from the left by rejecting militant agendas that might align them with those deemed ‘communist fronts,’ including the Council on African Affairs (CAA), the Peace Information Center (PIC), and the National Negro Labor Council. Black Cold War liberals signaled such rejection by casting their platform in anti-communist terms and by constructing Black people as loyal, trustworthy Americans who deserved to be recognized as full citizens.”

Consistent with elite capture, Black Cold War liberals corralled the ideologies of the Black masses. “Seditious” communist ideas and “backward” social behavior would not earn the acceptance of the state. Irrespective of the oppression they faced, Black people of the time were corralled to focus their aspirations on proving to the state they were just as American as everyone else.

Today, building on a similar logic, Black American suffering is promoted as a badge of honor — a “justice claim” made because “we built this country.” Black people are “the Soul of the Nation ” who “saved American democracy.” Again, the bloodshed of the past is used to redeem the present. President Biden, in his speech  for the 100th anniversary of the Tulsa Massacre, leveraged this Black American exceptionalism to bolster the empire: “We should know the good, the bad, everything. That is what great nations do. They come to terms. With their dark side. We are a great nation.” Only in America can a nation be “great” for acknowledging a single massacre 100 years later with no reparations to show — decorating at its finest.

Conclusion

Remembering the Tulsa Massacre not as a violent white response to Black self-defense  and determination but instead as the destruction of property and mythical Black wealth favorably leaves space for American redemption. It reduces the violence to a tragic interruption of the American dream and Black capitalism while minimizing other race massacres  that did not include a well of black business class.

Wall Street is a parasitic model we should not emulate — still, I empathize with Black people’s desire for Black ownership and self-determination. There’s nothing inherently wrong with this desire. However, positioning slogans like #BuyBlack and #SupportBlackBusinness as the respectable alternative to radical transformative demands is decorating for the state — particularly when these slogans are attached to faulty concepts like trickle-down economics and universal Blackness. Black ownership is elite capture without the correct redistribution and collective ownership of the wealth we create.

Lastly, it need not be stated that the victims of the Tulsa Massacre — as well as their descendants and all African people — deserve their reparations. That is not in question. We should question the state’s legitimacy to define our collective goals. We must be vigilant towards the state’s attempts to use the atrocities committed against us as a means to redeem itself by decorating its crimes. The world we deserve is irreducible to a Black Wall Street and abundantly superior to anything America currently has to offer. It’s on us and those in solidarity to fight for it.

Too Black is a poet, writer, and host of The Black Myths Podcast based in Indianapolis, Indiana. 

This article previously appeared in Hood Communist.


Addendum
The Tulsa massacre as commemorated by liberals

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Coard: Happy 51st Birthday, Black Panther Party!

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  • First published on Oct 14, 2017 

The Black Panther Party for Self-Defense (BPP) — the most important and most powerful pro-Black, class-conscious, community protection organization in American history- was born 51 years ago on October 15, 1966. It was so important and so powerful that FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover described it as “the greatest threat to the internal security of the country…” He added that its revolutionary activities, especially the children’s free breakfast program, were “potentially the greatest threat to efforts by authorities... to neutralize the BPP and destroy what it stands for.”

As bad as the FBI’s words were, its actions were even worse. As made clear in the 1976 report by the U.S. Senate Committee on Intelligence Activities, “In August… 1967, the FBI initiated COINTELPRO (i.e., the counterintelligence program that operated from 1956-1971) to disrupt and ‘neutralize’… (certain) organizations…” By July 1969, indicated the report, “the BPP had become the primary focus of the program and was ultimately the target of 233 of the total authorized... COINTELPRO actions… (targeting pro-Black groups).”

Why was the BPP such a threat to American law enforcement? Here’s the answer: the BPP’s laudable anti-capitalist goals of full employment, decent housing, enlightened education, fair trials, justice, and an end to police brutality.

These goals constitute six of the points in the Ten Point Platform and Program initially drafted by Huey P. Newton and Bobby Seale in Oakland on the BPP’s October 15, 1966 birth date. Shortly afterward, Newton and Seale joined with Reggie Forte, Sherman Forte, Elbert “Big Man” Howard, and “Lil” Bobby Hutton as the founders of this impressive and much needed revolutionary organization.

Within three years, it had more than 10,000 members and its newspaper, which began publication in 1967, reached a circulation of 250,000. The BPP had chapters across the country, including Baltimore, Boston, Chicago, Cleveland, DC, Dallas, Denver, Des Moines, Detroit, Indianapolis, Kansas City, LA, NYC, New Haven, New Orleans, Newark, Oakland, Omaha, Pittsburgh, Richmond, Sacramento, San Diego, San Francisco, Seattle, and Philly. In fact, the Oakland chapter had gained such public support that Seale, in his 1972 mayoral run, came close to an upset victory, garnering 40 percent of the vote.

The mainstream media’s 1960s-1970s mantra, which many persons continue to foolishly believe to this very day, of the BPP as a bunch of white-hating, anarchistic urban terrorists is a myth. First of all, terrorists don’t create a Free Breakfast Program for Children like the BPP did in Oakland in 1969 (which was later copied by the federal government). The BPP expanded this program to numerous cities, ultimately feeding over 10,000 children every day. Terrorists don’t do that.

And terrorists don’t establish and implement more that 45 social services, called Survival Programs, including free medical care, sickle cell testing, blood drives for Black and poor people, and non-violent gang dispute resolution like the BPP did.

Moreover, terrorists don’t mandate that their Central Committee staffs engage in “anti-crime” behavior and promote “gun safety” like the BPP did.

 

But don’t get it twisted; the BPP was not a group of kumbaya pacifists. It included “Self-Defense” in its name for a reason. And the reason was in direct response to relentless and officially sanctioned police brutality.

That’s precisely why, on May 2, 1967, thirty visibly armed BPP members and supporters marched to the California State Capitol in Sacramento where Seale read a prepared statement opposing the Mulford Act, which was a legislative proposal that was later signed into law by Governor Ronald Reagan. It criminalized the carrying of loaded firearms in public- and did so only because Blacks had finally decided to assertively exercise their Second Amendment right and their self-defense right just like whites had always done.

However, guns weren’t what the BPP was exclusively about in response to police brutality. People would be shocked to learn that the BPP, armed with law books and basic legal training, would often arrive at the scene of incidents of police brutality and stand a safe distance away reading aloud the pertinent sections of various criminal statutes and judicial decisions to inform the cops and the victims of what the law mandated in those particular situations.

But that didn’t stop the bloodshed- not the bloodshed of police, but the bloodshed of innocent BPP members. On March 13, 1968, Arthur Morris became the first of many Panthers murdered by federal agents, state and local police officers, and paid provocateurs.

One of the most high-profile murders was of 21-year-old Fred Hampton who was assassinated on December 4, 1969. On that date, the Chicago police launched a raid on his home at 4:45 in the morning, shooting a sleeping and unarmed Hampton twice in the head and also assassinating 22-year-old Mark Clark. Hampton’s pregnant wife, Akua Njeri (aka Deborah Johnson), was shot but fortunately both she and the baby — Fred Hampton Jr. — survived.

And just as Fred Hampton’s son survived, the BPP’s legacy survived- and not just nationally but locally as well. It survives in many people who are alive and well fighting the good fight for Black folks. Among many others, those people include Mumia Abu-Jamal who, at age 15, was Philly’s youngest Panther and served as its Minister of Information. They include Linda Brickhouse who, as a high school student, helped organize the Panthers’ Philly free breakfast program for children.

They also include Paula Peebles who, as another high school student, was the Communications Secretary of Philly’s Panther chapter. And as Sistah Paula often says, “When I first heard about the BPP as a teenager, I was thoroughly impressed with the strong Black men and strong Black women who courageously came together and rang the alarm of revolution, who heroically protected the Black community with firearms in legal self-defense, and who proudly proclaimed that Black Lives Matter long before it became a hashtag. The BPP planted the seeds of revolution yesterday and now the tree is growing big and strong today.” Sistah Paula always concludes by raising her fist and saying, “Power to the people!”

And today I say, “Happy 51st Birthday to the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense!”

Michael Coard, Esquire can be followed on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. His “Radio Courtroom” show can be heard on WURD96.1-FM. And his “TV Courtroom” show can be seen on PhillyCam/Verizon/Comcast.

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Albert Woodfox: Heroes You Never Heard Of (But Should Have!)

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EDITED AND HOSTED BY THE GREANVILLE POST

44 years ago, deep in rural Louisiana, three young black men were silenced for trying to expose continued segregation, systematic corruption, and horrific abuse in the biggest prison in the US, an 18,000 acre former slave plantation called Angola. Peaceful, non-violent protest in the form of hunger and work strikes organized by inmates caught the attention of Louisiana’s elected leaders and local media in the early 1970s. They soon called for investigations into a host of unconstitutional and extraordinarily inhumane practices commonplace in what was then the “bloodiest prison in the South.” Eager to put an end to outside scrutiny, prison officials began punishing inmates they saw as troublemakers. At the height of this unprecedented institutional chaos, Albert Woodfox, Herman Wallace, and Robert King were charged with murders they did not commit and thrown into 6x9 foot solitary cells, where they remained for decades. Their struggle for justice continued until Robert was released in 2001, Herman in 2013, and Albert in 2016. Despite a number of reforms achieved in the mid-70s, many officials repeatedly ignored both evidence of misconduct, and of innocence. 

Woodfox: They could not break his spirit. Classic victim of cultural circumstances, mainly institutionalized racism.

It's impossible to answer this question definitively but I'd nominate this man: Black Panther activist Albert Woodfox, who spent nearly 45 years in solitary confinement, the longest in U.S. history.

He was imprisoned for a crime he maintains he didn't commit and despite his conviction being overturned four times. He was accused of stabbing a prison guard to death, yet there was much evidence supporting his innocence. In those four decades, he was confined to a cell only 2.7 by 1.8 meters up to 23 hours a day.

In 1971, at the age of 22, he was involved in an armed robbery while on parole. He was convicted and sentenced to 50 years in the Louisiana State Penitentiary, nicknamed "Angola" - a reference to the origin of many of the slaves brought to Louisiana (didn't anyone think this was excessive? Pretty much a life sentence for an armed robbery?)

He escaped to Harlem in New York City where he came into contact with the Black Panther Party. The teachings of the Black Panther Party gave him a new moral meaning and mission. He began to learn about African-American history and the justice system.

He was later recaptured and returned to Angola, where he and fellow inmates formed a Black Panther Party chapter in prison, later called the Angola 3.

A New York Times article ‘Solitary’ Is an Uncommonly Powerful Memoir About Four Decades in Confinement about his autobiography mentions:

The “legacy of slavery” was everywhere at Angola, he writes. When he arrived it was segregated. White prisoners mostly worked indoors while the black prisoners worked the fields, often cutting sugar cane under the supervision of guards with shotguns.

The prison had a rape culture. The day new inmates arrived was called “fresh fish day,” and sexual predators lined up to view the goods. “If you were raped at Angola, or what was called ‘turned out,’ your life in prison was virtually over,” he writes.

They began organising education for other inmates, petitions and hunger strikes to protest against the horrendously brutal conditions in prison, segregation, and institutional racism. Their activism wasn't welcome, among guards and prisoners alike, and often met with violent beatings.

In 1972, when a prison guard was stabbed to death, prison authorities wanted to pin it on the Black Panthers troublemakers. A sham trial commenced, and they were found guilty and sentenced to life in solitary.


Amazingly, in his four decades confinement, he refused to let anger, despair and resentment destroy him alive and used his time to gain an education, learning civil and criminal law. He kept fighting against his conviction, which was overturned then reinstated several times. Eventually the cause of the Angola 3 was taken up by human rights activists, legal teams and celebrities and real progress was made. Even the widow of the murdered prison guard became an ardent supporter of the Angola 3's freedom.

In 2015, the state of Louisiana announced it would try Woodfox for murder a third time but, after months of negotiation with his lawyers, offered a plea deal. While Woodfox still wanted to prove his innocence, he also missed his family, the children and grandchildren he had never held and whose whole lives he had missed. He was released in 2016 and to this day, he insisted that it was a plea for freedom, not a plea for guilt. 


His survival and unbroken spirit was a feat of extraordinary strength. Today he is saddened that after four decades of his prison sentence, in the outside world, not much has changed for the Black people of America. He uses his liberty to campaign against the inhumane practice of solitary confinement, to which currently about 80,000 people, including children, are subjected in the US. His harrowing memoir is a dire indictment of the justice system that tolerates such cruel torture. While some people have a thirst for retribution, I don't see what else solitary confinement can achieve apart from driving prisoners insane and hardening them. How would such a system ever aim to reform a person, except in extraordinary cases such as Albert Woodfox's?

Speaking of his extreme isolation and loneliness in those years, Woodfox said:

“Don’t give up…For 44 years I defied the state of Louisiana and the Department of Corrections. Their main objective was to break my spirit. They did not break me…I did not lose my humanity. I bear the scars of beatings, loneliness, isolation and persecution. I am also marked by every kindness.”

References:

Angola Three - Wikipedia
Angry but not broken: How Albert Woodfox survived four decades in solitary confinement
Summary review of SOLITARY by Albert Woodfox

Albert Woodfox On Serving More Than 40 Years In Solitary Confinement

For 45 Years in Prison, Louisiana Man Kept Calm and Held Fast to Hope

How Many People Are in Solitary Confinement Today?

Race and the Politics of Isolation in U.S. Prisons 

 


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Which Black voices should their white supporters heed?

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Gary Olson




e’re now emerging from an intense period of racial justice protests that began after the death of George Floyd while in Minneapolis police custody. It was exhilarating and pride-inspiring to witness the multitudes in the Lehigh Valley who “took it to the streets” on behalf of racial equality, especially the waves of Black and white young people.

According to the Pew Research Center, some 15 million adults participated in the protests, which makes it the largest movement in American history. In terms of interracial composition, three times as many whites as Blacks participated and the percentage of Hispanics was higher than that for Black people.

Further, so many young people participated that it could be rightly characterized as a generational revolt. But will these events remain an historic “moment” or the start of an ongoing liberation movement?

After an interminable and unconscionably overdue response, we saw significant white allyship and we finally realized that white people must listen to Black voices and be accountable. However, in that vein, a key question remains: Which voices should white allies heed?

As Black activist Eric Jenkins reminds us, no organization speaks for all Black people, and some Black-led organizations are totally disconnected from the lives of the Black working class. As Jenkins notes, some traditional Black organizations are even leery to accept white activists lest it disrupt their relationship with the dominant white power structure.

So, should white allies listen to the voices of the “go-along to get-ahead” types, such as the Congressional Black Caucus, composed of 55 members? The late Bruce Dixon, an editor at Black Agenda Report, characterized the CBC as part of the “Black Political Class,” whose first allegiance is enabling the 1% to rule, a class to which most Black Americans do not belong. “Blackness,” here, is just an image brandished to banksters, military contractors and corporate interests.

As Dixon asserted, CBC takes its marching orders from the Democratic Party and obscene gobs of cash donations from white corporate sponsors in exchange for safe Congressional seats, cushy lifestyles and undeserved status.

Should we listen to the Black voices attempting to co-opt and neuter the system-transforming potential of Black Lives Matter by diverting it simply into voting for Democrats? As a Facebook friend recently wrote, “The Democratic Party is now an upper-middle-class party that’s singing ‘We Shall Overcome’ 50 years too late.”

Or, rather, should we be attentive to Black voices in our midst who echo the powerful legacy of social and political transformation derived from Harriet Tubman, Nat Turner, Frederick Douglass and Paul Robeson to W.E.B. Du Bois, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr. and Audre Lorde to more recent voices such as bell hooks, Margaret Kimberley, Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor and Mary Hooks?

Their work strongly suggests they would all advocate a gradual merging of Black Lives Matter demands such as “stop killing black people,” ending mass incarceration and abolishing institutional and cultural racism with demands to dismantle capitalism in all its predatory forms. The aforementioned social justice activists knew that a reckoning with America’s history of racism and economic injustice can never be realized without joining both sets of demands.

For example, as Martin Luther King Jr. matured as a leader, thinker and radical activist, be became openly anti-capitalist (and anti-U.S. imperialism). In a speech to his staff in South Carolina, just one month before his assassination on April 4, 1968, Dr. King spoke approvingly about the new and dynamic young radicals in the movement who understood that “only by structural change can current evils be eliminated because the roots are in the [capitalist] system rather than in men or in faulty operations … they all understand the need for direct, self-transforming and structural transformation. This may be their most creative collective insight.”

Finally, meaningful change will only come about when tens of thousands of people are willing to engage in large-scale civil disobedience and risk arrest in the revolutionary tradition of Dr. King.

Is there any doubt that were he alive today he would be all about grassroots organizing and planning another rally for the indefinite occupation of Washington, D.C.? This type of movement is the worst nightmare for those who own and rule the country. Doing anything less than attempting to bring their apparition to life would be wasting a convergence of favorable factors that may not appear again.

Gary Olson is an emeritus professor of political science at Moravian College.

 


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Beyoncé’s “Black is King” and the Pitfalls of African Consciousness

Please make sure these dispatches reach as many readers as possible. Share with kin, friends and workmates and ask them to do likewise.


Russell Rickford



Genetically endowed with beauty and musical gifts, Beyonce has parlayed that accident into a huge fortune. And she has also become a seller of capitalist nostrums designed to derail the aspirations of black people. We saw the same cultural phenomenon with the ridiculously profitable film Black Panther, also built on absurd premises catering to low black self esteem. The allegiance of most megastars of any color is first to their own privileged billionaire class and, perhaps, a distant second, to the subculture they sprang from. It is that fact that shapes their often erratic and idiotic ideology.


With Black is King, Beyoncé and Disney have combined to sell audiences a lavishly fabricated Africa—one that is entirely devoid of class conflict.

“An African American megastar and entrepreneur has appropriated African nationalist and Pan Africanist imagery to promote the spirit of global capitalism.”

African American imaginings of Africa often intermingle with and help illuminate intimate hopes and desires for black life within the United States. So when an African American pop star offers an extended meditation on Africa, the resulting work reflects not just her particular visions of the continent and its diaspora, but also larger aspirations for a collective black future.

Black is King, Beyoncé’s elaborate, new marriage of music video and movie, is a finely-textured collage of cultural meaning. Though it is not possible, in the scope of this essay, to interpret the film’s full array of metaphors, one may highlight certain motifs and attempt to grasp their social implications.

An extravagant technical composition, Black is King is also a pastiche of symbols and ideologies. It belongs to a venerable African American tradition of crafting images of Africa that are designed to redeem the entire black world. The film’s depiction of luminous, dignified black bodies and lush landscapes is a retort to the contemptuous West and to its condescending discourses of African danger, disease and degeneration.

Black is King rebukes those tattered, colonialist tropes while evoking the spirit of Pan African pride. It falls short, however, as a portrait of popular liberation. In a sense, the picture is a sophisticated work of political deception. Its esthetic of African majesty seems especially emancipatory in a time of coronavirus, murderous cops and vulgar black death. One is almost tempted to view the film as another iteration of the principles of mass solidarity and resistance that galvanized the Black Lives Matter movement.

“In a sense, the picture is a sophisticated work of political deception.”

But Black is King is neither radical nor fundamentally liberatory. Its vision of Africa as a site of splendor and spiritual renewal draws on both postcolonial ideals of modernity and mystical notions of a premodern past. Yet for all its ingenuity, the movie remains trapped within the framework of capitalist decadence that has fabulously enriched its producer and principal performer, Beyoncé herself. Far from exotic, the film’s celebration of aristocracy and its equation of power and status with the consumption of luxury goods exalts the system of class exploitation that continues to degrade black life on both sides of the Atlantic.

That said, the politics of Black is King are complicated. The picture is compelling precisely because it appears to subvert the logic of global white supremacy. Its affirming representations of blackness and its themes of ebony kinship will resonate with many viewers, but will hold special significance for African Americans, for whom Africa remains an abiding source of inspiration and identity. Indeed, Black is King seems purposefully designed to appeal to diasporic sensibilities within African American culture.

“For all its ingenuity, the movie remains trapped within the framework of capitalist decadence.”

At the heart of the production lies the idea of a fertile and welcoming homeland. Black is King presents Africa as a realm of possibility. It plays on the African American impulse to sentimentalize the continent as a sanctuary from racial strife and as a source of purity and regeneration. Though the movie does not explicitly address the prospect of African American return or “repatriation” to Africa, allusions to such a reunion shape many of its scenes. No doubt some African American viewers will discover in the film the allure of a psychological escape to a glorious mother continent, a place where lost bonds of ancestry and culture are magically restored. 

The problem is not just that such an Africa does not exist. All historically displaced groups romanticize “the old country.” African Americans who idealize “the Motherland” are no different in this respect. But by portraying Africa as the site of essentially harmonious civilizations, Black is King becomes the latest cultural product to erase the realities of class relations on the continent. That deletion, which few viewers are likely to notice, robs the picture of whatever potential it may have had to inspire a concrete Pan African solidarity based on recognition of the shared conditions of dispossession that mark black populations at home and abroad.

“Some African American viewers will discover in the film the allure of a psychological escape to a glorious mother continent”

To understand the contradictions of Black is King, one must examine the class dynamics hidden beneath its spectacles of African nobility. The movie, which depicts a young boy’s circuitous journey to the throne, embodies Afrocentrism’s fascination with monarchical authority. It is not surprising that African Americans should embrace regal images of Africa, a continent that is consistently misrepresented and denigrated in the West. Throughout their experience of subjugation in the New World, black people have sought to construct meaningful paradigms of African affinity. Not infrequently, they have done so by claiming royal lineage or by associating themselves with dynastic Egypt, Ethiopia and other imperial civilizations.

The danger of such vindicationist narratives is that they mask the repressive character of highly stratified societies. Ebony royals are still royals. They exercise the prerogatives of hereditary rule. And invariably, the subjects over whom they reign, and whose lives they control, are black. African Americans, one should recall, also hail from the ranks of a service class. They have good cause to eschew models of rigid social hierarchy and to pursue democratic themes in art and politics. Black is King hardly empowers them by portraying monarchy as a symbol of grandeur rather than as a system of coercion.

There are other troubling allusions in the film. One scene casts Beyoncé and her family members as African oligarchs. The characters signal their opulence by inhabiting a sprawling mansion complete with servants, marble statues and manicured lawns. Refinement is the intended message. Yet the conspicuous consumption, the taste for imported luxury products, the mimicry of European high culture and the overall display of ostentation call to mind the lifestyles of a notorious generation of postcolonial African dictators. Many of these Cold War rulers amassed vast personal wealth while their compatriots wallowed in poverty. Rising to power amid the drama of African independence, they nevertheless facilitated the reconquest of the continent by Western financial interests. 

“Ebony royals are still royals.”

Black is King does not depict any particular historical figures from this stratum of African elites. (Some of the movie’s costumes pair leopard skin prints with finely tailored suits in a style that is reminiscent of flamboyant statesmen such as Mobutu Sese Seko of the Congo.) However, by presenting the African leisure class as an object of adulation, the film glamorizes private accumulation and the kind of empty materialism that defined the comprador officials who oversaw Africa’s descent into neocolonial dependency.

Black is King is, of course, a Disney venture. One would hardly expect a multinational corporation to sponsor a radical critique of social relations in the Global South. (It is worth mentioning that in recent years the Disney Company has come under fire for allowing some of its merchandise to be produced in Chinese sweatshops.) Small wonder that Disney and Beyoncé, herself a stupendously rich mogul, have combined to sell western audiences a lavishly fabricated Africa—one that is entirely devoid of class conflict.

Anticolonial theorist Frantz Fanon once warned, in a chapter titled “The Pitfalls of National Consciousness,” that the African postcolonial bourgeoisie would manipulate the symbols of black cultural and political autonomy to advance its own narrow agenda. Black is Kingadds a new twist to the scenario. This time an African American megastar and entrepreneur has appropriated African nationalist and Pan Africanist imagery to promote the spirit of global capitalism.

“By presenting the African leisure class as an object of adulation, the film glamorizes private accumulation and empty materialism.”

In the end, Black is King must be read as a distinctly African American fantasy of Africa. It is a compendium of popular ideas about the continent as seen by black westerners. The Africa of this evocation is natural and largely unspoiled. It is unabashedly black. It is diverse but not especially complex, for an aura of camaraderie supersedes its ethnic, national and religious distinctions. This Africa is a tableau. It is a repository for the black diaspora’s psychosocial ambitions and dreams of transnational belonging.

What the Africa of Black is King is not is ontologically African. Perhaps the African characters and dancers who populate its scenes are more than just props. But Beyoncé is the picture’s essential subject, and it is largely through her eyes—which is to say, western eyes—that we observe the people of the continent. If the extras in the film are elegant, they are also socially subordinate. Their role is to adorn the mostly African American elites to whom the viewer is expected to relate. 

There are reasons to relish the pageantry of Black is King, especially in a time of acute racial trauma. Yet the movie’s mystique of cultural authenticity and benevolent monarchy should not obscure the material realities of everyday life. Neoliberal governance, extractive capitalism and militarism continue to spawn social and ecological devastation in parts of Africa, the Americas and beyond. Confronting those interwoven realities means developing a concrete, global analysis while resisting metaphysical visions of the world.

Russell Rickford is the author of We Are an African People: Independent Education, Black Power and the Radical Imagination.

This article previously appeared in Black Perspectives .

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