My Brother, My Brother

The last bastion of slavery in America is that which binds the black man’s mind and spirit. He is bound by images that falsely define him. Images of the thug, the convict, and the deadbeat dad. He is locked in the role of the performer who coons, shucks, jives and dances for money. If he wants to be something, he must be the athlete who can only throw, bounce or hit a ball. If he doesn’t make it in athletics or entertainment, he becomes the angry and scary brute that makes white women clutch their purses, lock their car doors, and gather their children close. Worse yet, he is the oversexed stallion who makes babies with multiple women and then leaves them for the welfare system to take care of.

He is bound by the demands of corporate America and the women in his life. Demands for him to just play ball and not think too much. Or he must sing or dance or rap. If he can do these things, he might be able to make a little money for himself while making a load of money for other people. He is a chattel, just like an ox or a workhorse, locked in a yoke, trained, driven and forced to provide, protect, do what somebody else says he must do. He is trapped and caught in a frustrating fix by a situation that expects so much but prepares him for so little.

But what does he want? What does he need? What is he passionate about? What does he seek for his own soul? In all the tug of war going on for the black man, he never has the chance to think about that. He is put on the auction block and before he knows it, he is sold to the highest bidder. His mama. His wife. His boys. His boss. His agent.

Black boys don’t get the opportunity to discover themselves. His identity is assigned to him at birth. First, before he can even speak for himself, negative stereotypes pervade his psyche and he subconsciously absorbs a predetermined position. No one will come right out and tell him that he is destined to be a criminal. However, when he looks at T.V. or listens to the radio or sometimes just lives in his environment, he draws this or some other negative conclusion. Then he goes to school and his teachers and administrators expect less from him than everyone else. They feel threatened by him so they assess even the smallest infraction as an act of punishable aggression. When others get a warning, he gets expelled. And this is his introduction into the criminal justice system. Unless, of course, he can play ball.

It is time for us to give our boys the chance to consider themselves. Don’t let them accept a role created for them by others. Teach them to hear God. This is our hope. When the rap is speaking. When the television is speaking. When his boys are speaking. When his hormones are speaking. When fear is speaking. When doubt is speaking. When any voice other than that which knows who he is speaks. Teach him to hear the call of the one who created him and knows his power.

So my question to my brothers is just who do you think you are anyway? In the end it doesn’t matter much what other people think. Certainly, I want you to be who you were destined to be. We need you to be it. But you have to gather the courage to claim that which was given to you by God. Then you will be free. Black people will be free. America will be free. You can free the world.

Buffalo Soldier: For Those Who Know and Dare to Be

Do you know just who you are anyway?
I mean do you really know?
Well, this is who you are.
You are the builder of mighty nations.
You built civilizations like Songhay and Mali and governed empires like Kemet and Kush using only your faith, your mind and the natural resources given to you by God.
You had no guns or weapons of mass destruction.
These devices were not even created then.
You did not need to scare people into submission.
Because… you are the carrier of knowledge.
You founded and studied at great universities millennia ago.
You laid the foundation for the modern study of science and mathematics at Timbuktu.

Even philosophers like Socrates and Aristotle revere you.
They still fear you, that’s why they hunt you down. Didn’t you know?
That you are a survivor.
You survived centuries of being punished for your blessings.
You were whipped, mentally abused, stripped of your name and your identity.
They tried to break you and make you believe you were not a man,
by robbing you of your ability to protect your mothers, wives and daughters.
They never let you celebrate yourself, your great ancestors.
Even though you built their empires and celebrated their heroes.
You are a forgiver.
You vowed never to be bitter toward your oppressor even when they refused to apologize.
You fought in wars with them, cried with them when your sons didn’t come home,

believed them when they promised to redeem themselves.
Through all this you somehow managed to be a visionary.
You dreamed of a peaceful world.
You created art and music to describe your pain and danced at the thought of the joy to come.
You are a warrior.
You are fighting to reclaim your families and return to your former glories.
And you will because you know who you are.
You are a builder, a carrier, a survivor, a visionary, a warrior.
You are loved.