Ujima

To build and maintain our community together and make our brother's and sister's problems our problems and to solve them together.

I feel like the totality of my life work over the last 4 years has been in the name of ujima. Actually, I think that ujima captures the spirit of the struggle for Black liberation perfectly. All in one word. What is solidarity, if not to share one another’s problems? If not the recognition that none of us are free until all of us are free? And the Black component here actually feels critical, so I’m not suggesting to transplant Kwanzaa as a “movement” thing any more than I would expect Chanukah to be transplanted onto gentiles who have not even accepted the offering of “adoption” into the family of Abraham as heirs & joint-heirs.

Because, as with all things Black—it’s the only thing that actually invites progress for everyone else. A rising tide doesn’t actually lift all boats in a way that is meaningful—no matter how blue it glows. Thinking about it in this moment, it just dawned on me that lifting some boats might even result in capsizing. Every boat can’t handle the same tide. But what is true, is that no boat of any kind can move forward & accomplish that which it was made to do without first lifting their strong, critical, sunken black anchor. Until then, it’s just wobbly land. And that’s what comes to my mind when I see movement strategies that don’t center Black liberation. It doesn’t actually matter how beautiful, expensive, or tricked out a boat is if it can never leave the shore. As is also true, in my opinion & assessment, for social “justice” work of any kind.

The struggle of the African people is not, by any means, new. Nor are African peoples the only people who have faced oppression. Neither do all African consciously know suffering (regardless of the trauma found in their bodies). It feels important to qualify that when I say Black freedom struggle, it’s not because I believe white folks, or anyone else not of African descent (pre-settler colonialism), should suffer or be oppressed in our stead. What I am saying though, is that a commitment to one another will have revolutionary ramifications—regardless of what anyone chooses (or not) to do.

As always, easier said than done. But what might happen if we all took responsibility for building and maintaining the integrity of our community? What would accountability look like? What would we no longer, “just let go?” Where might we offer more grace? What would happen if we, as the African diaspora, chose to eliminate the phrase, “not my circus; not my monkeys,” from our vocabulary when it relates to one another—whether we are “in control” or not? How much warmer & rested might we be if we chose to recognize the lights within one another & stoke their fires rather than throwing shade? What if our love for one another could be strong enough to offer all of us a path to returning to right relationship with community—no matter the offense? To set boundaries in love, but not take that as license to disregard one another in times of need? How many conflicts might be settled in conversation rather than rising to mandate public call outs? I truly wonder what would happen…what would be the side effects…if we actively chose not to profit from one another’s mistakes, offenses, or suffering.

If we choose to relate to one another with shared effort and responsibility for our care, I believe there’s no limit to the amount of ground we might be able to cover. Today is Tuesday, December 28th, 2021. It may be decades since the birth of what we now call the Pan-African movement began, but I do believe that a free Africa will enable a free world.

I can’t speak about anyone else, band I won’t attempt to today, but I’m committed to messing around and getting free. I am convinced that is something that can only happen through the cultivation of a collective consciousness. Being in meaningful relationship with one another is the only way for any of us know if any African anywhere is oppressed, exploited, enslaved, or wounded in any way in their humanity. And from my study and experience, the only way to maintain that connection, and those relationships beyond moment of externally-imposed, shared, struggle is through a an active commitment to not abandon relationships (and by extension, people). They must, of course, change in manifestation—evolving as a part of development and evolution. But our commitments to restoration of connection must last beyond seasonal cooperation.

And to put it mildly, that is one of the most difficult practices I’ve ever endeavored to build. It’s one thing to say our problems are connected in an empathetic sort of way. But to solve them together is a whole other story. In a society where the natural order is exploitation and extraction for the sake of profit and power (whatever that looks like in a given context), to make it your business to approach all of our village’s individual issues as group projects is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. That makes it impossible to exploit one another. Because if I exploit you, then your problem is that you’re being exploited. And now I have a responsibility to help you solve that problem and to use my power and influence to do so. Which negates my decision to exploit in the first place. See how that works?

That’s kind of the point though. We must acknowledge that those of us whose lineage flows through to mother Africa have a shared spirit flowing through each of us. To engage one another as people whose problems we must work together to solve gives us a vested interest in not creating or instigating any of those problems ourselves. And to assume shared responsibility for our culture and structures means there’s no benefit to finding or assigning blame. Encouraging us to prioritize the embodying of lessons over the finding of fault. While this approach to existing among one another doesn’t mean individuals aren’t called to endure consequences for harm they most instigate, but just the opposite. It makes accountability possible. If the point is applying the lessons we’ve learned to future behaviors, rather than going over every single “wrong move” one has made, transformed engagement is much more likely and possible. It might just be the nudge of a difference between asking the question, “how do I adjust this plan to not get caught next time?” and, “how do I prevent this situation I’m in from happening again?”

I’m not viewing any of this with rose-colored glasses. But I am speaking to the possibility of a world I’ve never seen, based on what I have. And within that kind of communitarian society, I see the ability of our Black bodies to move forward together, rather than succumbing to any steps backwards. So I’d like to submit to you that from this day forward, we cease our hash-tagging community—and be one. If we gonna be out here, we might as well be out here, out here.

Je crois qu’un peuple instruit, ne sera jamais soumis. El pueblo unido, jamás será vencido. Khetha ubuntu.

Kujichagulia

Self-determination. What does that mean anyway? As someone who grew up racially ambiguous in a couple of really different environments, I’ve always struggled with that. At least, since I started intentionally celebrating Kwanzaa a few years back. I don’t think I had ever really heard of it before then actually. But I guess it’s just hard for me to imagine a world in which anyone has any control over defining or naming themselves, speaking for themselves, or even creating for themselves. I was taught those were always activities that were to be done, “a certain way.”

Black, white, African American, bi-racial, brown, colored, mixed, high-yellow, mulatto…just a few of the identifiers I’ve been given over time. Over the years, it hasn’t seemed to matter how I defined myself. I imagine that’s probably why I had never really given it much thought until I started doing racial equity work back in 2017. And even now, many people still give me names I never gave myself. Lazy, weird, off-putting, polarizing, kind, mean, manipulative, generous, inconsiderate, charismatic, graceful, outgoing, gentle, rough around the edges. It’s not just limited to how I am either—but what my roles or vocations are too. Singer, community organizer, motivational nurturer, activist, teacher, evangelist, preacher, elder, leader. So most days, the idea of defining myself seems like a pretty big waste of time. Even something as simple as acknowledging myself as an introvert—someone who recharges privately & is drained by large groups of people, is typically met with a, “no you’re not!!” As if they are somehow inside of my body and can discern what makes me tired and what doesn’t.

Only recently has the work of defining & naming myself become something important to me. And I use the word work intentionally. What I’ve discovered is that it’s actually much easier to let someone (or someones) tell you who you are and how you should be. Because self-determination actually requires self-awareness. And frankly, many of us just don’t reflect on ourselves or check ourselves out in the mirror outside of measuring the consequences of one stylistic choice over another. We’re too busy trying to keep food in our bellies and gas in the tank to be concerned about anything other than what we need to know to survive. Developing self-awareness is a luxury given by time and space. Time and space that most of us don’t have to give to anyone—least of all ourselves.

There’s a bible verse in the first chapter of James that talks about looking in the mirror and, after you’ve walked away, forgetting what you look like. The context is someone who is given instruction and doesn’t follow them. Or someone who has been given knowledge and wisdom, but doesn’t apply it to their lives or allow it to impact their actions or decisions. But like, who has time to look at their face in the mirror unless they are altering it in some way? No, but really. Who does that?? When was the last time you saw someone over the age of 5 just look in the mirror at themselves. Not to figure out what to fix or how, but just to look and learn. For me, I think that might just be never. And if so, I definitely don’t remember it.

Maybe it’s because I’m poor and spend most of my time around relatively poor people. But taking a moment to look at myself, then another few to think about what I’ve seen, then a few more still to name what it is that I’ve seen, is not a regular practice of mine. And when I do it metaphorically, it’s typically because I’m replaying a conversation over and over and over again in my head to see where I may have offended someone, or how I could have done a better job to articulating what I was thinking. How I should have paused longer before responding to a certain question. How I should (or shouldn’t) have made a certain look with my face. What questions I failed to ask. What many may refer to as my “self-awareness” is probably more accurately named my “self-critique.” Because I’m never actually looking to learn. Never looking to bear witness. I’m looking to improve or fix…because the one name I have cemented in my mind is “not good enough.”

To create with consideration of my own joy, rather than making something that might be most appealing to others, rarely crosses my mind. So when I think about doing any of these things myself, the first question that comes up is, “with what energy?” Quickly followed by, “but how??” Yes, I can use my physical vocal cords to say words, but how do I choose which words to use if not for what others would most like to hear? How do I decide what to name or how to define myself, if not for those who have the greatest power over the resources I need to survive? And okay, even if I can figure out all of those things, do I then code-switch so that I don’t become a source of discomfort for anyone else? There’s already enough tough stuff in this world—I don’t want to contribute to it being harder for anyone else…right? In a society of manufactured scarcity, it all just feels like too much.

But then…when I think about kujichagulia as something built upon the umoja of a particular people, that load seems to lighten. In my mind at least, it becomes for feasible to figure it out if we’re holding one another while we’re doing it. If we’re all connected, then have enough diversity to be able to discern the ways in which we are the same. To identify the pieces we share—and use our collective intelligence to give it a name. From that perspective, I suppose it doesn’t even really matter which word we land on. Because we’ve developed shared understanding along the way. It stops being about perfection & choosing the “right” word, and becomes more about cohesion, and strumming our common threads. What if defining, naming, speaking, & creating for ourselves isn’t four separate things—but one? What if it’s not word smithing, and thinking, and doing, and brainstorming? What if it’s not conferences or meetings? What if it’s bringing out some instruments, opening some space on the floor, and seeing what happens? What it it’s being present for what room looks and sounds like after an hour?

As a people, it’s so hard to bring us together—let alone get us to agree. I mean, have you seen the fights that break out when we try to discuss how to properly eat grits?! But at an individual level, it seems completely unrealistic to do all the naming, speaking, defining, & creating ourselves. (And then there’s the question of what do words matter if we don’t have a shared understanding of what they mean, but that’s an esoteric post for another time.) So we have to do it within the context (and with the support) of community. But I’ve found that if you play music loud enough for everyone to hear, somehow there’s no limit to the number of people who can do the electric slide in unison, regardless of what kind of music is being played. All you need is a couple of people to start it. Then it doesn’t even need a leader. And if someone who doesn’t know how to do the dance happens to be around, you can typically expect they’ll know by the end of the 2nd verse.

At this point in my very short life, to me kujichagulia is actually less about the specific acts of using a voice, pen, or paintbrush to express who we are. It’s about, as a community, finding the beat of our drums that is aligned with the beats of our hearts, playing it without hesitation, and vibing together. And individually, it’s about finding the way my body twists and turns and slides to the beat. Then it’s doing it with my eyes wide open, smiling at my people all around me. These days, when words mean so little and are more likely to become reasons to fight than unite, it feels more important than ever to find one’s tribe. The place, I’d say, where your self-determination is aligned with those around you. But I don’t think that has to happen through discourse. If the path to self-determination begins with self-discovery, maybe we don’t start with lifting the un-liftable loads of identification, synthesis, reflection, & experimentation. Maybe it begins by breathing into our own rhythms, and riding the beat home—wherever it leads.

Umoja

Kwanzaa is my favorite holiday. Actually, it’s the only one I celebrate. It’s so rich and beautiful and wholesome! How could you not love a holiday that’s all about building the strength & celebrating the value of community?! I still feel a bit torn about where the appropriation line falls around it. But as a Black woman descended from enslaved Africans on Turtle Island, I don’t really have to think about it too much. Thank God. The day after Xmas is the day when my breath begins to expand from all the happenings of the previous year. Whatever ups & downs, victories & losses, celebrations or days of mourning. I wake up on December 26th the way a lot of people wake up on December 24th or 25th. Filled with excitement & energy from the spirit of the day. But for some reason this year is different.

I’ve been avoiding lighting the first candle of Kwanzaa all day. It’s 11pm and I just lit today’s candle. The first night is my favorite. Not because it’s the beginning of the celebration, but because it grounds me. And at the end of a typical year for me, that’s something I desperately need. It’s also because the first night is the night the Black candle gets lit—the foundation upon which all other nights stand. It represents the people. As someone who believes in living a life of service, I try and make my people my north star in all that I do. Beginning every decision with, “who am I accountable to,” is not an uncommon practice for me. Not only is it the day that the Black candle gets lit, but it’s also the day whose sole focus on the unity of our people. That’s what keeps me energized and anchored throughout all of the struggles (represented by the red candles) of the year. And it’s from the people that I find my hope (represented by the green candles) that moves me through the year. Even when I can’t stand them (us).

As I look at my kinara from across the room, right now, I can’t help but notice something peculiar happening. Somehow, the Black candle is tilted just slightly in the direction of the red candles. And it’s causing the red candle most near it (representing the creativity born in struggle) to begin to melt as well. And as it melts, it’s begining to lean towards the next red candle (representing cooperative economics as a way of surviving through struggle). I’m also just now noticing that my kinara is backwards—the green candles are on the left, with the red on the right. But for some reason, I feel like I shouldn’t move it. I’m not particularly surprised by either of these events, but I do find them interesting. You see, I keep my kinara up all year long—resting right on top of my altar, with my mkeka resting underneath it. And recently I re-structured and updated my altar to better reflect who and how I am today. It really has been a transformative year. So I updated the photos that hang on the wall behind it, which represent the people, events, places, and even versions of my former self that have shaped who I am today (for better or worse). I also shifted some things around so that my most beautiful set of Bible books (yes, a set; it’s split into 5 physical books) stands right next to it. And, the thing that probably is having the biggest impact on the impact that the burning is having, I don’t change my candles every year either. I only change them when the center candle is too short to last all seven nights. So it’s not exactly shocking that it may have been mis-placed upon its return to the table.

What’s most curious to me, though, is the impact of having the candles of struggle being positioned as future, with the candles representing hope in the past. It’s a bit off-putting actually. And I pray to YHWH it’s not prophetic (LOL)! No…but seriously though, it’s 2021. Can we keep as much red in the past as possible please?! I’m sure I’ll re-orient the kinara tomorrow when any hot wax that drips tonight has dried. But in this moment, it feels appropriate.

As I began to shut things in my home down for the night, I knew it was time to light tonight’s candle. “It’s now or never,” I said to myself. But the moment I stepped into the living room, I began to cry. I cried as I returned the wall hanging that sits to the left of my altar to its home. I cried as I opened the kitchen drawer to get the lighter out. I cried as I lit the candle. I cried as I went to get a box of tissues. And I cried as I went to get my computer so I could write and hopefully let my fingers tell me why the hell I was crying so hard. And so now I’m sitting here, on the opposite side of the room from my leaning, backwards, kinara, with my computer in my lap as the brightest light in the room. Typing this, I realized I should turn it down…so I just did.

And as I take a deep breath, followed by an equally deep exhale, I know that the reason lighting this candle brought me to tears tonight is the same reason I’ve been avoiding it all day. It’s because when I think about the people—my people, my Black people, all I can do is cry. And to light a candle that represents the unity of our community breaks my heart because I feel like few things are further from the truth in this moment. I think of community leaders publicly denouncing one another without any direct conversation. I think of the divide and conquer us approach that has us biting each other on the way to get a taste of funding for our projects and lives. I think of elders who people have given up confronting because they no longer have ears willing to hear—only defend. I think of the isolation that keeps us so familiar with being alone that we can’t seem to figure out how to be together without competing. I think of the fact that we don’t hold one another unless it’s convenient. That we don’t knock on one another’s door unless it’s most profitable. I think of the fact that the generational divide never seems to end. And yet most of us posted a photo or essay saying “Umoja!” on our social media accounts today.

I’m not excluding myself from the “we” & “us” here. But that doesn’t make the heaviness on my heart any lighter. I sit here crying because my brother now sits in prison. A brother who tried so hard to be accepted by the Black community, but was turned away because he was “rude,” “weird,” “off,” “ignorant of his privilege,” etc. But in a state where there are less than 8,000 of us, how could it be that he rose to “community leader” alone? Without a group of brothers surrounding him & checking him? Without a group of sisters backing him up? He was working to build an incredible program that would pull the next generation of Black folks in this state together into relationship with one another. And regardless of his motives, shouldn’t that be something we all flocked to support? Shouldn’t that have been something we all were involved in? Shouldn’t it have been easy for him to find an oversight board when he called out to the Black folks here, rather than people barely even signing up to be engaged in the program (if at all) and never following through? It’s so easy to throw someone under the bus after they’ve been accused of horrible violations of trust—but where were we when he was asking trust of the white parents of Black children across the state? What were we doing that was so important we couldn’t take 4 hours out of our month to help a Black child in our community not be the only Black person they knew outside of the face in their bathroom mirrors?

What is unity of the Black community if we leave the uniting of our generations to one person—or worse, to chance? Over the last several weeks, my days have been filled with talking to white parents who are begging me to keep this program going. Somehow, they recognize this program of uniting Black children with Black adults as absolutely critical for their children. To them, they recognize that there is something they can’t be for their children—empathize with some of their struggles and simultaneously pour light onto the fire of their joy. Meanwhile, mentors are encouraging me to run for the hills to, “not be associated with it, because articles about this scandal are going to be the first thing people see when they look it up on Google.” Yes, those words have shown up in my inbox. What I’m writing here isn’t actually about my brother. It’s not about what he did or didn’t do. It’s not about his role as an abuser or survivor. It’s not about maintaining his humanity or vilifying him. It’s not even about what has happened—it’s about what we do next. It’s about our community’s responsibility in this moment to rise up and embrace these children across the state with care so that they don’t feel alone. So they don’t feel there was only one Black man in the state who thought they were worth making time for.

These kids don’t need our money—they need our time. Not our grand gestures, but our consistent, focused, energy. In a state like this one, our gatherings cannot be limited to those Black folks who see each other regularly or live in shared neighborhoods. And certainly not to those who fit our aesthetic. And we simply cannot afford to avoid, minimize, or sidestep the conflicts we have with one another. Our commitment to each other must be stronger than our desire for our own comfort. Our agape & phileo love stronger than our egos. The care of our community must be more important to us than the care of our individual reputations. So when I think about lighting a candle to celebrate the unity of Black people of the African diaspora, to me at least, crying seems the only appropriate response. A mourning for what has been. And as I sit alone in this room, a mourning for what I feel all too real. Just as strongly for my 13 year old self as my 30 year old self today.

Tonight, as I blow this candle out, there will be tear-stains dried down the length of my face. But before I do that, I have decided to honor it’s lighting as a prayer. Tonight and every night for the rest of this year’s Kwanzaa celebration. A prayer for unity when unity and strong, lasting, connection feels absolutely impossible. And since this prayer is much easier written or spoken than actualized, we might just need a bit more creativity than even faith before we see it while we’re awake. Tonight my spirit leans a little more towards struggle than hope. Yet, hope remains. We will all get through this moment, this season, this life, one way or another. The only real choice is if we’re going to do it alone or together. And so tonight, there will be no fanfare, no social media post, no catchy phrase. But I choose to respond to the question, “Habari Gani?” with a quietly whispered, “Umoja.” Let us know ubuntu more than we know anything else.

With Love,

K. Marie