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