Thursday, June 19, 2025

Leading Public Intellectual, Scholar, Author, Editor, Educator and Activist Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor and Her Colleagues, Comrades, and Fellow Critics From Hammer and Hope Magazine In Their Excellent and Scathing Critiques of the Deep Cowardice, Opportunism, and Incompetence of Electoral Black Politics and the Despicable and Lowly Capitulation of American Politics and Culture Generally to the Deeply Corrupt, Malevolent, and Demagogic Far Rightwing Forces in Government and Civil Society During This Deadly Era of the Rise and Institutional Hegemony Of Fascism in the United States

https://hammerandhope.org/forums/george-floyd-black-politics

Hammer&Hope

America Is Demolishing Antiracism Five Years After the George Floyd Uprisings
 
Hammer & Hope asked Black organizers, academics, and writers to consider the state of Black politics five years after the 2020 uprisings and with the re-election of Donald Trump. Their responses, some written before Trump’s inauguration, offer ideas for where we go from here.
 
Hammer & Hope


Illustration by Billie Carter Rankin. Photographs by Tasos Katopodis and Chip Somodevilla, via Getty Images.
 
Black Politics and Beyond
by Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor
June,  2025

In March, construction workers used pickaxes and jackhammers to destroy the Black Lives Matter Plaza in Washington, D.C. Five years after Black Lives Matter was canonized on the road to the White House in bold yellow letters, 35 feet tall and 48 feet wide, D.C.’s Black mayor, Muriel Bowser, agreed to erase it from the street just as fast as President Donald Trump swept former President Joe Biden’s DEI executive orders into the dustbin. Bowser acquiesced to Republican demands to remove the mural under threat of substantial cuts to the local budget. “We have bigger fish to fry,” she said, “than fights over what has been very important to us and to their history.”

The mural had been an act of defiance directed at Trump in the raucous twilight of his first administration. Nearly a week after the murder of George Floyd had inaugurated protests across the country, Trump’s security detail used a chemical agent to disperse a crowd gathered at Lafayette Park so that he could pose for a picture at the nearby St. John’s Church with a Bible. “We have the greatest country in the world,” Trump said as tear gas lingered in the air. “Keep it nice and safe.”

Days later, Bowser tweeted a magnificent troll of Trump: “Breonna Taylor, on your birthday, let us stand with determination. Determination to make America the land it ought to be.” Below the text was a video of Black Lives Matter written on the street. Hours after she posted, Trump disparaged Bowser as “grossly incompetent, and in no way qualified to be running an important city like Washington, D.C.” Later that fall, the painted street officially became Black Lives Matter Plaza NW. But local activists complained that the Bowser administration opposed the politics of the movement she invoked. Bowser had promised to extend the reach of law enforcement throughout the Black working-class city by investing in a new jail and more police officers. So her recent capitulation to right-wing attacks shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

The impotence of Bowser and other Black elected officials in this moment of political revenge raises important questions: What is to be done in response to the Trump onslaught? How did we go from the enormous possibility of 2020, when upwards of 26 million people took to the streets to condemn systemic racism and declare that Black lives matter, to the darkness wrought by Trump’s return? What happened?

The answer cannot be found among Black elected officials. They are marginal actors in the Black Lives Matter era, except for their periodic, feverish efforts to appear connected to the movement in hopes of either cashing in electorally or deflecting the criticism of younger activists. Indeed, the failure of mainstream Black politics, specifically Black Democrats, to connect with young Black people played a critical role in Kamala Harris’s failed bid to become president in 2024. Harris conceded to right-wing attacks on so-called woke politics, including retreating from many of the progressive positions she had held just four years earlier, when she first ran for president and then was selected as Biden’s running mate. In 2024, in an effort to distance herself from the taint of woke, she reduced her appeals to Black audiences to cultural tropes like insider talk about Black sororities and fraternities, while evading any talk about racial justice and economic justice. She had nothing significant to say about the Supreme Court’s ban on affirmative action, another conservative effort to denude racism of any explanatory power. Harris’s fear of engaging with racial politics meant that her appeals to try to win back Black men included vows to legalize weed and protect crypto. It was insulting. But Harris is not unique. The Democratic Party, even with the most Black elected officials ever and the greatest number of Black women in office, delivers no meaningful change.

In some cases, Black Lives Matter helped to elect younger candidates who hope to transform protest into politics, like Mayor Brandon Johnson of Chicago. But the movement failed to translate its political gains and sheer dominance from 2014 to 2020 into lasting organization that could have sustained pressure on the people it helped put into office. Instead, the movement largely demobilized after the 2020 presidential race, and more so after local elections. That meant that small victories were fleeting, electoral successes have been hollowed out, and the demands of a movement that disavowed leadership and political accountability have been crushed in the neo-fascist backlash of Make America Great Again.

The movement’s lack of a political center and its inability to cohere around political ideas, strategy, or tactics created an atmosphere of freelancing. Everyone did their own thing. Moreover, when Biden and the Democratic Party began to back away from their campaign promises, none of the forces within the movement organized any real response. A promised seat at the table and proximity to power hemmed in activism, giving Biden a free ride. There were few political protests against the Biden administration until the Palestinian solidarity movement emerged in the spring of 2024.

In the coming months and years, Black politics must do more than shape its strategy, tactics, and ideas in reaction to Trump. We need an account of what went wrong in the Black Lives Matter era. This isn’t a matter of recrimination or rehashing old narratives; to move forward, we must understand what happened to the largest and most significant Black movement in two generations. What did we learn, what lessons can be generalized, what mistakes can be corrected? Crucial debates that have been smothered must be allowed to breathe: How should the movement relate to the Democratic Party? What is the role of democracy in building a movement? How do we ensure political accountability within a movement? What is the role of identity politics in our movement? Can a movement called Black Lives Matter win the kind of social transformation needed to make Black lives matter?

The failure to face hard questions leaves us vulnerable to repeating the errors of the past, but this time with greater consequences.

To be sure, these questions pervade the entire American left, which has been staggered by the scale and intensity of the Trump attack. The era of Black Lives Matter has probably come to an end as the Trump attacks reach tens of millions of Americans across lines of race and ethnicity. The need for renewed politics of solidarity has never been greater. In many ways, the protests of 2020 broke through the barriers to solidarity; the strength of that protest movement was its multiracial character. Some have estimated that up to 52 percent of demonstrators were white, while 20 percent were Black and another 20 percent Latino. It was the movement that the right feared the most, which might explain the ferocity of the backlash.

Yet Black politics will always be viable in a society as racist as the United States. Black people, historically locked out of the gains of American wealth, are less inured to the lies surrounding social mobility. Black activism has almost always catalyzed other kinds of activism here. And as racism has consistently divided the working class, ordinary Black people have been forced to create their own responses to discrimination. But in the past 40 or so years, as class differences have deepened in Black communities, the ties that have bound Black people together have frayed. This separation between the Black poor and working class from Black elites and the Black political class raises new political questions about the most effective way to change the social and economic conditions for Black people.

And yet Black politics alone cannot free Black people. The United States needs multiracial organizing. The uprising of 2020 showed not only its possibility but also its powerful future. As the Trump administration masterfully wields anti-immigrant and anti-Black racism to undermine a united response to its malicious attack on the entire working class, either we will build a united movement or we will be destroyed.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
 

Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor is a co-founder of Hammer & Hope and the Hughes-Rogers Professor of African American Studies at Princeton University. She is the author of Race for Profit: How Banks and the Real Estate Industry Undermined Black Homeownership and From #BlackLivesMatter to Black Liberation and the editor of How We Get Free: Black Feminism and the Combahee River Collective. She is a recipient of a MacArthur Foundation “Genius Grant” and a Guggenheim fellowship.

Hammer & Hope is free to read. Sign up for our mailing list, follow us on Instagram, and click here to download this article.

Wednesday, June 18, 2025

2025 Marks the 10th Anniversary of the publication of 'Between the World And Me' by Ta-Nehisi Coates


TA-NEHISI COATES


Son,

"Last Sunday the host of a popular news show asked me what it meant to lose my body. The host was broadcasting from Washington, D.C., and I was seated in a remote studio on the far west side of Manhattan. A satellite closed the miles between us, but no machinery could close the gap between her world and the world for which I had been summoned to speak. When the host asked me about my body, her face faded from the screen, and was replaced by a scroll of words, written by me earlier that week.

The host read these words for the audience, and when she finished she turned to the subject of my body, although she did not mention it specifically. But by now I am accustomed to intelligent people asking about the condition of my body without realizing the nature of their request. Specifically, the host wished to know why I felt that white America’s progress, or rather the progress of those Americans who believe that they are white, was built on looting and violence. Hearing this, I felt an old and indistinct sadness well up in me. The answer to this question is the rec­ord of the believers themselves. The answer is American history.

There is nothing extreme in this statement. Americans deify democracy in a way that allows for a dim awareness that they have, from time to time, stood in defiance of their God. But democracy is a forgiving God and America’s heresies—­torture, theft, enslavement—­are so common among individuals and nations that none can declare themselves immune. In fact, Americans, in a real sense, have never betrayed their God. When Abraham Lincoln declared, in 1863, that the battle of Gettysburg must ensure “that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth,” he was not merely being aspirational; at the onset of the Civil War, the United States of America had one of the highest rates of suffrage in the world. The question is not whether Lincoln truly meant “government of the people” but what our country has, throughout its history, taken the political term “people” to actually mean. In 1863 it did not mean your mother or your grandmother, and it did not mean you and me. Thus America’s problem is not its betrayal of “government of the people,” but the means by which “the people” acquired their names.

This leads us to another equally important ideal, one that Americans implicitly accept but to which they make no conscious claim. Americans believe in the reality of “race” as a defined, indubitable feature of the natural world. Racism—­the need to ascribe bone-­deep features to people and then humiliate, reduce, and destroy them—­inevitably follows from this inalterable condition. In this way, racism is rendered as the innocent daughter of Mother Nature, and one is left to deplore the Middle Passage or the Trail of Tears the way one deplores an earthquake, a tornado, or any other phenomenon that can be cast as beyond the handiwork of men.

But race is the child of racism, not the father. And the process of naming “the people” has never been a matter of genealogy and physiognomy so much as one of hierarchy. Difference in hue and hair is old. But the belief in the preeminence of hue and hair, the notion that these factors can correctly organize a society and that they signify deeper attributes, which are indelible—­this is the new idea at the heart of this new people who have been brought up hopelessly, tragically, deceitfully, to believe that they are white.

These new people are, like us, a modern invention. But unlike us, their new name has no real meaning divorced from the machinery of criminal power. The new people were something else before they were white—­Catholic, Corsican, Welsh, Mennonite, Jewish—­and if all our national hopes have any fulfillment, then they will have to be something else again. Perhaps they will truly become American and create a nobler basis for their myths. I cannot call it. As for now, it must be said that the process of washing the disparate tribes white, the elevation of the belief in being white, was not achieved through wine tastings and ice cream socials, but rather through the pillaging of life, liberty, labor, and land; through the flaying of backs; the chaining of limbs; the strangling of dissidents; the destruction of families; the rape of mothers; the sale of children; and various other acts meant, first and foremost, to deny you and me the right to secure and govern our own bodies.

The new people are not original in this. Perhaps there has been, at some point in history, some great power whose elevation was exempt from the violent exploitation of other human bodies. If there has been, I have yet to discover it. But this banality of violence can never excuse America, because America makes no claim to the banal. America believes itself exceptional, the greatest and noblest nation ever to exist, a lone champion standing between the white city of democracy and the terrorists, despots, barbarians, and other enemies of civilization. One cannot, at once, claim to be superhuman and then plead mortal error. I propose to take our countrymen’s claims of American exceptionalism seriously, which is to say I propose subjecting our country to an exceptional moral standard. This is difficult because there exists, all around us, an apparatus urging us to accept American innocence at face value and not to inquire too much. And it is so easy to look away, to live with the fruits of our history and to ignore the great evil done in all of our names. But you and I have never truly had that luxury. I think you know.

I write you in your fifteenth year. I am writing you because this was the year you saw Eric Garner choked to death for selling cigarettes; because you know now that Renisha McBride was shot for seeking help, that John Crawford was shot down for browsing in a department store. And you have seen men in uniform drive by and murder Tamir Rice, a twelve-­year-­old child whom they were oath-­bound to protect. And you have seen men in the same uniforms pummel Marlene Pinnock, someone’s grandmother, on the side of a road. And you know now, if you did not before, that the police departments of your country have been endowed with the authority to destroy your body. It does not matter if the destruction is the result of an unfortunate overreaction. It does not matter if it originates in a misunderstanding. It does not matter if the destruction springs from a foolish policy. Sell cigarettes without the proper authority and your body can be destroyed. Resent the people trying to entrap your body and it can be destroyed. Turn into a dark stairwell and your body can be destroyed. The destroyers will rarely be held accountable. Mostly they will receive pensions. And destruction is merely the superlative form of a dominion whose prerogatives include friskings, detainings, beatings, and humiliations. All of this is common to black people. And all of this is old for black people. No one is held responsible.

There is nothing uniquely evil in these destroyers or even in this moment. The destroyers are merely men enforcing the whims of our country, correctly interpreting its heritage and legacy. It is hard to face this. But all our phrasing—­race relations, racial chasm, racial justice, racial profiling, white privilege, even white supremacy—­serves to obscure that racism is a visceral experience, that it dislodges brains, blocks airways, rips muscle, extracts organs, cracks bones, breaks teeth. You must never look away from this. You must always remember that the sociology, the history, the economics, the graphs, the charts, the regressions all land, with great violence, upon the body.

That Sunday, with that host, on that news show, I tried to explain this as best I could within the time allotted. But at the end of the segment, the host flashed a widely shared picture of an eleven-­year-­old black boy tearfully hugging a white police officer. Then she asked me about “hope.” And I knew then that I had failed. And I remembered that I had expected to fail. And I wondered again at the indistinct sadness welling up in me. Why exactly was I sad? I came out of the studio and walked for a while. It was a calm December day. Families, believing themselves white, were out on the streets. Infants, raised to be white, were bundled in strollers. And I was sad for these people, much as I was sad for the host and sad for all the people out there watching and reveling in a specious hope. I realized then why I was sad. When the journalist asked me about my body, it was like she was asking me to awaken her from the most gorgeous dream. I have seen that dream all my life. It is perfect houses with nice lawns. It is Memorial Day cookouts, block associations, and driveways. The Dream is treehouses and the Cub Scouts. The Dream smells like peppermint but tastes like strawberry shortcake. And for so long I have wanted to escape into the Dream, to fold my country over my head like a blanket. But this has never been an option because the Dream rests on our backs, the bedding made from our bodies. And knowing this, knowing that the Dream persists by warring with the known world, I was sad for the host, I was sad for all those families, I was sad for my country, but above all, in that moment, I was sad for you..."
--Excerpted from "Between the World and Me" by Ta-Nehisi Coates originally published in 2015
 

IMPORTANT NEW BOOKS:

The Memoirs of Robert and Mabel Williams: African American Freedom, Armed Resistance, and International Solidarity
by Robert and Mabel Williams
The University of North Carolina Press, 2025


[Publication date: June 17, 2025]

Born in Jim Crow–era Monroe, North Carolina, Robert F. Williams and Mabel R. Williams were the state’s most legendary African American freedom fighters. The Williamses' leadership in Monroe was just the beginning of a lifelong pursuit of freedom and justice for Black people in the United States and for oppressed populations throughout the world. Their activism foreshadowed major developments in the civil rights and Black Power movements, including Malcolm X’s advocacy of fighting oppression “by any means necessary,” the emergence of the Black Panther Party, and Black solidarity with Third World liberation movements.

Robert documented his experiences in Monroe in his classic 1962 book, Negroes with Guns, and completed a draft of his memoir, While God Lay Sleeping, months before his death in 1996. Mabel began a memoir of her own before her death in 2014. The family selected John Bracey Jr., Akinyele K. Umoja, and Gloria Aneb House to edit and complete the manuscripts, which are presented together in this book, offering a gripping portrait of these pioneering freedom fighters that is both deeply intimate and a fierce call to action in the ongoing fight against racial injustice.

REVIEWS:

“Breathtaking, audacious, thrilling, and a powerful testament to the unwavering commitment to Black liberation that defined the Williamses' lives, this book is a must for anyone seeking to understand the true depth of the Black freedom struggle and its relevance to today’s political landscape.”—Nkechi Taifa, Esq., author of Black Power, Black Lawyer: My Audacious Quest for Justice

“Before Malcolm X and the Nation of Islam, before Martin Luther King Jr. and the Southern Leadership Conference, and before Rosa Parks and the Montgomery Bus Boycott, Robert and Mabel Williams were guiding us with their daily examples in Monroe, North Carolina. They showed that it is possible to live and tell the truth without shuffling and tap-dancing for the enemy. Professors Umoja, House, and Bracey have provided us with a masterwork of essential Black international knowledge.”—Haki R. Madhubuti, founder and publisher of Third World Press, author of Black Men: Obsolete, Single, Dangerous?

“The insights of the editors, established activists who were involved with the movement when the Williamses' international travel and activism was at its height, make for a truly valuable read.” —Edward Onaci, author of Free the Land: The Republic of New Afrika and the Pursuit of a Black Nation-State

“These memoirs are rich with anecdotes and are crucial in helping flesh out many storylines about the Black freedom struggle. Together they offer intimate portraits of important actors and events in the United States and abroad.”—Charles Payne, author of I've Got the Light of Freedom: The Organizing Tradition and the Mississippi Freedom Struggle
 
Book Description:

Robert and Mabel Williams in their own words

ABOUT THE EDITORS:


Akinyele K. Umoja is a professor of Africana studies at Georgia State University.

Gloria Aneb House is a poet, activist, and professor emerita at University of Michigan–Dearborn and associate professor emerita in African American studies at Wayne State University.

John H. Bracey Jr. (1941-2023) was a professor of Afro-American studies at University of Massachusetts Amherst.


Capital's Grave: Neofeudalism and the New Class Struggle
by Jodi Dean
Verso, 2025


[Publication date: ‎ March 18, 2025]

The fact that communism did not prevail does not mean we are still in capitalism. Capitalist relations are undergoing systemic transformation and becoming something that might even be worse.

Bringing together analyses from different fields—law, technology, Marxism, and psychoanalysis—Jodi Dean shows the direction the contemporary world is heading: neofeudalism. Feudalism isn’t just a metaphor. It’s the operating system for the present. Politics and plunder thrive in the capitalist pursuit of profit, and the many are bound to serve the few, coerced into a system of rents, destruction, and hoarding driven by privilege and dependence.

The question is: In a society of serfs and servants, how do we get free?

With the rise of neofeudalism, and as more and more workers are drawn into the service sector—from nurses to Uber and delivery drivers—Dean argues that we can see the emergence of a new vanguard, the class that can lead the struggle for liberation from oppression and exploitation: what she calls the servant vanguard.

REVIEWS:

"A piercing look at how capitalism is killing itself as it entangles us in a web of techno-feudal power relations."
—Yanis Varoufakis, author of Technofeudalism

"Dean provides the most rigorous account of what a neofeudal society entails. Every page is a provocation, every sentence is a delight"
—Corey Robin, author of The Enigma of Clarence Thomas

"Dean’s new book gives us plenty to talk about"
—Ed Meek, Arts Fuse

"Dean’s new book delivers critical insights on humanity and society."
—Ron Jacobs, Counterpunch

"Seeks to update Marx for a world that Dean thinks is starting to look less like the classical industrial capitalism he wrote about than a kind of high-tech feudalism."
—Ben Burgis, UnHerd 
 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Jodi Dean teaches political theory in upstate NY where she is also actively involved in grassroots political organizing. Raised in Mississippi and Alabama, she went north for college, earning her BA at Princeton University and her MA and PhD at Columbia University. Initially, her focus was on Soviet area studies. In her second year of graduate school, she switched to political theory, which was a good thing since the Soviet Union ceased to exist and the field dissolved. Her books take up questions of solidarity, the conditions of possibility for democracy, communicative capitalism, and the necessity of building a politics that has communism as its horizon. She has given invited lectures in art and academic venues all over the world.

Trump's Return
by Noura Erakat, Robin D.G. Kelley, and David Austin Walsh
Boston Review, 2025


[Publication date: March 18, 2025]

Donald Trump is back in the White House. Boston Review issue Trump’s Return explores how he got there, what’s next, and how to resist, featuring David Austin Walsh, Robin D. G. Kelley, Noura Erakat, Marshall Steinbaum, Jeanne Morefield, and more.

Walsh takes us inside Trump’s motley coalition of tech billionaires and “America First” nativists, examining its crackups and assessing its strength. With the right’s strategy of anti-“wokeness” now effectively spent, will these alliances hold? Steinbaum reads Bidenomics in light of the long arc of Democrats’ economic policy since the Great Recession, finding that it neglected the biggest problem: inequality. And Morefield exposes the lie at the heart of MAGA’s “invasion” narrative about the fentanyl crisis, showing how decades of bipartisan fixation on enemies abroad―and denial of the exceptional savagery of capitalism at home―have led to this moment.

Looking forward, Erakat follows the imperial boomerang from Palestine as it deepens political repression in the United States; Kelley plots a revival of class solidarity as the only path to durable and meaningful resistance; plus more on the colossal scale of money in politics, the labor vote, and the promises and perils of progressive federalism.

The issue also includes Gianpaolo Baiocchi on lessons from Lula’s extraordinary success in building a workers’ party in Brazil, Joelle M. Abi-Rached on the trauma of political violence and Syria’s future after the fall of Assad, Aaron Bady on the right’s resurgent natalism and liberal panic about falling birthrates, and Samuel Hayim Brody on the reality of settler colonialism and the mystifications of Adam Kirsch.


We All Want To Change The World: My Journey Through Social Justice Movements From the 1960s To Today
by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Raymond Obstfeld
Crown, 2025


[Publication date: May 13, 2025]
 
A sweeping look back at the protest movements that changed America from activist and NBA legend Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, with personal and historical insights into lessons they can teach us today

“A compelling case for standing up for justice at a time when everything, it seems, is on the line.”—Henry Louis Gates, Jr.

For many, it can feel like change takes too long, and it might seem that we have not moved very far. But political activist Kareem Abdul-Jabbar believes that public protest is a vital part of affecting change, even if that change doesn’t come “right now.”

In
We All Want to Change the World, he examines the activism of people of all ages, ethnicities, and socio-economic backgrounds that helped change America, documenting events from the Free Speech Movement through the movement for civil rights, the fight for women’s and LGBTQ rights, and, of course, the protests against the Vietnam War. At a time in our history when we are witnessing protests across campuses, within the labor movement, and following the killing of George Floyd, Abdul-Jabbar reminds us that protests are a lifeblood of our history:

“Protest movements, even peaceful ones, are never popular at first. . . . But there is a reason protest gatherings have been so frequent throughout history: They are effective. The United States exists because of them.”

Part history lesson and part personal reminiscences of his own activism,
We All Want to Change the World will resonate with anyone who recognizes the need for social change and is willing to do the work to make it happen.
 
 
REVIEWS:

“Here, Kareem Abdul’s-Jabbar exhibits the retrospective vision of a historian, the analytical discipline and clarity of a social scientist, and the passion and compassion of the life-long social change activist that he has been.”—Harry Edwards, Ph.D., Professor Emeritus: Sociology at the University of California, Berkeley

“Kareem Abdul-Jabbar has never shied away from using the fame he achieved through his transcendent basketball talents to speak out about critically important issues, particularly around equality and social justice. The perspectives he shares in this book reflect his decades of activism and his hunger to inspire others to stand up for what is right.”—Adam Silver, NBA Commissioner

“With wisdom, compassion, and humility, this book reminds readers that the ideals of equality and justice are works in progress that each generation is tasked with transforming into reality. A timely reflection on protest movements that also chronicles how a beloved champion came to political consciousness.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review

“NBA legend Kareem Abdul-Jabbar changed the game of basketball with his breathtaking feats on the court. Just as important, he used his voice off the court to speak out for social justice in ways that would have made his hero Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., proud. We All Want to Change the World is an inspiring book that reflects the inspired life and work of the revolutionary author behind its every page.”—Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Alphonse Fletcher University Professor, Harvard University

“As accomplished as Kareem was as an athlete, what I respect and appreciate about the legendary big fellow is his ongoing fight for social justice. Kareem, like Nelson Mandela, fights for all people to be treated fairly and to be given a chance to achieve their dreams. It’s this unwavering commitment to fairness and human dignity that makes me deeply admire and respect his ongoing efforts beyond the basketball court.”—Robert Parish, former Boston Celtics player



ABOUT THE AUTHORS:


Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is one of the greatest basketball players of all time as well as a committed social justice champion and award-winning writer. He is the New York Times bestselling author of seventeen books, an award-winning documentary producer, and a twice Emmy-nominated narrator. He is the recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom, The Lincoln Medal, The Rosa Parks Award, the U.C. Presidential Medal, and Harvard University’s W. E. B. Dubois Medal of Courage. He holds nine honorary doctorate degrees and is a U.S. Cultural Ambassador. Currently, Abdul-Jabbar serves as the chairman of Skyhook Foundation, bringing educational STEM opportunities to underserved communities.

Raymond Obstfeld is an American novelist, screenwriter and non-fiction writer. He teaches creative writing at Orange Coast College.

 
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1


The Free Speech Movement: “I’m Gonna Say It Now”

Oh, I am just a student, sir, and only want to learn

But it’s hard to read through the risin’ smoke of the books that you like to burn

So I’d like to make a promise and I’d like to make a vow

That when I’ve got something to say, sir, I’m gonna say it now

Phil Ochs, “I’m Gonna Say It Now”

So, what exactly are we talking about when we talk about free speech? The free speech movement that launched in 1964 at the University of California, Berkeley (UCB) was ground zero for most student activism of the sixties and seventies. Before this unprecedented campus uprising, the country’s interest in free speech could best be described as the proverbial three wise monkeys who “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.” When it came to issues like civil rights and the war in Vietnam, it was as if most the country were on mute. The public’s sphinxlike reserve was so pronounced that President Nixon declared the silence a badge of honor: “And so tonight—to you, the great silent majority of my fellow Americans—I ask for your support.”

While that “silent majority” emulating the shy monkeys may have seen their passive support of authority as honorable behavior, those looking to extend personal, social, and political freedoms saw it as an abnegation of duty—and saw this unengaged segment of the public, remaining in their La-Z-Boys clutching the television remote, as cowardly, the only change they tolerated being that between channels showing Bewitched and Gilligan’s Island. For a few years, silent majority became a popular pejorative used by activists to shame the uninvolved. The term remained fairly dormant after the 1970s, but like a pesky cold sore, it reemerged in 2020, again as a call for conservative support, when Donald Trump found his inner Nixon and tweeted, “THE VAST SILENT MAJORITY IS ALIVE AND WELL!!!” Perhaps. But Trump lost the election by about 7 million votes. The majority broke their silence at the voting booth. Unfortunately, in 2024, in a backlash against the noise of progressive change, the silent majority voted Trump back in to silence others who spoke out for equality.

The free speech movement is unlike all the other protest movements in our history because free speech is so difficult to define. Can a server wear a Christian crucifix while working in a Muslim diner? Or a swastika while working at a Jewish deli? Can a white person publicly sing the N-word in a song written by a Black person? Can a ticket taker at a movie theater wear a button promoting a political candidate? Can a school force children to recite the Pledge of Allegiance? Can a pharmacist refuse to sell birth control pills if they are contrary to his religious beliefs? These are the kinds of questions we struggle to answer when defining the boundaries of free speech.


The First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution doesn’t offer much help. Not only is it frustratingly brief, but it includes several major rights in the same sentences: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” We are left to debate what constitutes “abridging”—which we have been vigorously and acrimoniously doing since the amendment was ratified in 1791. We are also made aware that the amendment refers only to the government restricting free speech, not all entities, including private businesses. The one thing most of us agree on: There is no such thing as absolute free speech in which anyone can say anything to anyone at any time. Our challenge for the past 230 years has been to make a distinction between what’s truly harmful and what’s merely offensive.

For example, the 1974 U.S. Supreme Court ruling in Smith v. Goguen struck down the conviction of a teenager who had worn a small American flag patch on the back pocket of his jeans. At the time of his arrest, he was not involved in any protest; nor was he blocking traffic. He was merely chatting on the street with friends. The original jury found him guilty of flag desecration, and the judge sentenced him to six months in jail. Why was he arrested in the first place? Because the police took offense at the location of his flag at a time when anti-establishment protests were still popular across the country.


Though the case was decided based on the vagueness of the law, the real issue was freedom of speech. Clearly, Goguen’s flag was interpreted by the police as stating a political opinion that offended the arresting officer. Ironically, had Goguen said the words “This country sucks,” the police wouldn’t have been able to arrest him. But the simple patch on his back pocket was a provocative scream in their faces. To the police, it was akin to his wordlessly giving them middle finger. The cops chose to interpret the patch as negative political commentary when it could just as well have been a sign of patriotism or merely a design choice. Today, designer Ralph Lauren sells an entire line of clothing featuring the American flag, including on pants. This is how the limitations of free speech evolve. One decade’s deep personal offense is another decade’s profitable commerce.

Our inability, or unwillingness, to put aside our personal biases and emotional triggers is what makes the discussion of free speech so difficult. Nevertheless, that is our mandate as American citizens. That’s what social critic Noam Chomsky meant when he said, “If you’re in favor of freedom of speech, that means you’re in favor of freedom of speech precisely for views you despise.”

There are necessary restrictions. We’re all familiar with slander and defamation laws that prohibit us from saying untrue things that damage a person or company. Three major cases in the past couple of years illustrate how necessary this restriction on free speech is, not just for individuals, but for the entire country.

In October 2022, a jury ordered Infowars founder Alex Jones to pay $965 million to the families of eight victims of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting, which took twenty-six lives. Jones’s years of broadcasting lies about the 2012 shooting—that it was a hoax and that the parents of the dead were paid actors—had done severe emotional damage to the families, who endured relentless online harassment and death threats. This decision helped place limits on the ability of conspiracy theorists to hide behind a journalistic free press while saying whatever they wanted, despite the harm it caused.


In April 2023, Fox News settled a defamation lawsuit for $787.5 million for having deliberately spread lies about the 2020 presidential election.


And in December 2023, former New York City mayor and Trump attorney Rudy Giuliani was ordered to pay $148 million for defaming two election workers, a mother and daughter, by accusing them of ballot tampering. He offered no evidence to support this claim, yet both women were targeted with threats of violence and death. They continued to be threatened even after they won their case against him.


The criminal acts behind all three of these cases were politically and financially motivated and were aimed at an audience already skeptical of government interference and, therefore, easy to goad with lies. Jones claimed that the Sandy Hook massacre had been staged in order for the government to confiscate private citizens’ guns, a dog whistle issue among conservatives that helped him earn more than $165 million over three years. His legacy for those years—aside from the pain he caused grieving parents—was to stir suspicion and resentment against the U.S. government.


In some ways, Fox News’s and Giuliani’s misdeeds were even worse. They acted like the guy in old Western movies who buys drinks for everyone in the saloon and then, when they’re liquored up, whips them into a frenzied mob to go lynch the kid in the jailhouse—all the while knowing the kid is innocent because the mob leader himself is the actual killer. The constant lies about election fraud have had a long-term and dangerous effect on the country because they undermine the integrity of the presidential election.


Trusted elections are the foundation of democracy. When the people don’t trust elections to be fair, they feel they can’t trust the government on anything. At that point, democracy dies. And if democracy in the United States falters, then democracies around the world will be weakened and may also crumble. Worse, both Giuliani and Fox News did what they did for money. Fox, for its part, was trying desperately to win back its declining audience, who felt the network wasn’t conservative enough. And Giuliani was trying to stay on Donald Trump’s good side—which seemed to work, because in September 2023, Trump hosted a $100,000-a-plate dinner to raise money for his former lawyer.

In none of these cases was the guilty party stifled from saying whatever they wanted. All the lawsuit asked them to do was offer evidence that their accusations were truthful. None could. In lawsuits like these, free speech was not being harmed—quite the opposite. These cases demanded only that free speech not be unjustly or inaccurately used as a weapon against innocent people or the country.
 
 

Trump's Parade: A Failed Spectacle ft. Jason Stanley + The Karen Bass Interview | BONUS EPISODE | The Joy Reid Show

Trump's Parade: A Failed Spectacle ft. Jason Stanley | The Joy Reid Show

In this episode of the Joy Reid Show, Joy discusses various significant events, including Father's Day, the US Army's 250th birthday, and the controversial military parade demanded by Donald Trump. The conversation transitions into the protests against Trump, highlighting the political weaknesses that have been exposed. The discussion then delves into the themes of fascism and authoritarianism, particularly in relation to recent political violence and the assassination of state lawmakers. The episode concludes with an insightful conversation with Jason Stanley, who provides a deeper understanding of fascism and its implications in contemporary society. In this conversation, the speaker delves into the definition and historical context of fascism, drawing parallels between European fascism and contemporary political movements in the United States. The discussion highlights the role of ethno-nationalism, colonialism, and the erasure of history in shaping current political ideologies. The speaker emphasizes the importance of education as a battleground for democracy and critiques the rise of authoritarianism, reflecting on personal experiences and concerns regarding safety and identity in a changing political landscape. 
 
CHAPTERS:

00:00 - Celebrating Milestones and Controversies
03:07 - Trump's Military Parade: A Failed Spectacle
09:04 - Protests and Political Weakness
15:02 - Fascism and Authoritarianism: A Deep Dive
23:14 - The Impact of Violence and Political Assassination 26:52 - Understanding Fascism: A Conversation with Jason Stanley
35:35 - Defining Fascism: A Historical Perspective
39:53 - Fascism in Contemporary Politics
41:55 - Ethno-Nationalism and Global Fascism
45:34 - Colonialism and Historical Erasure
49:05 - Education as a Battleground
55:16 - The Rise of Authoritarianism and Its Impacts 01:01:22 - Personal Reflections on Safety and Identity

The Karen Bass Interview | BONUS EPISODE | The Joy Reid Show 
 
VIDEO:   
 
We spent nearly a week in Los Angeles and got the real story of what is ... and isn't going on there. We also had the chance to speak with L.A. Mayor Karen Bass, about the random ICE detentions terrorizing her city, Trump's deployment of military troops including nationalizing the National Guard, the arrest of labor leader David Huerta and more. Check out this bonus episode and stay tuned for The Joy Reid Show regular episode at 7 p.m. ET. SUBSCRIBE to never miss a moment!: / @thejoyreidshow  
 
CHAPTERS: 
 
0:00 Meet Karen Bass  
2:54 What Really Happened during the ICE raids 
8:09 Has LAPD Been Too Aggressive?  
14:49 Is The Trump Administration Adding Fuel To The Fire?  
18:07 How Much Has This Impacted Rebuilding 
22:08 Karen Bass’ Investigation 
 
  
 
 
 
ABOUT JOY REID: 
 
Joy-Ann Lomena Reid (AKA Joy Reid) is a best-selling American author, political journalist and TV host. She was a national correspondent for MSNBC and is best known for hosting the Emmy-nominated, NAACP Award-winning political commentary and analysis show, The ReidOut, from 2020 to 2025. Her previous anchoring credits include The Reid Report (2014–2015) and AM Joy (2016–2020). 
 
STAY CONNECTED WITH THE SHOW: 
 
 
Instagram: / joyreidshow  
 
 
 
FOLLOW JOY ON SOCIAL MEDIA: 
 
Instagram: / joyannreid 

Tuesday, June 17, 2025

When We Are All Enemies of the State: A recently discovered 1974 speech by Stuart Hall on Walter Rodney—and why fascists fear ideas.

https://www.bostonreview.net/articles/when-we-are-all-enemies-of-the-state/  

 

PHOTO (L-R): Walter Rodney and Stuart Hall. Jim Alexander, the Stuart Hall Estate

Politics

Race

When We Are All Enemies of the State

A recently discovered 1974 speech by Stuart Hall on Walter Rodney—and why fascists fear ideas.

Stuart Hall 
Jordan T. Camp 
Caribbean History Protest


Inroduction by Jordan T. Camp
June 12, 2025
Boston Review


In September 1974, at a protest in London, Stuart Hall delivered a speech in support of fellow Caribbean-born radical intellectual Walter Rodney. After being offered a professorship at the University of Guyana, Rodney had resigned from the University of Dar es Salaam in Tanzania to accept the job. As he returned home to join his wife Patricia and their children in Guyana, Rodney was informed that the offer had been rescinded under pressure from the government of Guyanese Prime Minister Forbes Burnham. A revised version of Hall’s remarks was recently discovered in the Stuart Hall Archive at the University of Birmingham; they are published here for the first time.

The “Reinstate Walter Rodney Now!” protest in London was just one episode in a global solidarity movement that erupted in support of Rodney, who by that point had established an international reputation following the publication of The Groundings with My Brothers (1969) and How Europe Underdeveloped Africa (1972). His scholarship focused on exploitation by the “colonial capitalist system.” Yet Rodney also argued that formal independence, including Guyana’s, was not the fulfillment of anticolonial struggle: on the contrary, it had resulted in the ascension of a governing class—exemplified by Burnham’s rule—that spoke the language of national liberation and socialist movements while advancing interests contrary to those of workers and peasants. Independence, Rodney warned, had not fundamentally altered the “map of the world” or shifted the material conditions of the masses.

The year 1974 was a pivotal historical moment—or as Hall and Rodney might say, a conjuncture. That year, Rodney became a member of the newly formed Working People’s Alliance in Guyana, a multiracial class alliance formed to resist the U.S.-backed Burnham dictatorship. The organization challenged the Burnham regime’s nationalist narratives, which portrayed racial conflicts between African and Indian working people as inexorable features of Guyanese society. For this work, Rodney and his comrades were subject to multiple arrests and harassment.

By 1974, Hall had been a leading figure of the British New Left for almost two decades, immersed in the political culture of “Caribbean Marxism” in dialogue with other radical intellectuals like C. L. R. James. In these remarks, Hall writes that Rodney had been criminalized by the “caretakers of neo-imperialism” and targeted by the Burnham regime for his ideas, which made their way “outside the strictly academic context, because he insisted on talking to and with ordinary people.” Drawing on Antonio Gramsci’s recently translated prison writings, Hall argues that Rodney was a “shining and striking example” of a revolutionary, organic intellectual.

Hall also understood the profound threat that Rodney’s work posed to the legitimacy of the Burnham regime, and he correctly anticipated the force of the state’s reaction. On June 13, 1980, Rodney was assassinated by a car bomb in Georgetown, Guyana. He was just thirty-eight years old. It would take over four decades to officially corroborate what Rodney’s family, colleagues, and comrades knew at the time: that the assassination was carried out by an agent of the Burnham dictatorship.

Today the legacies of both Hall and Rodney demonstrate the imperative of organic intellectuals to confront authoritarian nationalism and forge global solidarity. Over a half century after Hall’s speech, and forty-five years after Rodney’s assassination, their work speaks to our own moment of resurgent fascism with remarkable clarity.

The following text is published with the permission of the estate of Stuart Hall and with the generous support of Professor Nick Beech of the Stuart Hall Archive Project.

—Jordan T. Camp

1974 Speech by Stuart Hall 

I am sorry that circumstances prevent me being with you today, to join again in the voices of protest raised against the actions of the Burnham Government with respect to Walter Rodney. But I am pleased to have the opportunity to say again, in summary form, the remarks I was privileged to address to the excellent London protest meeting organized a fortnight ago.

I was asked then to say something about Rodney’s work and position as a radical and committed black intellectual. Now it may seem odd to speak of Rodney’s intellectual work at a moment like this: for it is clear that the embargo which the Burnham government have laid against him is not intellectual in origin but political. However, it is not easy, or indeed, correct, to make this false distinction between intellectual work and politics. The Burnham government has itself given us an important political lesson in this respect. It is, first of all, because of his ideas that the Government fear[s] Rodney’s return to the Caribbean: because they know the power of critical ideas, powerfully and cogently expressed, to take root among people and to move them into action and organization. It is also because he has a special view of the role and responsibility of the intellectual that they fear him: because he has always taken responsibility for the propagation of his ideas outside the strictly academic context, because he has insisted on talking to and with ordinary people.

The government fears Rodney because it knows the power of critical ideas to move people into action.

It may be worth saying a word about this question of the relation between the intellectual and politics: it is a relation which is frequently misunderstood, not only abroad but amongst our own people, and perhaps especially by intellectuals themselves. Intellectuals are formed by their education, their training, the situations in which they work, the dominant definitions of intellectual work which they pick up like bad habits. Black intellectuals from the West Indies, in my experience, are especially prone to believe that intellectual work is, by definition, an elite activity—for other intellectuals only: and that it is only worth doing if it is done—as they say, “objectively,” in a framework of “value neutrality,” without the intrusion of commitments, biases, personal feelings or opinions: neutral men, standing outside history, judging and commenting on it in a way which leaves him free of the judgements he makes and of the things he finds out. This is a disastrous and crippling view. It utterly mistakes the role of the intellectual and the nature of intellectual work in its relation to politics.

Value neutrality, false objectivity of this sort may be possible in the natural sciences (though of course what one does with the things one finds out about nature cannot be “neutral”). But this sort of neutrality, I am convinced, does not belong within the human and historical sciences—whether your particular branch is history, economic, political science, literature or sociology. I say this particularly because so many of our gifted young men and women go into economics and the law, especially, and inhabit those professions as if they guaranteed them protection against the winds of politics and political controversy.

Of course, given the way educational chances are distributed in our society, only a very few men and women—and more men than women—ever get the chance to become full-time intellectuals. Often, these men and women work in schools, colleges, universities—in the academic world—and they tend to confuse the jobs they hold, the careers they are carving out for themselves, the whole restricted universe of Academia—for serious, critical intellectual work. They equate the restricted route they have been privileged to take to knowledge, with the functions of knowledge itself, with its production. Let me insist that “the academic” and “the intellectual” are not interchangeable terms: they are not the same thing: they may even be at the opposite ends of the scale. The academic life can actually prevent intellectuals [from] doing serious intellectual work. The academic world certainly encourages us to cut ourselves off from the transmission of ideas into action, the propagation of knowledge among the people. The fact is that, as Gramsci, the great Italian revolutionary and theorist once said, “all men are intellectuals,” though only a few are paid to do such work. All men, in so far as they think about what they do, apply thought to action, becomes self-conscious of their actions and their consequences, are intellectuals. If, then, we “full-time” intellectuals restrict our knowledge to those who have been fortunate enough to get full-time education and to work in universities, we are simply reproducing, by our own efforts, the unequal distribution of knowledge and education in our societies. We are simply contributing to the perpetuation of the “knowledge” of the few, and the ignorance of the many. Academics may be satisfied with that role: revolutionary intellectuals cannot be.

It is not possible, in my view, to study human societies, to study historical movements and developments, in a “value-neutral” framework. Knowledge is always from a certain point of view. It is always for this group or that. It always, either tells the story from the top downwards—making firmer the orthodox and prevailing interpretations of history—or it tells history from the bottom up, and thereby disrupts, displaces, challenges and subverts the dominant definition of things. There are lots of things we don’t know about slavery and the plantation: but there is no invisible point of “true objectivity” between a history of slavery told from the perspective of the slave-owner and the history of slavery told from the perspective of the slave. Of course, this does not mean that the intellectual is free to say whatever he likes, according to his personal beliefs. He has a commitment to the truth. He has a commitment to the complexity of events. He has a commitment to discover things we did not know, to expand the range and reach of our common knowledge. His commitment to the truth, to the complexity of historical reality, however, is not due to the fact that he must obey certain canons of academic scholarship. He has a commitment to the truth because we need to know, because we need to be right about the past and the present, so that we can actively take hold of history and shape the future for ourselves. Sometimes, then, the intellectual must tell us unpalatable truths—things we would much sooner not have heard. He must not bow before these difficulties. On the other hand, he must never confuse commitment to the truth with value-neutrality, with standing outside of history.

In this respect, Walter Rodney has set us a shining and striking example—his whole life, so far, has been a living testimony to the points I have been trying to make. Long ago, he set out to find out and to tell as fully and truthfully as he knew, the facts about the relationship between Caribbean society and its African heritage. I need hardly tell you how deeply this whole story has been buried, how falsely the history about it has been reconstructed for us over 400 years by our intellectual masters and mentors—what a labour of discovery, a labour in the “archeology of hidden knowledge” this story of Africa and the Caribbean has been. I need hardly tell you the courage it requires, even now, to assent and assert “the African connection.” Walter Rodney’s works in this field of Caribbean and African history have been models of historical scholarship: but that is not the point. That is only to say that, as an intellectual, he did his work well. What is more important, Rodney recognized from the very outset the political and cultural consequences of telling the African story anew to Caribbean audiences. He knew how deeply we had all, collectively, repressed that “African connection.” He knew the depths of collective forgetfulness which have marked our culture, which have led us black men and women to scorn and repress and look away from the truth about our past which history, properly told, has to tell us. He knew the depths of collective self-disgust and self-mistrust over which we had constructed a heavy historical veil. To open up the dark corners of history, not only to rewrite “white” history in “black terms” but to enable black men to see for themselves who they were and where they came from, is, in our present circumstances, to trigger the deepest emotions, to touch off a historical time-bomb with [a] short fuse. The connection, then, between Rodney’s intellectual work and politics in the Caribbean were not externally imposed—imposed from the outside. The connections were internal to the story itself—the intellectual and the political work were one and the same. To do one, given our past, was inevitably to do the other. To assert that our societies in the Caribbean are connected to world history through the history of black civilizations, as well as of Asians, is to pose the question, at the same time, of how this connection ever got lost: who told the story the wrong way round? and why? and what consequences follow when we destroy the old historical myths and falsifications and begin to reconstruct history along different lines? That is a critical and subversive intellectual task—political because it is intellectual. It constitutes his first “crime” in the eyes of the governments which protect and defend the status quo in our home societies. The fact that some of those governments are themselves composed of black men is only one of the many paradoxes which his unfolding story discovers—and explains.

To do revolutionary intellectual work, then, on the black, African past of present Caribbean societies was itself, in the eyes of the powers that be, a “crime”: a political crime. We should not at all underestimate the pressure and the constraints, the harassments and surveillance which go on and have gone on over the last two decades, pressuring black intellectuals at work in the Caribbean to conform: Walter Rodney, after all, has himself already been a victim of precisely such pressures, exerted—to my shame—by the then Government of my own country, Jamaica.

The “black revolution” was never about those men who happened to have black skin but about changing the terms of power itself.

To this first “crime,” however, Walter Rodney added a second. He refused the invitation, so to speak, to limit his work to academic circles and audiences only. He was determined to go out beyond the walls of the universities, to speak to ordinary people, to organize classes and meetings and discussions with them, to make his ideas and his knowledge live among them. If it is a “political” act to do certain kinds of intellectual work, to take one’s commitments seriously, and to follow the path of critical knowledge, it is considered even more so to break the boundaries of Academia and to try to reach and work alongside the masses in their struggle. This is the point where the intellectual takes upon himself the full political responsibility of his work, his role—and thus the point at which he most directly encounters the repressive mechanisms of the State. Rodney’s career is also a clear testimony to this harsh fact not once, but now thanks to the Burnham Government—twice.

It has never been easy in the Caribbean setting to follow the intellectual vocation—as I’ve tried to outline it—right through to its logical conclusion. But in earlier days, when the lines of power and influence were simpler, more starkly drawn, it was easier to know one’s enemies, and to foresee where the crunch would come. It is not so easy today. Almost everywhere in the Caribbean [where] political independence has been “won,” “black people” have won a measure of political, economic and educational influence and power in these societies. Not only this: often, in the name of the nationalist revolution, in the name of “independence,” even in the name, God help us, of “black power,” Governments have appropriated and incorporated the national figures of the past, the history of the past, and erected them into symbols and totems which feed and support their own power. The statues to slave leaders, to black nationalists, to Maroons and leaders of rebellions go up everywhere; the names are woven into the nationalist rhetoric; the stamps and coins are printed; the power of their names and actions are b[r]ought over. How come it, then, that black men, in power, ruling in the name of a nationalist revolution, and with the symbolic power of a Garvey or a Gordon behind them, fear to hear the truth about black men and Africa from a black intellectual who is also their own countryman? If “black power” is in command, how can “black history” subvert?

This is a paradox: and the Walter Rodney case demands that we confront it honestly and openly, and discover its truth. The truth is that the “black revolution” was never about those men who happened to have black skins: it was never about black men slipping into white men’s shoes; it was never about black men inheriting the mantle of power which white men had laid aside. It was always about the dispossessed of the earth, about changing the terms of power itself, about creating new societies—not about inheriting the old. The truth is that, though the trappings and emblems and sometimes the “colour” of power in the Caribbean has changed, the structures have not. Those things which kept some men and women in chains while others were free, and then kept some men in power while others were powerless, are still at work keeping some men rich and powerful while others—the great masses of the people, wait at the gate, “the wretched of the earth.” Structures are more powerful than men. Men with good or bad intentions enter into structures they have not revolutionized—and are tamed by them. They take over the structures of exploitation and power: they internalize the beliefs, the justifications, the rationalizations, the motivations of power and privilege: they begin to think of “the dispossessed” as them; and of those who take up the struggle alongside the dispossessed as—the enemy. For some of these men—the caretakers of neo-imperialism, those who manage the “over-development of under-development” in the Caribbean—Walter Rodney has become the enemy. We must not, for a moment, misunderstand what this means, or what its consequences are.

I salute Walter Rodney. If what he has tried to do is the act of “an enemy,” then we are all enemies. When the lines of struggle are drawn in this way, men cannot stand aside, hesitating between one value-neutral hypothesis and another—especially not intellectuals. It is his duty to the truth which drives him to commit himself. He is an intellectual, not in spite of the fact that he is committed, but because he is committed, because he has chosen to stand on the line. I protest that the Burnham Government finds itself in this historical moment, drawing the line. It is a matter of deep dismay to find the whole repressive apparatus of power inherited by black men from white, and applied in exactly the same way. But it is a matter which has to be faced and dealt with. The struggle to defend Walter Rodney against this willful and arbitrary exercise of coercive power is one episode in that longer struggle. It is to that longer struggle—the struggle [to] “make the revolution in the Caribbean”—to which his life and work witnesses, and to which Rodney continues to summon us.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

 

Stuart Hall (1932–2014) was a Jamaica-born sociologist and cultural theorist. He served as inaugural editor of New Left Review and Director of the Birmingham Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies.

Jordan T. Camp is Associate Professor of American Studies and Founding Co-Director of the Trinity Social Justice Institute at Trinity College and author of Incarcerating the Crisis: Freedom Struggles and the Rise of the Neoliberal State.