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"When rights are consistently denied, a cause should be pressed in the courts and in negotiations among local leaders, and not in the streets." --Alabama clergymen's letter to the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. April 12, 1963
"You deplore the demonstrations taking place in Birmingham. But your statement, I am sorry to say, fails to express a similar concern for the conditions that brought about the demonstrations. ... It is unfortunate that demonstrations are taking place in Birmingham, but it is even more unfortunate that the city's white power structure left the Negro community with no alternative." --From Letter From a Birmingham Jail, by Martin Luther King Jr., April 16, 1963
I visited the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site for the first time two weekends ago while in Atlanta for a wedding. I sat in the pews of the original Ebenezer Baptist Church listening to recordings of King speaking on racial and economic injustice, words just as applicable to the present moment as they were 50 years ago.
I walked along the reflecting pool--a mausoleum surrounded by the kind of poverty and urban blight King was fighting to end at the time of his assassination in 1968--and watched people toss coins into the water and pose for photos in front of the tombs of King and his wife, Coretta.
I saw posters celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Voting Rights Act--although the Voting Rights Act itself didn't survive intact for 50 years but was gutted by the U.S. Supreme Court in 2013.
I viewed photos of activists receiving nonviolent-resistance training at the Highlander Center in Tennessee. I thought of a similar photo that exists of myself with a group of modern activists, many of whom were in Cleveland at that moment attending the Movement for Black Lives Convening. I paused to scroll through my Twitter feed and saw that attendees of the convening in Cleveland had just been pepper-sprayed by a cop. An anger that had been slowly rising within me during my visit finally boiled over.
I'm struck by the way society can commemorate the movement of the past while condemning the movement of the present. Or how it can continually celebrate social progress in the most abstract of ways while ignoring the realities of what is required for social progress to occur. Lyndon B. Johnson's signing of the Voting Rights Act happened only because there were black Americans refusing to comply with oppression, creating disruption and posing direct challenges to the United States' racial caste system.
In 1963, Birmingham, Ala., was one of the most segregated cities in the United States of America. Black citizens faced brutal racial and economic oppression. If they protested, they faced violence from police and local authorities. To ask, "Was the Birmingham campaign of 1963 really necessary?" seems like a ridiculous question to most people today.
Yet some of those very same people whose 20-20 hindsight never fails them seem blind to the present. They ask why Black Lives Matter protesters staged die-ins at the malls, disrupting America's high holy shopping season, or why they blocked traffic on the highways. Do they pause to "express a similar concern for the conditions that brought about the demonstrations"? Instead of asking why young black people are interrupting white people at brunch, perhaps we should be asking why equal protection under the law is not a real thing.
In 2015, St. Louis remains one of the most segregated cities in the United States of America. According to Richard Rothstein's study "The Making of Ferguson," black citizens there have faced brutal racial and economic oppression for decades, including the following:
... zoning rules that classified white neighborhoods as residential and black neighborhoods as commercial or industrial; segregated public-housing projects that replaced integrated low-income areas; federal subsidies for suburban development conditioned on African-American exclusion; federal and local requirements for, and enforcement of, property deeds and neighborhood agreements that prohibited resale of white-owned property to, or occupancy by, African Americans; tax favoritism for private institutions that practiced segregation; municipal boundary lines designed to separate black neighborhoods from white ones and to deny necessary services to the former; real estate, insurance, and banking regulators who tolerated and sometimes required racial segregation; and urban renewal plans whose purpose was to shift black populations from central cities like St. Louis to inner-ring suburbs like Ferguson.
On Aug. 9, 2014, Michael Brown, an 18-year-old, unarmed black teenager, was shot and killed by a white police officer named Darren Wilson in a place where black citizens are routinely harassed by cops to generate revenue for the city coffers. Brown's body was left on full display in the street for hours. The officer involved was not arrested.
When residents objected, police responded with canine units, rifles, tanks and tear gas. Journalists were arrested, protesters were thrown in jail, residents were teargassed in their own front yards. Yet we must explain why there was an uprising in Ferguson? How much longer must we wait for justice? Why must we wait at all?
South Carolina was the first state to secede from the Union, arguing, "We of the South contend that slavery is right." The Confederacy was formed in the belief that African Americans should remain in a perpetual state of bondage. For over a hundred years, the Ku Klux Klan and white supremacists waved the Confederate battle flag as a sign of nonsurrender as they continued to terrorize and murder black Americans.
In 1961, at the height of the civil rights movement, the all-white South Carolina Legislature voted to raise the Confederate battle flag above the Statehouse. Black residents protested it for the next 54 years.
In June 2015, a white supremacist entered Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, S.C., and massacred a local civil rights leader and eight parishioners during Bible study. The state refused to lower the flag even as these victims of a hate crime were laid to rest. Yet instead of asking the state of South Carolina why it took 54 years of protest and a massacre to ultimately remove a hate symbol from its Capitol, James Tyson and I had to explain why we removed the flag ourselves instead of waiting longer. How much longer must we wait for justice? Why must we wait at all?
Some seem to think we've reached a point in time where the right to vote has replaced the need to disrupt the system--although the right to vote itself has yet to be secured. Rights are signed into law by the legislature, but history shows that the legislative pen moves in accordance with the pressure of organized protest and disruption in the streets.
This moment requires bold action and disruption of business as usual for the same reasons it was required in Birmingham in 1963. We easily become blind to what we see every day. The continued oppression and brutalization of black life is so normalized that we're taught to wait and be patient, as though liberation is an inevitable by-product of the passage of time. It's not and it never has been.
The political establishment cannot praise King with one breath while condemning modern civil disobedience in the next breath. If we are wrong now, King was wrong then. If King was right then, we are right now.
History will remember the Ferguson uprising as a moment of awakening. This small suburb--which many of us might not have ever heard of were it not for the events of August 2014 and the existence of social media--is a microcosm of America. We looked at Ferguson and saw that Ferguson is everywhere. There can be no more waiting for the passage of time to do what only we can do by taking a stand via direct action. When oppression is the status quo, disruption is a moral duty.
The movement lives.
On Friday, June 24, I turned on my television to watch the funeral for Reverend Clementa Pinckney, one of the nine people shot dead at the Emanuel AME church in Charleston, South Carolina.
President Obama sang "Amazing Grace" at a time when many in the nation are mourning not only for the lost lives of the Emanuel 9 but the loss of black life that is stitched into the fabric of this country.
But then Bree Newsome allowed me to breathe.
I have heard "Amazing Grace" many times in my life. Black Americans singing, in moments of deep despair, is too familiar. I did not need to hear those sounds at this moment in our history.I needed something, but that was not it.
I switched to C-SPAN and, instead of seeing the funeral, I saw the news instead and learned that the U.S. Supreme Court had legalized same-sex marriage in all 50 states. I felt a surge of joy because I am truly invested in human rights for all in this country.
Yet I wondered if the many who were celebrating the Supreme Court ruling were feeling the death of the Emanuel 9 with the same depth as they felt this victory. As a black American, it is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain a sense of joy. These days, I am afraid to look at my social media feeds because, inevitably, I will see news of another murdered, unarmed, black person. It takes everything I have to not get crushed under the weight of the deep sorrow that many black people and our allies are feeling in this moment.
So I was not sure how to feel, how to be joyful for this forward movement in the country.
Fortunately, social media exploded with another story. On Saturday, June 27, I turned to my social media feeds and there, like a beam of light, was Bree Newsome taking down the Confederate flag from the Capitol building in Columbia, South Carolina.
"We removed the flag today because we can't wait any longer," Newsome said in a statement she sent out by email.
A graduate of New York University who has directed films and played in a funk band called Powerhouse, Newsome's action has already garnered more than $115,000 on an Indiegogo campaign.
(Update: Newsome released a detailed and passionate statement about the event on June 29.)
The singing of "Amazing Grace" felt like a familiar trope.
Until Newsome's action, I had been imploding with rage at the fact that South Carolina did not have the decency to take down that flag as the body of Clementa Pinckney--who was a South Carolina state senator as well as a preacher--was brought to the state house. There was a lump in my throat, in my heart. The presence of that flag, with every wave, laid salt in the wound of the tragedy.
But then Bree Newsome allowed me to breathe. The anger and hurt disappeared, for a moment, because she let us know we are still powerful. She showed us that we liberate ourselves through our actions. She reminded us, in the midst of deep sorrow, that we, who want to see a better America, must keep living, fighting, breathing, doing.
Her act spoke to me in a way that the president's singing did not. The singing of "Amazing Grace" felt like a familiar trope in the narrative of black America: We suffer, we sing, we forgive. Newsome's actions were different and more inspired. They addressed white supremacy directly. When many were arguing that the Confederate flag could not be removed because of legal reasons, Newsome removed it. In that act, she reminded us that Americans who want to see change, can write a bolder narrative.
We must maintain a sense of love, joy, hope, and movement as we grieve. But that is hard to do when black America and our allies are suffering through a constant stream of murdered black Americans, together with symbols of our oppression like the Confederate flag.
Newsome demonstrated that it is possible to hold two conflicting emotions in balance. Out of her grief came an action that challenged racism and brought joy to me and to thousands of others. Joy is essential to struggle. Within the joy, planning, strategizing, hand-holding, falling in love, and caring for one another, we extend the legacy of the murdered. I do not let them go when I am caught up in a moment of folly. I do not let them go when I am at the botanical gardens, talking with a friend about our suffering. They are walking with me, in my life, with every step. I remind myself of that. I remind myself that I am here to keep their memory alive and to work so that others do not suffer a similar fate. I still feel the ache of their loss, even as I celebrate the victories.
I am trying to balance sorrow and joy. These days, I seem to experience the former more than the latter. I need something to be done about white violence, and I mean something substantial, on the order of the Supreme Court ruling on same-sex marriage. The president singing "Amazing Grace" was not that thing.
Bree Newsome reminded me there is a legacy in black America that joins singing and spirituality and action. She reminded me that what I really need to see is the Confederate flag--and everything it represents--taken down.
An activist and youth organizer named Bree Newsome climbed the flagpole in front of the South Carolina capitol in Columbia early Saturday morning and pulled down the Confederate flag still flying on Statehouse grounds, telling media, "we can't wait any longer."
Newsome, 30, of Charlotte, was about halfway up the 30-foot flagpole when police demanded she climb back down, but she kept going until she was able to remove the flag from its perch. Upon returning to the ground, Newsome was arrested along with another activist, James Ian Dyson, and taken to the Alvin S. Glenn Detention Center on misdemeanor charges of defacing a monument on state capitol grounds. News of their action spread quickly under the hashtag #FreeBree, sparking a petition to remove the flag and drop the charges against Newsome.
"We removed the flag today because we can't wait any longer," Newsome said in a written statement on Saturday. "We can't continue like this another day. It's time for a new chapter where we are sincere about dismantling white supremacy and building toward true racial justice and equality."
After Newsome's arrest, officials ordered the banner to be raised again around 8:30 am--just in time for a pro-flag rally.
The action came just hours before funeral services continued for the third day for the victims of an attack on Emanuel A.M.E. Church in Charleston, South Carolina, in which a gunman shot dead nine black men and women. Dylann Roof, a 21-year-old white supremacist, has been charged in the murders. The attack is being investigated as a hate crime and has sparked a renewed demand by activists to take down the Confederate flags flying on capitol grounds in numerous states.
Watch video of the action below:
"We could not sit by and watch the victims of the Charleston Massacre be laid to rest while the inspiration for their deaths continues to fly above their caskets," the group that organized the action said in a statement.
"The flag represents white supremacy," another activist, 25-year-old Tamika Lewis, told the Guardian on Saturday. "The image alone is used to ignite fear and intimidation, especially among people of color and minorities. This was a long time coming."
South Carolina Governor Nikki Haley called on the state legislature this week to vote to remove the flag. But, as Lewis told the Guardian, "This was a Confederate symbol that ignited an individual to kill and murder innocent black people in a church, and it was still erected. The legislature was just taking too long to act morally and justly. They're dragging their feet."