June Jordan was born on July 9, 1936 and died on June 14, 2002. To commemorate her time with us, we are making her publications in THE BLACK SCHOLAR free to access through July 2016. In addition to the works we link to in this post, you can also access “In Memoriam: June Jordan (1936-2002)” from TBS issue 32.2 (2002). 

It has been nearly a decade-and-a-half since June 14, 2002, the day June Jordan left us in the physical, corporeal sense to emerge amongst the ancestors. And during such precarious times in which we live, given the nature of our various struggles and politics, I find myself wondering—and even longing almost nostalgically for—precisely what June Jordan would do, say, or write in this present moment.

In her infinite wisdom and incomparable genius as a poet, essayist, professor, activist, and conscious human, what would Jordan make of the Black Lives Matter movement and struggles of black folks against police brutality and systemic state violence? What would Jordan pen, in 2016, about sexual assault and rape culture that is evermore pervasive and institutionalized? What might she think about identity politics and human rights when simply looking the “wrong” gender—or being gender “non-conforming”—could get one harassed or arrested in restrooms in North Carolina or killed—if LGBTQ—in an Orlando nightclub and other countless corridors across America. Who would she support in the presidential election? The questions are many. The struggles are real.

What is equally real is the power of June Jordan’s work, which is transformative and transcends time. And so, what gives me comfort, then, in these uncertain moments is precisely Jordan and her very words themselves. Her poetry, essays, and sharp intellectualism—along with her incisive analysis and ability to see things for what they are—have and will always remain with us. To be sure, she not only speaks to the cultural, historical, and political consciousness and complexities, but she does so in a language and lexicon of her very own. At its very core, her work is a black cultural tradition and influence that, while specific, is simultaneously universal and intersectional.

As a child born in Harlem, NYC to Jamaican immigrants, Jordan speaks at once to the domestic, grounding her work solidly in the United States, yet simultaneously in the global, cosmopolitan, and diasporic. This she demonstrates so aptly in “1978” in which the poetic consciousness (or narrative voice) parallels two women’s journeys: one that extends through Mississippi and Virginia with a stop in Washington D.C., where a Central Intelligence Agent offers “to help…with her bags” on her way to Angola, while another woman and her child face deportation to Venezuela. To this tapestry, she interjects a “consideration of the status of sex” and references Ntozake Shange’s choreopoem, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf, while concluding with a provocative question, “am I a feminist”? The beauty, essence, and complexity of this poem lie in the fundamental notion that none of the people or personas of the poems (or their struggles, or the issues governing gender, race, the state and surveillance, or discourses on sex, gender, and human rights) is disparate or isolated.

Jordan’s work does this consistently. It invariably indicts, advocates, enlightens, and empowers while concomitantly entertaining and inspiring. In whatever scenario, Jordan’s words are marked by a complexity, poetic and political, that have larger implications that remind us of the interlocking natures of our identities, our struggles, and our lives. In this sense, she and her work are intersectional, invariably illuminating the indivisibility of our personhoods, our oppressions, our movements, our politics, and ultimately ourselves.

In “Poem from Taped Testimony in the Tradition of the Very Rt. Reasonable Bernhard Goetz,” Jordan, again, showcases her concern with and flare for the historical and political, as well as draws upon (then) current events to do so in ways that speak beyond that particular moment. By incorporating the possible mindset of Bernard Goetz, a white man who killed young blacks in the subway in New York City, Jordan utilizes poetry and words from a black perspective to consider the dynamics and injustices inherent in that scenario. And, “aftermath,” could have been written today in its linking human oppression and death to the need for advocacy, activism, and justice for black lives: “I am tired from this digging up of human/bodies/no one loved enough to save from death.”

In “Can I Get a Witness?” Jordan ruminates on the Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas hearings of which this year marks the twenty-fifth anniversary. What stands out is her characterization of “Anita Hill, whose public calm and dispassionate sincerity refreshed America’s eyes and ears with her persuasive example of what somebody looks like when she’s simply trying to tell the truth.” Jordan celebrates, uplifts, and recognizes in Anita Hill what the Senate Judiciary Committee comprised of fourteen white men, many men, and members of the black community itself refused to see or acknowledge in her. Instead, they choose to see and support Thomas.

These are the qualities that make Jordan and her work eloquent, authentic, and challenging. She does not strive to make us comfortable in that which is discomforting, disconcerting, unjust, or oppressive. She challenges us, pushing the limits and expanding our thinking and our discourses when she theorizes “a new politics of sexuality.” Here, she asserts that “more pervasive than any other oppression, than any other bitterly contested human domain, is the oppression of sexuality, the exploitation of the human domain of sexuality for power.” What makes this even more provocative is when we consider sexuality and its inevitable interaction with race, gender, nationality, and class. This complexity and analysis are so emblematic of Jordan.

She is a cultural thinker and critic who, through her prose and poetics, takes on issues ranging from black liberation and police violence[1]; condemnation of sexual violence, rape, and war, while utilizing a language of non-consensual penetration and coercion as well as ownership of one’s right to an authentic self—black and female—that proclaims “I Am Not Wrong: Wrong Is Not My Name”[2]; and myriad other issues from black womanhood, civil and human rights, LGBTQ rights and liberation, to gender equality and feminism.

The words she wrote since she published her first book of poetry in 1969 up to her death speak powerfully. They reverberate still today, providing answers and serving as a compass to guide us as we navigate the contemporary moment.  As such, we need not speculate or surmise what she might think about Daniel Holtzclaw, Brock Turner, the Orlando shooter, or about North Carolina and those that disenfranchise or take the lives of LGBTQ folks. Nor must we contemplate what she would think of Black Lives Matter, or #SayHerName, or the ways police violence continues against black bodies. She wrote her words and sentiments, shedding light on the pain and the beauty, the contradictions and atrocities, as well as the ways to overcome and live freely. She is the consummate poet, activist, teacher, and human who teaches valuable lessons while elevating our spirits, culture, and humanity. It is only fitting that we heed, honor, and love her assiduously. 

Notes

[1] See “Poem about Police Violence” (1974)

[2] See “Poem About My Rights”

Dr. Trimiko Melancon is an associate professor of English, African American Studies, and Women’s Studies, as well as co-director of the Women’s Studies Program, at Loyola University. She is the author of Unbought and Unbossed: Transgressive Black Women, Sexuality, and Representation (Temple, 2014) and editor of Black Female Sexualities (Rutgers, 2015), with Joanne M. Braxton. Her publications also appear in African American Review, Callaloo, Reconstruction, and the Journal of Popular Culture, among other venues: Ms. Magazine, The Good Men Project, and Huffington Post.

In 1973 I attended a meeting at a local church to establish an acupuncture clinic to help poor Blacks and Chicanos in Los Angeles overcome heroin addiction. I was 19 years old and invited to the meeting by one of my movement mentors, Mamadou Lumumba. A similar project had been implemented in the Bronx, New York at the Lincoln Hospital by members of the Young Lords, Black Panther Party, and Provisional Government of the Republic of New Afrika. A young couple, Mutulu and Afeni Shakur, were the representatives from the Lincoln Hospital revolutionary collective and organizers of the meeting. After being introduced, I was like, “this ain’t the same Afeni Shakur I had been reading articles about in the Black Panther newspaper? The same sister who was part of the Panther New York 21 political prisoners? The same freedom fighter who passionately told her story in the book Look for me in the Whirlwind?” She seemed so down to earth. Even though she was a leader in our movement, Afeni treated me, a younger comrade, as a peer. She listened. She joked. No airs or arrogance.

That same year, my comrade Kamau Umoja and I were visiting New York after a conference in Philadelphia. Kamau took me by Afeni and Mutulu’s apartment in Harlem. We came to the door, which was adorned with a Black nationalist poster that asked, “To Which Nation, Do you Belong?”[i] On a cold December night, we were enthusiastically invited into the Shakur’s quaint and culturally nurturing space by Mutulu. The house was decorated for Kwanzaa. The Shakur children, Tupac and Sekwiya, played as we talked about the Movement and caught up. I listened to Afeni and Mutulu attentively. While they were only a few years older than me, I knew they were movement veterans with rich experiences and commitment to our struggle.

I would come to know the Shakurs better, particularly after they made trips to Los Angeles to involve our Los Angeles-based House of Umoja collective in the campaign to free Geronimo Ji-Jaga (Pratt) from captivity after he had been falsely incarcerated. The Shakurs spearheaded the National Task Force for Cointelpro Litigation and Research. The Task Force was formed after white radicals discovered FBI documents proving a governmental conspiracy (Counter-Intelligence Progam a.k.a. Cointelpro) to repress the Black Power and Anti-war movements, and other struggles for self-determination and liberation. Mutulu and Afeni spearheaded the Task Force by organizing the research and political organizing teams and coordinating the legal work that would ultimately lead to the freeing of Geronimo. They came to LA to get us and others organized to form a defense committee and get community support for the legal team.

I got to know Afeni better on these trips when she would come to the West Coast. She came to coordinate with the attorneys, interview witnesses, organize the Task Force members, and do public speaking to raise awareness and funds. Afeni Shakur was a prolific speaker, one of the best in the Movement. She was passionate, motivational, and charismatic. She was the type of speaker who made you want to act. I used to tell folks, “After her speech, I would want to jump off a mountain, if that sister told me to.” Afeni could speak to the brother or sister in the street, as well as the intellectual. She could touch the feelings you had and speak in a language that the “folk” could identify with. A sensitive person, Afeni could tap into the pain and suffering our people were feeling and connect them to the campaigns of the movement.

Afeni also loved our people’s culture. I remember when Bob Marley’s album Survival came out, she played it over and over. Afeni would constantly talk about how the movement needed our songs. We needed a soundtrack to the struggle. Besides being a great public speaker, Afeni was very personable and loved people, which made her an effective grassroots organizer in informal situations. She was a great storyteller who could take simple situations and draw lessons from them. She could also network people, making connections, and building relationships.

Besides being a champion for the freedom of our political prisoners, Afeni was a fighter for the dignity and respect for Black women. I remember one time she attended a movement conference and made an observation. There was a session on “The Role of Women in the Movement.” There were only female participants in this session.  Afeni noted a lot of the male movement leaders were in a session on “(Independent Political) Party-Building.” She revealed, “Wow, can I be in that session? I’m not sure I know enough.” But she decided to attend the male dominated party-building session. After listening to the conversation, Afeni concluded, “Most of these men don’t know what they are talking about either…. I figured out I might as well stay and participate in this conversation. I had as much to offer as most of these men!” This story illustrates how Afeni was great at demystifying and challenging myths.

The 1980s brought a significant decline in the activity of the Black liberation movement. This decline was primarily a result of government repression and our own internal contradictions. Many became cynical and discouraged. I lost track of Afeni during this period. I heard rumors of addiction to crack cocaine. Like many of our family members during the 1980s, Afeni was a victim of the crack epidemic. During this period, I would develop a relationship with Afeni’s son, Tupac. Pac was 18 years old and became a member of the New Afrikan Panther group that I mentored along with others. In a private conversation, Pac revealed the pain he had from his Mom’s addiction.

One of Tupac’s biggest joys was seeing Afeni’s recovery. Because he was able to support his family through his music and acting, Pac physically reunited his family in Dekalb County, Georgia. I was able to reunite with Afeni during this period. She thanked me for playing a role in her son’s life during the period she was challenged with addiction. She shared a commitment to healing, spiritual growth, and transformation from her experience. Afeni and her sister “Glo” (Gloria Jean) formed the core of the family which included Pac, Sekyiwa, and Glo’s children and their extended family. Pac’s fame and wealth and Afeni’s recovery served to empower and bless this family and enabled them to pursue opportunities and confront obstacles.

Some of my comrades are concerned about Afeni’s legacy being solely limited to being known as “Pac’s Mama.” On the other hand, one must note that many of the qualities that make Tupac Shakur a renowned artist are largely due to him being Afeni’s son. Pac’s passion, ability to identify and express the pain and suffering of “everyday” people, and his allegiance to the “underdog” directly comes from his mother. His ability to tell our stories and love the culture of our folks is another “Afenism” that made him loved by millions. Pac was truly a “Shakur”. What does that mean? The Shakurs love their ancestral culture and the experience of grassroots Black people. This is why “Thuglife” is not about crime and being a parasite in our community. “Thuglife” was meant to speak for the most oppressed in our community, the poor, incarcerated, those trapped in the underground economy, and challenged by addiction.

Afeni’s life should encourage us to fight oppression. It should remind us that through love we can conquer addiction and re-unite our families. Afeni will be missed. She will be powerful as an Ancestor. My life is certainly blessed because it was touched by her.

Rise in Power Afeni Shakur

[i] The poster had a red, black, and green flag on right and the U.S. flag on the left and asked the question “To which nation do you belong?”. This poster was developed by the House of Umoja, a revolutionary nationalist collective, to promote Black self-determination.

Akinyele Umoja is a scholar-activist. He is a Professor and the Chair of the Department of African-American Studies at Georgia State University. He is the author of We Will Shoot Back: Armed Resistance and the Mississippi Freedom Movement (New York University, 2013). Umoja is also a co-founder of the New Afrikan Peoples Organization and the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement.

Marion Barry was Mayor of the District of Columbia for 16 years and a City Councilmember for almost 16 more years. He made significant and lasting contributions to the nation’s capital. The District of Columbia just wrapped up a three-day commemoration to the former mayor that thousands of people attended.

Since his death on November 23, 2014, Marion Barry has stayed on my mind. His death has crystallized the reservoir of love and deep respect I have for him. I have spent a good deal of time in recent days listening to those who knew him best tell little-known stories about Barry’s kindness, compassion, political savvy, survival skills, and prodigious intellect.

I came to Washington, D.C. in 1996, armed with the idea that if I were a good a journalist then the District of Columbia would be the ideal place to test that theory. At the Washington Times newspaper, local government was one of my beats so I came in regular contact with Mayor Barry. At the time, the District of Columbia, enmeshed in myriad financial difficulties, would see Congress snatch control of the city and place it in the hands of the D.C. Financial Control Board.

Through Dr. Linda Wharton Boyd, Barry lured me away from the Washington Times and for more than three years, I served as his speechwriter. I was not his friend or confidante, but I had the opportunity to sit in his office off to the corner, watch him closely, learn from him, quiz him about politics and strategies, and pepper him with questions of all kinds. I saw history unfold and watched luminaries step across the threshold including Dr. Betty Shabazz, James Farmer, Winnie Mandela, Coretta Scott King, Dr. Dorothy Height, Lawrence Guyot, and Gladys Knight.

If I had never met him, I would be left with faulty impressions painted by the media of a race-baiter, a man who presided over a corrupt empire and someone who represented the worst in a black elected official. But to see him up close was to see a thing of beauty. I saw Barry walk into a room of seniors, greet scores by name – without cue cards – inquire about their children, grandchildren and spouses. He made people feel as if they were the center of the universe. He would engage them, laugh and hug them, chat, and take pictures. The seniors loved it. We would go to parks and the mayor would be mobbed by children, hugged and loved up. Everywhere we went, I would hear people thank Barry profusely for giving them their first job, their first paycheck through his Summer Youth Employment Program. In some cases, it was multi-generational, with parents, children, and grandchildren having gone through the program.

As a journalist, it is not uncommon to come in contact with those in the public eye and see some act as if they are demi-gods, waiting for the unwashed to genuflect and kiss their rings. Mayor Barry was different. He was proud and he expected to be treated with respect but he never acted as if he were lord of the manor. My son, then about seven, would come after school and spend time at the office of the mayor. Barry never failed to greet him, inquire about school and encourage him to keep up his grades. As a father, that meant a lot and my son would always become giddy with excitement.

Well before his passing, some whites and other Barry critics would ask me why blacks loved him so and the answer was simple: he was the black community’s shining prince, warts and all.

It is good to remember that the past is prologue. When Barry came to Washington in 1965, Washington was a sleepy Southern town. Politically, socially, and economically, the city was a mirror-image of its counterparts in the Deep South. Whites dominated and controlled the city affairs and politics, and white segregationists in Congress kept the city under their boot. Color served as the dividing line between blacks and whites and a sometime brutish all-white police department kept black people in line. Black Washingtonians had no voice, no means to advance, and had to be content with a subservient role, if they had one at all.  In 1978, in a city more than 70 percent black, few blacks worked for the D.C. government, most city officials were white, and an entrenched white business community operated with impunity.

Barry’s elevation as the city’s chief executive came to symbolize the power, promise, and enigma of Washington, D.C. He represented a new breed of black politicians: brash, unapologetic, and savvy. So it is no surprise that when Barry became mayor in 1979, he tossed the status quo on its head. He brought in blacks and placed them in prominent roles throughout the city, seeking to bring parity to a city where blacks had long dominated numerically. Barry brought the best and brightest people into his administration, presided over the explosion of the District’s black middle class, and is often credited for spurring the rapid growth of middle and upper class blacks in Prince George’s County, Maryland. He awarded the city’s cable franchise to Bob Johnson of Black Entertainment Television and laid the foundation for R. Donahue Peeples to become a billionaire real estate magnate.

By demanding that 35 percent of all government contracts be directed to minority businesses, Barry pried open the door in construction and other industries tightly closed to women, non-whites, and other ethnicities. I have spoken to Barry’s colleagues and former employees who talked about him walking into a room to meet with representatives of companies seeking to do business in the city and asking why there were no blacks at the table. Many times, he made a U-turn and walked out, saying the meeting would resume when there was black representation at the meeting.

As a young man, Barry earned his civil rights pedigree, when while in his 20s, he dropped out of graduate school at the University of Tennessee-Knoxville, a dissertation short of a Ph.D. in organic chemistry. He joined other young activists in sit-ins, marches and other acts of civil disobedience as he embraced the civil rights struggle full time. Barry worked alongside the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and was named the first national president of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC).

Later, Barry moved to Washington, D.C. to work for SNCC. He formed Pride, Inc., an organization that fought for the rights of Washington’s black majority, taught life skills, and linked the unemployed – primarily ex-offenders and young people – with jobs.  He entered city politics in 1971 when he won a seat on the District of Columbia School Board, serving as president before securing an at-large seat on the first popularly elected city council, the first under Home Rule. He became the District of Columbia’s second mayor and was sworn into office on January 2, 1979 by Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall. Barry won re-election in 1982, 1986, and 1994. He served six months for a drug offense and surprised just about everyone when he ran and won his last term as mayor in 1994. He stepped down from the mayor’s office in 1999. But in 2004, Barry won re-election to the District of Columbia City Council to represent Ward 8, a predominantly black and poor section of the city east of the Anacostia River. Barry was serving his third term at the time of his death.

Barry’s Ward 8 constituents saw him as icon, role model, and inspiration. They identified with his humanness, seeing themselves in him, flaws, foibles, and all. He, like them, could fall from grace but he never stayed down. This reality and the redemptive quality of his life drew him ever-closer to African Americans not just in Ward 8 but all over the city. The unquestioned support many blacks gave him confounded critics and others who savored the idea that Barry might tumble and stay down. Those he loved and who loved him were always rooting for him to rise like a phoenix. Simmering resentment in some parts of the black community because of the constant negative press coverage of Barry by most of the city’s newspapers did not endear them to that community. People especially chafed at the efforts of the Fourth Estate to color the mayor as some type of buffoon. But those who knew him saw a man of conviction with a lightning-quick mind, a facility to absorb and hold all types of information, a man who was always prepared, and someone possessing insatiable curiosity.

The people’s love for Marion Barry was evident in the outpouring of affection seen after his death and the three days of commemoration where dignitaries from all over the country and the world, including Jesse Jackson, Minister Louis Farrakhan and Eleanor Norton Holmes paid tribute to Barry’s life and work. In honoring Mayor Marion Barry, people honor the best in themselves.

Barrington M, Salmon is an award-winning reporter. His beats included national and local politics, crime, education,immigration, health, urban affairs, and social welfare.

William “Bill” Watkins (19 October, 1946 – 5 August, 2014)

“When a friend departs/what remains is an empty space/that can’t be filled/by the arrival of another friend.” — Alberto Cortez, “Cuando un amigo se va”, Equipaje. Ed. Pomaire, 1977, pg. 124

Son of a protestant pastor, Watkins graduated from Los Angeles high school, city college and California State-Los Angeles (Political Science: 1970), receiving a Master’s (Education: 1979) and Doctorate degree (Public Policy Analysis/Education: 1986) from University of Illinois-Chicago to which he returned (after a 1986-1995 posting, at the University of Utah). While teaching in the Curriculum and Instruction section of the College of Education for twenty years, and becoming full professor (2003), Watkins wrote Race and education, (2001), The white architects of Black education (2001), Black protest, thought and education (2005), and The assault on public education: Confronting the politics of corporate school reform (2011) as well as articles in the Harvard Educational Review and Western Journal of Black Studies.

As a Cal-State Los Angeles student in the 1960s, Watkins was among the radical group of Black students, influenced by Nelson Peery, organizing the Communist League [CL] in Watts during 1968, publishing The People’s Tribune, emphasizing both the centrality of class racialization and the application of Marxist social theory to the concrete conditions of North America ⁽¹⁾. With a group of ex-SDS militants in California, segments of both a Detroit League of Revolutionary Black Workers [LRBW] 1971 split ⁽²⁾ and another from Motor City Labor League, as well as “La Colectiva del Pueblo” of Mexican radicals in California who also joined the CL, the latter became the Communist Labor Party [CLP] in 1974. This new multi-racial organization emphasized the relation between class, colonialism and imperialism in a liberation strategy for all workers.

In 1974 Watkins was East Coast coordinator of the CLP meeting regularly with cultural nationalists like Amiri Baraka (from the Congress of African Peoples, CAP) who were trying to understand racialized exploitation, as well as the limitations of electoral politics and black politicians answering to small merchants and production/service managers. Two years later, in 1976 the CAP became the Revolutionary Communist League.

Throughout the 1970s and 1980s the Communist Labor Party [CLP] continued to emphasize education and comprehensive explanations of the world situation, which included the permanent replacement of manual workers by robotics and information technologies. As of 1993 the CLP became the League for a New America [LRNA] with main offices in Chicago, proposing alternatives to permanent unemployment and impoverishment, while continuing to struggle against exploitation and authoritarian exclusion of the majority from all decision making.

In 1995 Watkins returned to University of Illinois- Chicago distinguishing himself as an internationalist scholar-activist [in Sociology of Education, Politics of the Curriculum (in Africa), Contributions of Black Americans to Curriculum Thought, Epistemology, and Foundations of Social Studies Education], and as a public intellectual who participated in a) commemorations of workers’ triumphs in Asia, Africa and Latin America, b) support for the Caucus of Rank & File Educators [CORE] leading the Chicago school teachers union [CTU] since 2010, c) the People’s Tribune network, d) union local 6456 of the AAUP/AFT/AFL-CIO at University of Illinois-Chicago, and e) the campaign to replace the current mayor of Chicago’s 1%. In the neo-liberal era of public higher education as for profit knowledge factories, debt peonage of students, militarized research calendar/curriculum, exploitation of disposable athletes, administrative bloat and the recurring attack on academic freedom, it is important to remember those, like Watkins, who nurture(d) spaces not controlled by the State or financial capital ^(3). It is in those spaces where students, faculty and staff not only teach each other democratic decision making supported by evidence produced with those to whom public intellectuals are accountable, but also organize direct actions that verify abstract conclusions and rehearse the creation of alternatives premised on solidarity.

Death only scares those intellectuals anxious about their immortality and terrified about the ultra-terrestrial nothingness that their logic presents ⁽⁴⁾. People who show up to struggle once are good, people who show up for a semester are better, but the ones who are necessary are those who show up all the time. Bill was one of those who was necessary because he showed up every day. He died all of a sudden like soldiers in battle, against those who betray working people. While we follow his example – making the road less travelled, teaching others to follow the star we have chosen – our friend will continue to live, because like Antonio Maceo in Cuba or Elma Francois In Trinidad, Watkins is one of those dead who never dies as long as there are those among us who know who we are, what side of the fence we are on, and exemplify what we can be.

End Notes

1) Kelley, R. (2002). Freedom dreams. The Black radical imagination (pp. 103-104). Boston: Beacon Press

2) Georgakas, D. & Surkin, M. (1999). Detroit I do mind dying: A study in urban revolution (p. 164). Boston: South End Press. 1^st edition 1975, 3^rd Edition 2012

3) Wolf, S. (2014, Spring). Why the faculty fell? International Socialist Review, Issue 92, pp. 142-145; Newfield, C. (2008). Unmaking the public university. Cambridge, MA: Harvard U.P.; Bailey, M. & Freedman, D. (Eds.). (2011). The assault on universities. A manifesto for resistance. London: Pluto Press; Schrecker, E. W. (1986). No ivory tower. McCarthyism & the universities. NY” Oxford U.P.; Tuchman, G. (2009). Wannabe U. Inside the corporate university. Chicago: University of Chicago Press

4) Unamuno, M. de (1980). El caballero de la triste figura. Madrid: Espasa Calpe. 1^st Edition 1951.

The author W. F. Santiago-Valles is emeriti faculty from the College of Arts and Sciences at Western Michigan University-Kalamazoo, Visiting Lecturer at the University of Michigan-Dearborn (History Department, and African & African American Studies) in the U.S., and Visiting Professor- Graduate School at Cheikh Anta Diop (National)   University-Dakar, Senegal, West Africa.