The legacy of Chokwe Lumumba is built on the principles of social justice and unity my grandparents taught my father as a child. He grew into manhood in the Black Power and New Afrikan independence movements. Chokwe Lumumba was a revolutionary who loved his people and humanity. His love for the people is reflected in his work as an organizer, lawyer, and elected official. This special issue on his legacy helps interpret his work and love for our people and our current work to build people’s power in Jackson and Mississippi. 

The People Must Decide! 

Free the land!

Chokwe Antar Lumumba

Mayor, City of Jackson, MS

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On May 21, 2013, revolutionary attorney and New Afrikan independence activist Chokwe Lumumba was elected mayor of Jackson, Mississippi. Lumumba’s election was celebrated by elements of the Black Liberation and progressive forces throughout the United States and signaled a new political model and momentum for grassroots activism. Jackson, Mississippi and Movement activists nationally and internationally mourned Lumumba’s untimely death in February of 2014. This issue of The Black Scholar highlights the political legacy of Chokwe Lumumba and is edited by a former comrade of Lumumba, Akinyele Umoja. Umoja is Professor and Chair of the Department of African-American Studies at Georgia State University and has spent decades as an activist in the Black freedom struggle.

Most of the contributions in this issue are from activist intellectuals uniquely qualified to provide analysis of Lumumba’s contributions. Scholar-activist and cultural worker Michael Simanga worked with Lumumba in Detroit and in the Black Liberation movement. Simanga analyzes the political significance of Lumumba’s electoral campaigns. Kent State University Professor Asantewa Sunni-Ali interviews Lumumba’s children, Rukia and Mayor Chokwe Antar Lumumba. With Rukia serving as a co-coordinator of the campaign, Chokwe Antar was elected mayor of Jackson in 2017. Sunni-Ali is in a unique position to conduct and interpret Rukia and Chokwe Antar’s experience because she is the daughter of two revolutionary New Afrikan activists and comrades of Lumumba, Bilal and Fulani Sunni-Ali. Venezuela Consul to the U.S. and Afro-descendant activist and scholar Jesus “Chucho” Garcia worked with Lumumba and hosted the New Afrikan revolutionary in Venezuela in 2011. Finally, our guest editor, Umoja, worked with Lumumba since 1979. Along with several others, he and Lumumba co-founded two organizations, the New Afrikan Peoples Organization and the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement. Umoja’s essay, “The People Must Decide: Chokwe Lumumba, New Black Power, and the Potential for Participatory Democracy in Mississippi,” interprets Lumumba’s role as a revolutionary democrat and how his and Chokwe Antar Lumumba’s political victories in Mississippi inform the movement for Black power in the 21^st century. While much of the issue focuses on Lumumba’s work in Jackson as an elected official, this issue also features two of his contributions to The Black Scholar, “Repression and Black Liberation” (1973) and “Perspectives on Human Rights: A Question of Alliances in a State of War” (1980). These articles give his perspective on the covert war on the Black liberation struggle and his internationalist outlook. Cover art for this volume was provided by Jackson, Mississippi visual artist Derek Perkins.

Preview the issue here. For a limited time, readers have free access to download and read Akinyele Umoja’s introduction to the issue along with Asantewa Fulani Sunni-Ali’s interview, “Living Lumumba’s Legacy and Manifesting the People’s Platform: A Conversation with Rukia and Chokwe Antar Lumumba.”

To read the entire issue, subscribe to volume 48 here. More information on upcoming issues in this and future volumes can be found here. For a limited time, use the discount code RTBSDIS for 10% off a personal subscription. As they become available and while supplies last, individual copies are available for purchase in our online store.

Like so many other movie-goers, I went to Black Panther expecting to fall in love with writer-director Ryan Coogler’s beautiful vision of Wakanda. The symbolic importance of this fantastical African nation, untouched by slavery or colonization and filled with Black images of grandeur, cannot be overstated. Our romanticized vision of what Africa could have been had the continent not been brutalized for capitalist gain – or what Black people could be in a world free from White Supremacy – is the Wakandan Dream.

But instead of allowing us to revel in the Wakandan Dream, Coogler exposes its naiveté by revealing Wakanda to be tainted with elitist, selfish, isolationist notions that make it, at best, uninterested in any connection with the African diaspora, and at worst, complicit in the oppression of Black people worldwide.

What he builds in its place could be called a New Wakanda: a vision for Black excellence where our achievement, in the absence of uplift, is not enough and may even be problematic. This is not the Wakanda we were expecting, but I think it might be the Wakanda we need as we contemplate our place in the struggle for justice in the twenty-first Century.

I saw Ryan Coogler give a lecture at the University of Chicago in 2016. At some point during his talk on his journey as a filmmaker he asked if there were any African American Studies majors in the crowd. When Black students responded by saying African American Studies wasn’t offered as a major at the school, Coogler raised his eyebrows and said, “Y’all are doing something about that, right?”

It was this question, even more so than his impressive film resume and intellectual acuity, that made me confident he was going to give us something special with Black Panther. Making it, whether in Hollywood or at an elite University, isn’t enough; the next step was to create change for themselves and those that come after. Coming from Coogler, a thirty-one-year old Black man from Oakland who still talks like a thirty-one-year old Black man from Oakland—in other words, not like Hollywood, this exhortation felt natural and inspiring. This is the lesson we are meant to take from the New Wakanda.

I’ve been watching Black people and people of color react to the Black Panther film and hype on social media for some time. A few years back, the hashtag #BlackPantherSoLit celebrated the number and quality of Black actors that were being cast. And some weeks before the movie came out the hashtag #WhatBlackPantherMeansToMe offered love notes to the filmmakers, expressing how powerful its images were for us personally, and as a people, even before we were able to see it in theaters.

One video posted on Twitter showed a group of Black folks hugging a Black Panther movie poster, marveling that Whites were able to experience the satisfaction of being empowered by representation in movies on a regular basis. One man in the video says, “This what y’all feel like all the time? I would love this country too.”

Much of the conversation around why Black Panther was so powerful, apart from the idea of on-screen representation, was the setting. The movie takes place in Wakanda: beautiful, powerful, un-colonized, and technologically superior to the West. Wakanda flips the narrative that characterizes Africans as unsophisticated and offers an alternative to the racial power dynamics that structure our everyday interactions.

My favorite scene is when the CIA’s Agent Ross, the only White man shown in Wakanda, starts to “mansplain” in front of Lord M’Baku, the ruler of the Jabari Tribe. M’Baku responds by barking at him in an aggressive manner, shutting him up. His soldiers join in the jeering, and the result is terrifying. You can almost see Agent Ross, portrayed by The Hobbit’s Martin Freeman, transform back into the undersized Bilbo Baggins. “You cannot talk,” M’Baku tells him. We are used to Hollywood giving us movies where White men are the saviors (think The Last Samurai or The Last of the Mohicans), not movies where they are stripped of their unearned privileges.

The Wakandan Dream is disrupted, however, not because of White intervention, but because Coogler pushes us to reflect on what the country means for Black people.

He forces us to ask the question, if Wakanda is the most technologically advanced country on the planet, and has been for over a millennium, what must their internal dynamics, foreign policy, and attitudes towards outsiders have been over the past 500 years as they watched—from near and afar and without compunction—the brutal oppression of Black people all over the globe?

Where was Wakanda when Europeans invaded the African continent, murdering and enslaving millions, stealing natural resources and destroying histories and cultures? Where was Wakanda when Europeans created the concept of race in order to justify their brutal oppression of Black people who they characterized as less than human?

Racism did not happen by accident. It is an invention of capitalism, intentionally weaponized in order to create and maintain renewable and exploitable resources and workers around the globe. As the most advanced civilization on the planet, Wakanda could potentially have not only stopped colonization and slavery, but also the development of the ideology of racism in the first place.

Instead, Wakanda allowed the myth of race to become codified and ingrained in institutions, policies, governments, hearts and minds across the globe, all while hiding its technological marvels behind a stereotypical curtain of villages and third-world living conditions that match the inaccurate portrayals of Africa that dominate the media.

We saw Wakanda as a Black Garden of Eden unblemished by the sin of White Supremacy. But Coogler showed us that just because Wakanda was uncolonized, that does not mean it escaped the horrors of colonization.

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Coogler uses three key moments in Black Panther to break down the Wakandan Dream before replacing it with the New Wakanda. The first blemish on the Wakandan Dream is revealed as we learn about the contemporary motivations and manifestations of the nation’s isolationist international policies. T’Challa, ruler of Wakanda and the titular hero, talks with his friend W’Kabi about whether Wakanda should be doing more to help the world through aid or refugee programs. W’Kabi responds by saying, “If you let the refugees in, they bring their problems, and then Wakanda is like everywhere else.”

This sentiment sounds eerily similar to the views held by y’all’s President. How do we make sense of this Alt-Right-style understanding of the perils of open borders, or the way Wakandans seem to think so little of their African neighbors? At first, I rationalized this as being just one voice among many. W’Kabi could be an outlier whose perspective was being used to drive conflict in a movie about Wakandan’s internal politics, right?

Not quite. W’Kabi’s attitude actually exemplifies the mentality that has guided Wakandan international and immigrant policy for hundreds of years. Wakandan borders were closed to outsiders as they chose to hide their technology and resources in order to stay safe. Trump wants his wall, and Wakanda has its vibranium-powered hologram.

W’Kabi’s position is in contrast with that of Nakia, T’Challa’s ex-lover, who insists that Wakanda has a duty to the world and is better equipped to help than any other nation, a fact that T’Challa takes an entire movie to learn. This inaction is not enough to mar the Wakandan Dream, but does get us to start questioning it.

The second strike against the Dream is more damning: we learn the way Wakandan leaders have actively used lies and murder to hide the truth about issues affecting the country.

We see King T’Chaka, T’Challa’s late father and the former Black Panther, travel to Oakland, CA to confront his brother, Prince N’Jobu. We are told that N’Jobu had been radicalized while working in Oakland as a War Dog and had helped an outsider set off a bomb and steal vibranium, Wakanda’s most precious natural resource and the catalyst for their technological advancement.

But being radicalized can have a different meaning for Black folks in Oakland, the birthplace of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense. Prince N’Jobu explains his need for the vibranium by referencing the Black struggle in America, saying, “Their leaders have been assassinated, communities flooded with drugs and weapons, they are overly policed and incarcerated.”  Because T’Chaka and Wakanda were unwilling to help, Prince N’Jobu took it upon himself to take and use vibranium to empower Black folks to be able to achieve freedom and self-determination.

We don’t get a chance to react to the idea that with Wakanda’s help Black people could be free because after N’Jobu pulled a gun on Zuri, who he had just learned was not his friend but a Wakandan sent to spy on him, he was killed by his brother T’Chaka.

Not only did this act of fratricide save T’Chaka the embarrassment of the rest of Wakanda knowing that a member of the royal family had been behind the worst attack on the country in recent history, but it also ensured that the Wakandan people would never hear N’Jobo’s impassioned articulation of the brutalities facing Blacks around the globe or his radical and convincing argument for how Wakanda could be central to their freedom.

The third and final strike at the Wakandan Dream comes from Killmonger, the son of Prince N’Jobu who grew up in Oakland but aspires to rule Wakanda. In the opening scene of the movie, Prince N’Jobu tells a young Killmonger the history of Wakanda, the unique power of vibranium, and the way Wakanda hid itself from the world and the world’s problems in order to protect itself. But Killmonger, a Prince who was orphaned by a King and abandoned in enemy territory, had his sweet Wakandan Dream turn to bitterness as his acute awareness of racial oppression conflicted with his knowledge of the tools that could free our bonds if only his royal family would be willing to lift a hand.

Throughout the film, Killmonger’s precise, succinct, and aggressive articulation of the way Blacks are oppressed is reminiscent of Black activists dragging racists on twitter, except his twitter fingers turn to trigger fingers without discretion.

After killing and manipulating his way into Wakanda, Killmonger stands before King T’Challa and the royal council and explains his reasons for coming, saying, “Y’all look pretty comfortable—must feel good. It’s two billion people in the world who look like us, but their lives are a lot harder. Wakanda has the tools to liberate ‘em all.”

His proposal is intriguing. After 500 years of oppression, worldwide freedom in the fullest sense has never really been on the table for Black folks, even in fiction. In the US, our demands are typically less ambitious. We want the police to stop killing us, equal shots at jobs, access to healthcare, and our kids to go to schools that work.

In this universe, however, the richest and most technologically advanced nation in the world is Black. We have seen that Wakandan technology borders on magic; wounds that would be life threatening anywhere in the world are healed overnight in Wakanda. Killmonger, therefore, asks a reasonable question—why haven’t these resources been used to free our people?

Later on, after defeating T’Challa in one-on-one combat and taking the throne, Killmonger tells the council the details of his plan. He wants to arm Black folks around the world so that they can kill their oppressors, including, he notes, “their children, and anyone else who takes their side.”

This line reveals the biggest problem with Killmonger’s vision for Black power; it is based not on an abolitionists desire for freedom, but on a colonialist’s desire for domination. Killmonger suggests an inversion of the power structure that kills and subjugates Whites the same way Whites did—and still do—Blacks and people of color in Africa, Asia, and the Americas. This is revenge, not justice or restoration.

Killmonger could have been a revolutionary, but instead reveals himself to be what the Jeff Sessionses of the world want Black leaders to be—dangerous Black Identity Extremists. They wish we hated them as much as they hate us so that they could justify silencing our movements with murder and incarceration, and so that the brutality of oppression could be morally defensible.

This is why radical Black movements have to deal with the intentional misrepresentation of their motives. Bobby Seale, the co-founder of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, said, “The examiner made a report in last Sunday’s paper that we were anti-White . . . this is a boldface lie. We don’t hate nobody because of their color, we hate oppression. We hate murder of Black people in our communities.” In the same vein, prominent voices from the Movement for Black Lives have to consistently combat the myth that the Movement is in any way in favor of violence against Whites or the police.

In the end, the audience cannot accept Killmonger’s vision for a Wakandan empire not because we find revolution distasteful, but because his idea of Black empowerment has been infected by the tools and motives of White supremacy. Remember that the CIA-trained Killmonger says more than once, “I know how the oppressor thinks,” and aims to use their methods against them. But he also uses the colonizer’s methods to take over Wakanda, and is blind or indifferent to the damage this Western-style proclivity towards domination has on the nation and its people. During the final battle scene, T’Challa makes this point as he says to Killmonger regarding the oppressors he hates, “You have become them.”

These faults add complexity to one of the most compelling and empathetic villains we have seen in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. But despite his colonialist-contaminated plan, Killmonger’s character strikes the final blow against the Wakandan Dream, which is revealed to be no Dream at all. We believed in the Wakandan Dream because we thought it was untouched by the evils of racism, slavery, colonization, and oppression. But through Killmonger T’Challa learned that far from being immune to these evils, Wakanda enabled them with its decision to isolate itself and ignore the problems of the world.

T’Challa confronts this truth when he journeys to the ancestral plane, an afterlife of sorts. He yells at his father and at all other Black Panthers past: “You were wrong! All of you were wrong!”

In true heroic form, T’Challa returns to the land of the living to not only defeat the antagonist Killmonger in battle, but also to introduce the world to the New Wakanda, which will no longer prioritize secrecy over justice, nor be complicit in the continued oppression of the African Diaspora.

One of the final scenes of the film shows T’Challa’s New Wakanda at work. He and his tech genius sister Shuri travel to Oakland where T’Challa reveals his plan for the first International Wakandan Outreach Center. We don’t know enough about this center to critique it as an intervention model, but we know it represents a shift in Wakandan policy. T’Challa ends Wakanda’s decision to hide its technology when he takes his airplane off invisibility-mode and Shuri begins to talk to children in the community about the futuristic jet they can only describe as a “Bugatti spaceship.”

This marriage of policy and community work is reminiscent of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, who despite being primarily remembered for its Police Watch and powerful demonstrations, spent more time serving people in the community than protesting. The legacy of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense includes its free breakfast and community health care services that became models for national education and public health programs. In this tradition, T’Challa’s first step in Oakland indicates that the political decision to no longer stand by as the world falls apart will be accompanied with action.

The Wakandan Dream is enticing because we have never been given such a beautiful picture of Black excellence in a mainstream film and because the American Dream has been out of reach for most of us for the past four hundred years. But being both powerful and uncolonized in a fictional world where colonization did indeed take place is nothing to be proud of; it is something to be ashamed of. It only could have happened if those Blacks with the power and resources chose to stand by as an entire continent was brutalized.

Ryan Coogler killed the Wakandan Dream because it was a Dream that was contingent on Black suffering. In contrast, the New Wakanda he erects in its place serves as an example of what Black achievement can be. Nakia articulated a vision for the New Wakanda in the first few minutes of the movie, saying, “Wakanda is strong enough to help others and protect ourselves at the same time.”

Black advancement in token quantities has often been used by conservatives as evidence that racism is dead—If Dr. so-and-so made it out of the inner-city, why can’t they all make it? If we buy into this myth, which is especially tempting when it positions us as being more talented or hard working than others, we are complicit in legitimizing an unequal system.

We don’t have the gift, vibranium, but we do have other gifts. And it is up to us to decide whether we use them to make ourselves the successful exception to the rules of racial oppression (the Wakanda hiding in the midst of a colonized land) or rule changers (the Wakanda that uses its strengths to weaken oppression everywhere). Black excellence, from this point of view, is more than just Blacks doing well despite a world that wants them to fail. It’s Blacks challenging the system that was designed to entrap them.

As I wrote this last paragraph, my 5-year old son walked down the stairs wearing a Black Panther mask and claws. I got down on one knee and asked, in my best Wakandan accent, what I could do to serve the King. Like millions of other parents, I marvel at the images of Black excellence that our children are being exposed to in this film and love to see their impact on young people. They give us joy, for good reason. But, images are just the first stage of the New Wakandan vision for Black excellence.

The next stage is action. Some of us are successful despite the racism that limits our opportunities, and those in power hope this will appease us. But our communities are still plagued with unequal access to healthcare and education. We are still jailed at disproportionate rates and given longer sentences for the same crimes. And, it is clear from the police violence epidemic that after 150 years of freedom, the state still does not value Black lives.

Coogler is raising his eyebrows at us again. “Y’all are doing something about that, right?”

 

Robert D. Eschmann is a professor at Boston University where he teaches classes on racial justice. His research examines the intersections between race, education, and social media. Dr. Eschmann received his PhD from the University of Chicago in 2017, and he has also been a part of several projects that explore the relationship between social media and gang violence, with an emphasis on technology-based intervention methods. Dr. Eschmann is also an avid reader and re-reader of fantasy fiction who uses his children as a justification for his continued interest in young-adult fiction, weekly trips to the comic book store, and video game budget. He is a hip-hop connoisseur who taught kids to rap, and think critically about rap in Chicago Public Schools.

 

“Those of us who stand outside the circle of this society’s definition of acceptable women; those of us who have been forged in the crucibles of difference—those of us who are poor, who are lesbians, who are Black, who are older—know that survival is not an academic skill. It is learning how to stand alone, unpopular and sometimes reviled, and how to make common cause with those others identified as outside the structures in order to define and seek a world in which we can all flourish. It is learning how to take our differences and make them strengths. For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support.” – Audre Lorde

 

On March 13, 2018, Marielle Franco, a black queer woman, mother, sociologist, socialist, human rights defender, councilwoman from the favela of Maré, tweeted about 23-year-old Matheus Melo de Castro, who was shot in Rio: “Another killing of a young person possibly committed by the Military Police (PM). Matheus was leaving church. How many more must die for this war to end?” The next day, as she was leaving an event,“Jovens Negras Movendo as Estruturas” (“Young Black Women Moving Structures”), in the neighborhood of Lapa in Rio de Janeiro, she was executed. Around 9:30pm, an unidentified car pulled up alongside hers and assassin(s) shot thirteen shots into the car, murdering  Marielle and her driver Anderson Pedro Gomes, leaving her assistant alive. The 9mm bullets that hit Marielle in her head and neck came from a lot of ammunition the Federal Police had purchased in Brasília in 2006. Military Police used bullets from this same lot to massacre 17 people in Barueri and Osasco (the São Paulo metropolitan area) in 2015.

 

As black feminist scholars from the United States whose work focuses on racism, sexism, and anti-black violence in Brazil, we stand in solidarity with black women and black communities in Brazil who are mourning the politically-motivated assassination of Marielle Franco. We recognize Marielle’s death as part of a larger pattern of state-sponsored killing, terrorization and silencing of black Brazilian communities. We know that she was killed because she identified and denounced anti-black state violence, particularly that tied to the current federally backed military occupation of Rio de Janeiro. We also know that she was killed not solely because of her race, gender, sexuality, class or political beliefs but because of all of those things combined. Her death is an alarming, brazen, political act of violence. Marielle was a black woman who espoused black feminism, denounced police violence, spoke out boldly and unabashedly about racism and classism, and fiercely defended and invested in her community (a favela). As such, she was a threat to the white supremacist, patriarchal, capitalist, imperialist global social order. But her death is not a sign of the strength of this order. Rather, it is a sign of its ever-expanding weakness.

 

Marielle was born and raised in the Complexo da Maré, and she died representing this community. Maré and other communities like it have long served as a laboratory for brutal policies of austerity, violent policing, and military occupation. Her master’s thesis in sociology explored this brutality at length, particularly tying it to the militarization of the Brazilian police forces and the occupation of the majority black, majority poor favelas of her city, Rio de Janeiro. As an active member of the Party for Socialism and Liberty (PSOL), Marielle challenged the status quo of negligence and abuse waged by so many political parties on poor people of color in Brazil. It is no accident that just days before her assassination, she was slated to be the rapporteur of the committee to review the recent federal intervention in the military occupation of the favelas in Rio de Janeiro.

 

We are aware of the transnational significance of Marielle’s murder and its links to global practices of anti-black genocide. Brazil’s black population is the second-largest African descendant population in the world, and it has been the target of brutal and violent policing practices for decades. Brazil’s crisis of police violence cannot be separated from the context of anti-black, deadly policing in the United States that motivated three black queer women to initiate the Black Lives Matter Movement in 2013 and expand it into the Movement for Black Lives. However, it is important to recognize that Black Brazilians have also been speaking out and organizing against anti-black police lethality and brutality for generations. Black resistance can be traced back as far as the wars between slavery-era quilombos (maroon communities) and Portuguese military forces. This is important to remember if we consider that contemporary police apparatuses emerged throughout the Americas first in direct response to the threat of black revolt during slavery. As such, black people have resisted violent, racialized policing since the epoch of slavery throughout the entire region.

 

Thus, we have come full circle. While there are explicit and implicit connections between the U.S. Movement for Black Lives and Brazil, the current movement against anti-black genocide in Brazil is an organic extension of generations of resistance against anti-black state violence in Brazil. Marielle was one of a cohort of black queer women leading the global fight to end anti-black state-sponsored terror. She had even committed herself to learning English through intensive readings of the works of black feminist scholars such as Audre Lorde, bell hooks, Angela Davis, among others, as a concrete way to link Brazilian movements to ideas and struggles for freedom and justice taking place around the world. If we recognize the Movement for Black Lives as a global coalition to fight against anti-black state violence, then Marielle Franco is yet another martyr for this global movement.

 

We feel compelled to place Marielle’s life, activism, and untimely death within this broader context of Brazil’s 500-hundred-year history of oppressing African descendant and indigenous peoples, and ongoing struggles for inclusive citizenship and democracy within the context of increasing authoritarianism. According to Human Rights Watch, in 2016 the police killed 4,224 people in Brazil. It may come as no surprise that the majority of those killed are black. If recent experiences of police killings of black people in Brazil tell us anything, they tell us that police often act with impunity. Let us not forget the case of Claudia Ferreira da Silva, a black Brazilian woman who was killed by police officers in Rio de Janeiro on March 16, 2014–nearly four years to the day before Marielle was killed. Claudia was shot by police during a gun battle with alleged drug traffickers in her neighborhood. After she was wounded she was stuffed in the trunk of a police car and her body was dragged for approximately 250 meters before the two officers stopped the car and stuffed her limp body back inside. She was dead by the time she arrived at the hospital. The officers charged with her death were never convicted, and have even been involved in eight more murders in the last four years. Marielle’s story also reminds us of the killing of Luana Barbosa dos Reis–a 34 year-old black woman from São Paulo who was beaten and killed by police officers in Riberão Preto. What precipitated her beating is telling: a masculine-identified lesbian, Luana protested when police officers stopped her and insisted on frisking her as if she were a man. When she refused to comply with being patted down by men, police officers beat her so badly that she suffered internal bleeding and eventually died of a stroke.

 

Marielle Franco’s brutal murder highlights disturbing practices of state violence and repression in Brazil, as they impact the black, and particularly black poor, population. This continual oppression has long been overlooked by the international media and in much academic scholarship. As a city council member and activist in Rio de Janeiro, Marielle defended the rights of black women, favela residents, and the LGBTQ community in a highly unequal and segregated city. While Rio de Janeiro was in the international spotlight just two short years ago as the host of the 2016 Summer Olympics, the police and military occupation of the city’s majority-black favelas was largely hidden from mainstream Brazilian public discourse. Policies of genocide and extermination have been enacted against black communities in major cities throughout Brazil since its founding, and have only heightened in recent years. In this sense, Marielle’s murder is a continuation of a long-standing state practice of killing Black people.

 

The fact that Brazil’s current political situation is eerily similar to the country’s military dictatorship (1964-1985) is cause for international alarm and action. The coup that forced Brazil’s president, Dilma Rousseff, from office in August 2016 has hastened the country’s downward political spiral and the swift reversal of democratic and inclusive policies that were, hard won by black activists – and black women activists in particular. The country’s rightward shift has exacerbated a political climate in which activists, even those as prominent as Marielle, can be killed. We are particularly concerned about the impact of the current democratic crisis in Brazil on black communities, and its relationship to increasing rates of state-sponsored anti-black violence and death. As progressive communities throughout the world mourn the death of Marielle Franco and her driver, Anderson Pedro Gomes, we should also realize that her tragic murder is but one of thousands that are committed against black women, men and children in Brazil every year. It is estimated that a black person is killed in Brazil every 23 minutes. 

 

The egregiousness of the targeted assassination of an elected official has mobilized people throughout Brazil and around the world. We must maintain this momentum if we want ensure the safety and well being of black women like Marielle and communities like Maré. As tragic and shocking as it was, sadly, Marielle’s assassination was not an anomaly. In Brazil there have been at least 194 politicians and activists killed in the past five years. Many of them have been killed for daring to question the hegemonic social structures intertwined with U.S interests. We cannot mourn her tragic death while ignoring our own government’s complicity and involvement in her death. Brazilian police forces responsible for brutality have been trained by the FBI and the New York Police Department. Agricultural oligarchs with ties to U.S. multinational corporations and politicians routinely kill indigenous people in land speculation disputes. And we cannot forget that Marielle spoke out boldly against the coup that ousted Brazil’s democratically-elected president with support from the U.S. State Department. Given the global dimensions of anti-blackness and the transnational circulation of practices of state violence and militarized policing, we believe profoundly that we must organize on a hemispheric and global level.

 

Marielle will forever be remembered by those she represented, and those she inspired, for recognizing their humanity while others only saw them as targets to be marginalized or annihilated. On the night of her death, Marielle quoted Audre Lorde saying, “I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my own” (1981, “The Uses of Anger”). As black people in the Americas we must commit ourselves to continuing the work for which Marielle died. We must affirm the need to center black women’s lives and experiences in our struggles for liberation, not at the expense of our broader multi-gendered communities, but precisely because “If Black women were free, it would mean that everyone else would have to be free since our freedom would necessitate the destruction of all the systems of oppression” (Combahee River Collective Statement).

 

Collective vision for liberation is necessarily transnational–our struggles are inherently connected. We are heartened that the world has been moved by Marielle’s death. This show of international solidarity is a turning point. But we call on all of us to maintain this watchful eye for the months and years to come. Marielle’s assassination was not the first, and unfortunately, it is most likely not the last bellicose act in this global struggle. The fight for black life requires us to remain vigilant at home and abroad. Justice for Marielle means justice for us all.

 

Marielle, presente! Avante pretas! A luta é de todos nós!

 

—

Kia L. Caldwell, African, African American & Diaspora Studies, UNC-Chapel Hill

Wendi Muse, History, New York University

Tianna S. Paschel, African American Studies, UC-Berkeley

Keisha-Khan Y. Perry, Africana Studies, Brown University

Christen A. Smith, African and African Diaspora Studies and Anthropology, University of Texas at Austin

Erica L. Williams, Sociology and Anthropology, Spelman College

 

Dr. Reynaldo Anderson is an Associate Professor of Communication and Chair of the Humanities department at Harris-Stowe State University in Saint Louis Missouri and serves as an executive board member of the Missouri Arts Council. He is the Past Chair of the Black Caucus of the National Communication Association (NCA). He has previously worked for international prison reform with C.U.R.E. International in Douala, Cameroon, and as a development ambassador in Ghana.

Dr. Anderson publishes extensively in the area of Afrofuturism, communication studies, and the African diaspora. He is the executive director and co-founder of the Black Speculative Arts Movement (BSAM), a network of artists, curators, intellectuals, and activists. He is the co-editor of the book Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness (Lexington books); the volume Cosmic Underground: A Grimoire of Black Speculative Discontent (Cedar Grove Press); co-editor of the forthcoming volume The Black Speculative Art Movement: Black Futurity, Art+Design; co-editor of “Black Lives, Black Politics, Black Futures,” a forthcoming special issue of TOPIA: Canadian Journal of Cultural Studies; and co-editor of “When is Wakanda: Afrofuturism and Dark Speculative Futurity,” a forthcoming special issue of  the Journal of Futures Studies.

 

For those who are not familiar with your work and the rapidly growing Black Speculative Arts Movement, could you historicize and discuss the difference between Afrofuturism and Afrofuturism 2.0?

Afrofuturism is a word that emerged in the early 1990s during a period of time that I think was best characterized by scholar Barbara Christian in 1987 as “The Race for Theory.” During that period, towards the end of the Cold War, you had a generation of scholars like Cornell West, Molefi Asante, bell hooks, Henry Louis Gates, and others that gained notoriety and were introducing ideas to explain the cultural moment we were living in. During that time, the cultural critic Mark Dery and others coined the term Afrofuturism around predominantly African American speculative traditions and practices.

It can be argued we are currently in a second race for theory that can be traced back to the middle of the last decade with the emergence of social media, forces of globalization, and the economic crash of 2008. Afrofuturism 2.0—a term I described in interaction with Alondra Nelson during a conference at Emory University and published in a volume I co-edited with Charles E. Jones entitled Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness—represents the second phase of Afrofuturism emerging in the last several years that acknowledges its development as an emerging pan-African social philosophy characterized by dimensions that include metaphysics, aesthetics, theoretical and applied sciences, social sciences, and programming. Black Panther represents a mash-up of those dimensions in a popular cinematic format.

 

And what distinguishes the Black Speculative Arts Movement from Afrofuturism or how do they relate?

The term Black Speculative Arts Movement was coined by the visual artist John Jennings. The movement drew upon previous work by writers and thinkers such as Sheree Renee Thomas, Octavia Butler, Amiri Baraka, Kodwo Eshun, John Akomfrah, and Nnedi Okorafor. I would argue the key event where we acknowledge its existence as a movement was the exhibition Unveiling Visions: The Alchemy of the Black Imagination co-curated by John Jennings and me at the Schomburg library in Harlem. The traveling convention format was founded, with participation from Maia Williams, at Harris-Stowe State University in Saint Louis, MO at the end of the Harlem exhibition. The work from that co-curated event is coming out in a book this spring, Cosmic Underground: A Grimoire of Black Speculative Discontent (Cedar Grove Publishing).

There are other international formations that are also engaged in this work, such as The Afrofuturist Affair in Philadelphia, BlackSpace in Durham North Carolina, Wildseeds in New Orleans, Chale Wote in Accra Ghana, and Afro-futures UK in Great Britain. The movement or the term Black Speculative Arts serves as an umbrella for different points of engagement that sometimes overlap, like Magical Realism, Black Science Fiction, Afrofuturism, Sword and Soul or Fantasy, SteamFunk, Afro-Surrealism, Ethno-gothic, and others. I would argue the Black Speculative tradition is the spiritual mother of Afrofuturism with its roots in nineteenth-century discourses around anti-slavery revolutionary practices, science, and early pan-Africanist sentiment.

 

Right now the film Black Panther has helped make Afrofuturism a public trend or topic of conversation.  What are your thoughts about the sudden Hollywood-sized publicity of something that many have been taking quite seriously for years?

I am happy it has made people more curious about the term Afrofuturism. I believe there is a paradigm shift going on among Black folks globally. The movie is impacting the young and the old. The last time I recall this much discussion about a cinematic event was the production of Alex Haley’s Roots in the ’70s. Yet this film is different than Roots in many ways. For example, Black Panther opened in the entire African world in 72 hours its first week, and the response has been dramatic on several sociological, psychological, and aesthetic levels. I have been intrigued by the response along linguistic lines. Afro-Brazilians have been heavily impacted by the film. I have seen some critics from the French cultural zone, although they should be slow to criticize anybody after the production of the Le Flop of a movie that Valerian turned out to be.

 

Tell us more about the significance of Black Panther to historical Black radical politics?  For example, is there an actual relationship between, say, the artist Jack Kirby who created the character and THE Black Panthers?

I think people should go back to the origin of the Black Panther Party in Alabama. In 1965 the Lowndes County Freedom Organization was founded. This organization adopted the Black Panther as its symbol. Huey P. Newton adopted the symbol from them. The Black Panther Party of Lowndes County Alabama believed in Armed Self-Defense in the tradition of Robert F. Williams. This predates both the 1966 founding of the Oakland Black Party by Huey Newton and Bobby Seal, and the launching of the comic series Black Panther in 1966. It should be noted that the Lowndes County Freedom Organization was started by the SNCC (Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee) as it was moving towards Black Power ideology. Thus, you cannot separate the symbol Black Panther from the Black Liberation Struggle. That is what the symbol stood for before there was a comic series and that is why the symbol was adopted by Blacks fighting for the right to vote in the south to Blacks in Oakland who were also suffering from racist oppression.

As far as relationships go, Jack Kirby and the artist Billy Graham were creating this character during a transitional time in America and the world system, in an environment of the Black Power movement, the Black Arts Movement, the African liberation struggle, and during the time of Black Jazz creatives, like Sun Ra during his New York period. Jack Kirby and Billy Graham were not operating in a cultural vacuum when these events were going on, and it probably impacted their creative expression.

 

A good deal of the response to the film in the Black world has been framed around tensions in the Black Diaspora, such as the representation of Africa, the role of “real” Africans vs. African-American fantasies, the tension and/or limits of, say, Black Nationalism and pan-Africanism. From your 2.0 perspective, from a perspective rooted in Astro-Blackness, how do you frame or respond to such tensions and debates?

First of all, I am African-American and I don’t have fantasies about Africa. I have been dealing in the reality of Africa and the African Diaspora for some years now. Yes, you have some misinformed African-Americans and others in the Diaspora, and there are some misinformed Africans on the Continent. Second, after traveling around the world for much of the last decade lecturing on Black Futurity, I have reached the conclusion that the African diaspora and Black Africa have no friends. But, we do have interests that have to be attended to. So, time out for silly talk.

We must remember that this misinformed state on both sides of the Atlantic is due to an educational. historical, political-economic design of the White Atlantic and their allies who, in too many cases, instilled in Africans of the Diaspora a slave mentality and in continental Africans a colonized mentality. Leaders such as Kwame Nkrumah, W.E.B. Dubois, Marcus and Amy Jacques Garvey, Patrice Lumumba, and Claudia Jones have been working hard for generations to help Black people all over the world to overcome the psychological hindering and underdevelopment that was done to Black people by White Supremacy and the White Atlantic. No one has a problem with people of Jewish ancestry around the world supporting the country of Israel wherever they live.

Furthermore, NATO is a military organization that represents the political-economic strategic interests of the White Atlantic. There is a Nordic council founded in 1952 for societies in that region. There are Arab and Asian formations with international goals and aspirations. Therefore, it is logical for people of Black African descent to be interested in developing organizations and entities that focus on their international goals and aspirations. So, I would say the 2.0 development of Afrofuturism and Astro-Blackness, is analogous to the earlier development of pan-Africanism (an idea that started in the diaspora) that would later be adopted by the African continent when they established the O.A.U and later the African Union, which, by the way, formally recognized its diaspora as a sixth zone of the union. In the near future, the hope is that Afrofuturism 3.0 (or some other name) will emerge as African Union members or organizations refashion it for their own sensibilities, tastes, and strategic goals.

Finally, a more interesting exchange would be what can we learn from each other? For example, what can the African Diaspora learn from people like Wangari Maathai on environmental sustainability? Or, more importantly, what is the continent doing to defend itself? At the time of this writing there is no sub-Saharan African country with a military ranked in the top 40 in the world. In a multi-polar world, the strong prey on the weak and it’s shaping up to be a scenario similar to those of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries where Black/African societies are impacted by Arab-centric jihadist elements from the north throughout the Maghreb region, Asian Tiger societies from the east (China is building a base in Africa), and the Western White Atlantic entities.

In closing, I would say people that entertain such arguments need to think bigger.

 

What do you think people are getting wrong about the film or about Afrofuturism as represented in the film?

It is too early to tell. Right now, people are generally critiquing from their own space of the chess board, and some people have problems with depth perception. Whether it’s through the analytical framework of Black feminism, Black Nationalist, Afro-pessimism, Afropolitan discourse, and so on, I would argue that people are generally trying to reposition themselves to be in the debate on Black futurity. They are reflexively doing what they have already been doing from their various traditions or practices, but some have been caught unprepared. At the end of the day, the Disney Company made a shrewd business decision and developed a new global market for Black super heroes. However, the film unexpectedly tapped into a global Black reservoir of desire and agency that is long standing and built and autonomously maintained in the cultural software of Africa and its diaspora.

So in light of your answer, say something about the place of the “Afro” in Afrofuturism and its relationship to “futurity.”

I would argue that “Afro” implies an orientation to the data or phenomena on Black futures. A few years ago, at an Astro-Blackness meeting at Loyola Marymount University, I said if there is no Africa in your Afrofuturism then you are not doing Afrofuturism, you are doing somebody else’s. This position makes it necessary to have an intellectual relationship or understanding with the Africana Studies tradition in the area of Afrocentricity and other formations.

Most impressive about your work is the insistence on making a movement rooted in imaginative expression speak to extant political movements in the Black world. What do you hope Black Panther can achieve in this context, or is it secondary to what’s already been going on?

Black Panther is amplifying a global dialogue about Black futurity that has primarily been the province of a small group of creatives, intellectuals, and academics for about two decades. As the masses are slowly being awakened to its existence, there will be mutations of the Afrofuturism project based upon marketing, locale, linguistic differences, and geopolitics.

 

The following is a syllabus/research guide on Afrofuturism and Black Speculative Arts and Criticism from Dr. Anderson.

 

Afrofuturism 2.0 syllabus

This course is designed to help students refine their theoretical approaches to the study of second wave Afrofuturism and the Black Speculative tradition, and to help sharpen and broaden their critical thinking and analytical faculties through a study of selected works. This course prepares students for the questions raised by the scholar Kodwo Eshun when he notes the need to study the conceptual framework of our cultural moment: What are the parameters of that moment, the edge of that framework? We will be examining more than just the works and their authors, but also the social, ethical, spiritual, political, and philosophical bases upon which the emerging field is being built.

 

Module 1: What is Afrofuturism?

Pfeiffer, J. (1975). Black American Speculative literature: A checklist. Extrapolation, 17(1), 35-43.

Sinker, Mark. (1992). Loving the Alien: Black Science Fiction. The Wire 96: 30–33.

Dery, M. (1994). Black to the Future: Interviews with Samuel R. Delany, Greg Tate, and Tricia Rose. Flame wars: The discourse of cyberculture, 179-222.

Nelson, A. (2002). Afrofuturism: A special issue of social text. (Introduction)

Eshun, K. (2003). Further considerations of Afrofuturism. CR: The New Centennial Review, 3(2), 287-302.

Elia, A. (2014). The Languages of Afrofuturism. Lingue e Linguaggi, 12, 83-96.

Anderson, R. Jones, C. (2015). Introduction: Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness. Lexington Books.

Anderson, R. (2016). Afrofuturism 2.0 & The Black Speculative Arts Movement: Notes on a Manifesto. Obsidian, 42(1/2), 228.

 

Module 2: Metaphysics

Fisher, M. (2013). The metaphysics of crackle: Afrofuturism and hauntology. Dancecult: Journal of Electronic Dance Music Culture, 5(2), 42-55.

Van Veen, T. C. (2013). VESSELS OF TRANSFER: Allegories of Afrofuturism in Jeff Mills and Janelle Monáe. Dancecult: Journal of electronic dance music culture, 5(2).

Rollins, A. (2015). Afrofuturism and Our Old Ship of Zion: The Black Church in Post-Modernity. In Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness, 127.

Gaskins, N. R. (2016). The African Cosmogram Matrix in Contemporary Art and Culture. black theology, 14(1), 28-42.

Steinskog, E. (2018). Vibrations, Rhythm, and Cosmology. In Afrofuturism and Black Sound Studies (pp. 109-138). Palgrave Macmillan, Cham.

 

Module 3: Aesthetics

David, M. (2007). Afrofuturism and post-soul possibility in Black popular music. African American Review, 41(4), 695-707.

Josephs, K. B. (2013). Beyond Geography, Past Time: Afrofuturism, The Rainmaker’s Mistake, and Caribbean Studies. Small Axe: A Caribbean Journal of Criticism, 17(2 (41)), 123-135.

Rambsy II, H. (2013). Beyond Keeping It Real: OutKast, the Funk Connection, and Afrofuturism. American Studies, 52(4), 205-216.

Anderson, R., & Jennings, J. (2014). Afrofuturism: The Digital Turn and the Visual Art of Kanye West. In The Cultural Impact of Kanye West (pp. 29-44). Palgrave Macmillan, New York.

Barber, T. (2015. Cyborg Grammar? Reading Wangechi Mutu’s Non je ne regrette rien through Kindred. Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness, 3-25.

Nyawalo, M. (2016). Afro-futurism and the aesthetics of hope in Bekolo’s Les Saignantes and Kahiu’s Pumzi. Journal of the African Literature Association, 10(2), 209-221.

 

Module 4: Race & Theoretical and Applied Science

Eglash, R. (2002). Race, sex, and nerds: From black geeks to Asian American hipsters. Social Text, 20(2), 49-64.

Rusert, B. (2013). Delany’s Comet: Fugitive Science and the Speculative Imaginary of Emancipation. American Quarterly, 65(4), 799-829.

Gaskin, N. (2015). Afrofuturism on Web 3.0: Vernacular Cartography and Augmented Space. In Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness, 27-44.

Brooks, L. A. (2015). Playing a Minority Forecaster in Search of Afrofuturism: Where am I in this future Steward Brand?.  Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness, 149.

Callus, P., & Potter, C. (2017). Michezo Video: Nairobi’s gamers and the developers who are promoting local content. Critical African Studies, 9(3), 302-326.

Luba, A. R. (2017). The Change Game: A Critical Game For Recognizing & Generating Alternative Futures.

Brooks, L. J. A., & Anderson, R. Student Visions of Multiple Urban Futures 2050. Envisioning futures for environmental and sustainability education, 385.

 

Module 5: Social Sciences and futurity

Yaszek, L. (2006). Afrofuturism, science fiction, and the history of the future. Socialism and Democracy, 20(3), 41-60.

DeIuliis, D., & Lohr, J. (2015). Rewriting the Narrative. Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness, 167-84.

Guthrie, R. (2015). The Real Ghosts in the Machine: Afrofuturism and the Haunting of Racial Space in I, Robot and DETROPIA. In Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness. 45-60.

Elia, A. (2016). WEB Du Bois’s Proto-Afrofuturist Short Fiction: The Comet. Il Tolomeo, 18, 173-86.

 

Moduel 6: Critical theory and Method

Tal, K. (1996). The unbearable Whiteness of being: African American critical theory and cyberculture. Kali Tal Web site.

Mayer, R. (2000). “Africa As an Alien Future”: The Middle Passage, Afrofuturism, and Postcolonial Waterworlds. Amerikastudien/American Studies, 555-566.

Michael Tillotson and Serie McDougal (2013) Applied Africana Studies Journal of Black Studies Vol. 44, No. 1 pp. 101-113

Sunstrum, P.(2013). “Afro-mythology and African Futurism: The Politics of Imagining and Methodologies for Contemporary Creative Research Practices.” In Africa SF. Ed. Mark Bould. Paradoxa, no. 25: 113-29.

Ford, J. (2013). Cultivating citizenship as feeling: a conversation with three digital alchemists jillian ford, in conversation with L’Erin Alta-Devki, Moya Bailey, and Alexis Pauline Gumbs. Journal of Curriculum Theorizing, 29(2).

Phillips, R. (2015). Black Quantum Futurism: Theory and Practice- Part One. In Black Quantum Futurism Theory& Practice, 11-30.

Whitted, Q. (2015). “To be African is to Merge Technology and Magic”: An Interview with Nnedi Okorafor. In Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise Of Astro-Blackness, 207-213.

Anderson, R. (2015). Critical Afrofuturism: A case study in visual, rhetoric, sequential art, and post-apocalyptic Black identity. In Blacker the ink: Constructions of Black identity in comics and sequential art, 171-192.

 

Module 7: Criticisms that overlap Time and Space

Reichardt, U. (2000). Time and the African-American experience: The problem of chronocentrism. Amerikastudien/American Studies, 45(4), 465-484.

Okembe-Ra. N. (2015). The Implications of Africa-Centered Conceptions of Time & Space for Quantitative Theorizing: Limitations for paradigmatically-Bound Philosophical Meta-Assumptions. In Black Quantum Futurism Theory & Practice, 31-48.

Van Veen, t. (2015).  The Armageddon Effect: Afrofuturism and the Chronopolitics of Alien Nation. In Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness, 63-90.

Chude-Sokei, L. (2016). “A Caribbean Pre-Posthumanism.” In The Sound of Culture: Diaspora and Black Technopoetics, 179-224.

Brooks, K. D., McGee, A., & Schoellman, S. (2016). Speculative Sankofarration: Haunting Black Women in Contemporary Horror Fiction. Obsidian, 42(1/2), 237.

 

Module 8: In conversation other cultural explorations of Futurity

Ramírez, C. S. (2008). Afrofuturism/Chicanafuturism: Fictive Kin. Aztlán: A Journal of Chicano Studies, 33(1), 185-194.

McLeod, K. (2013). Afro-Samurai: techno-Orientalism and contemporary hip hop. Popular Music, 32(2), 259-275.

Ritskes, E. (2017). Beyond and Against White Settler Colonialism in Palestine: Fugitive Futurities in Amir Nizar Zuabi’s “The Underground Ghetto City of Gaza”. Cultural Studies↔ Critical Methodologies, 17(1), 78-86.

 

Module 9: Black Women and futurity

Morris, S. M. (2013). Black Girls Are from the Future: Afrofuturist Feminism in Octavia E. Butler’s Fledgling. WSQ: Women’s Studies Quarterly, 40(3), 146-166.

Jones, E. (2015). Africana Women’s Science fiction and Narrative Medicine: Difference, Ethics, and Empathy.

TURMAN, A. (2015) An Afrofuturist Africana Womanist Affair. (Book Review)

Afrofuturism’s Musical Princess Janelle Monae: Psychedelic Sould Message Infused with a Sci-Fi Twist. In Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness, 91-107

Morris, S. M. (2016). More than Human: Black Feminisms of the Future in Jewelle Gomez’s The Gilda Stories. The Black Scholar, 46(2), 33-45.

 

Module 10: Black LGBTQ futurity

Muñoz, J. E. (2007). Cruising the toilet: LeRoi Jones/Amiri Baraka, radical black traditions, and queer futurity. GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, 13(2), 353-367.

Fawaz, R. (2012). Space, that Bottomless Pit: Planetary Exile and Metaphors of Belonging in American Afrofuturist Cinema. Callaloo, 35(4), 1103-1122.

Griffiths, T. M. (2015). Queer. Black Politics, Queer. Black Communities: Touching the Utopian Frame in Delany’s Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders. African American Review, 48(3), 305-317.

Jaime, K. (2017). “Chasing Rainbows” Black Cracker and Queer, Trans Afrofuturity. Transgender Studies Quarterly, 4(2), 208-218.

 

Module 11: Programmatic Spaces (Case Studies)

The AfroFuturist Affair – is a Philadelphia based grassroots community formed to celebrate, strengthen, and promote Afrofuturistic and Sci-Fi concepts and culture through creative events and creative writing.

BlackSpace- BlackSpace provides free Pan-African centered social entrepreneurship and digital media resources for local youth in Durham North Carolina.

The Center for Afrofuturist Studies – (CAS) is an initiative in Iowa City, Iowa to re-imagine new futures for marginalized peoples by generating safe work spaces for artists of color. The CAS hosts visiting artists and artists-in-residence and produces lectures, workshops, public forums, and exhibitions on the intersections of race, technology, and the diaspora.

Blacks to The Future- Located in Paris, France the collective focuses on collective experimentation through their transmedia platform with the belief that Africanity and Afrofuturism embody a humanistic perspective that all people can embrace.

Afrofutures_UK- Located in England is a connective made up of artists, writers, activists and academics interested in exploring the future black experience through multi-media and disruptive technologies.

Wildseeds- Wildseeds is a collective of feminists of color that uses speculative fiction as a resource for social change. Our work, steeped in Black feminist traditions of survival and healing, engages Octavia Butler and other speculative/sci-fi and fantastical authors.

Black Speculative Arts Movement- aka BSAM and BSAM-CANADA, is a yearlong, traveling Afrofuturism, comics, film, and art convention held at multiple universities, colleges, and venues in the United States and Canada.

 

Academic text book resources:

Afrofuturism 2.0: The Rise of Astro-Blackness edited by Reynaldo Anderson and Charles Jones

Afrofuturism and Black Sound Studies: Culture, Technology, and Things to Come by Erik Steinskog

Black Quantum Futurism: Theory & Practice (Volume 1) by Rasheedah Phillips

Afrofuturism: The World of Black Sci-Fi and Fantasy Culture by Ytasha Womack

The Black Imagination: Science Fiction, Futurism and the Speculative (Black Studies and Critical Thinking) by Sandra Jackson and Julie E. Moody-Freeman

More Brilliant Than the Sun: Adventures in Sonic Fiction by Kodwo Eshun

 

Journals:

Afrofuturism: A Special Issue of Social Text by Alondra Nelson

Speculating Futures: Black Imagination & The Arts: Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora edited by Sheree Renee Thomas, Nisi Shawl, Isiah Lavender III, Krista Franklin

Special Issue on Afrofuturism: Vol 5, No 2 (2013): Dancecult: Journal of Electronic Dance Music Culture. Edited by Tobias C. Van Veen

 

Literary Supplements:

Dark Matter: A Century of Speculative Fiction from the African Diaspora by Sheree Renée Thomas

Mothership: Tales from Afrofuturism and Beyond by Bill Campbell and Edward Austin Hall

Octavia’s Brood: Science Fiction Stories from Social Justice Movements by Walidah Imarisha and adrienne maree brown

Black Kirby: In Search of The MotherBoxx Connection art exhibition catalog By John Jennings and Jonathan Gayles

Cosmic Underground: A Grimoire of Black Speculative Discontent by Reynaldo Anderson and John Jennings

AfroSF: Science Fiction by African Writers by Ivor W. Hartmann

Binti by Nnedi Okorafor

Futureland by Walter Mosely

Midnight Robber Nalo Hopkinson

Nova by Samuel Delaney

 

Black Studies Supplements:

The Demise of the Inhuman: Afrocentricity, Modernism and Postmodernism by Ana Monteiro-Ferreira

The Afrocentric Idea by Molefi Asanti

The Africa centered perspective of history and social sciences in the twenty-first century by C.T. Keto

Yurugu: An African-centered critique of European cultural thought and behavior. By Marimba Ani

The Souls of Black Folk. By W.E.B. Dubois

The Black Mise-en-Femme is a special collection of essays addressing contemporary film and television by women scholars who are personally invested in the intersectionality of race, gender, class, and nation in media.  The volume begins with Marquita’s Smith’s essay, “’Don’t Be a Martyr’: Kinship, Intimacy, and Carceral Care in Ava DuVernay’s Middle of Nowhere.” Smith aptly points out that in the current climate of mass incarceration narratives like DuVernay’s elevate an often-overlooked perspective.  In “Black Women Having It All: The Rise of Professional Women in African American Romance Films,” Maryann Erigha examines romantic comedies released after 2000 in which the new modern professional woman is now a stock protagonist.  Lynne Joyrich’s essay, “American Dreams and Demons: Television’s “Hollow” Histories and Fantasies of Race,” is part of an existing, but growing, body of scholarship that examines the functions of blackness in science fiction, horror, fantasy and supernatural worlds. In “Trending Topics: A Cultural Analysis of Being Mary Jane and Black Women’s Engagement on Twitter,” Felicia L. Harris and Loren S. Coleman look at the representation of young women in Black entertainment television. The volume closes with April Lundy’s reflections in her article “Caught Between a Thot and a Hard Place: The Politics of Black Female Sexuality at the Intersection of Cinema and Reality Television.” Lundy brings her experience as a former producer to this analysis of the representation of womanhood in television. This volume is theoretically informed enough for specialists yet accessible to lay readers. It is ideal for classroom use because it builds on existing cinema and media studies discourses by applying them to contemporary film, television, video, and social media. The Black Mise-en-Femme is bound to foster conversation, encourage criticality, and inspire readers to push conversation beyond existing boundaries.

Preview the issue here. For a limited time, you can download and read the introduction here and “Caught Between a Thot and a Hard Place: The Politics of Black Female Sexuality at the Intersection of Cinema and Reality Television” by April D. Lundy here.

To subscribe to volume 48, please go here. More information on upcoming issues in this volume and future ones can be found here. For a limited time, use the discount code RTBSDIS for 10% off a personal subscription. As they become available, individual copies are available for purchase in our online store.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Volume 47 is complete! Read the introduction to each issue below.

47.1 – Black Experimental Poetics

47.2 – After Madiba: Black Studies in South Africa

47.3 – Black Code

47.4 – General

The table of contents for each issue can be found here.

If you would like a full set of our limited 2017 print issues, subscribe before copies run out.* Each 4-issue volume is $37 USD (personal subscriptions only). Personal subscribers may use the discount code RTBSDIS for 10% off the subscription rate. Subscriptions also include digital access.

The first issue of our 2018 volume (48), The Black Mise-en-Femme (guest edited by Mia Mask), is scheduled for release in late January/early February. Subsequent issues for volume 48 include a tribute to Chokwe Lumumba, Black Liberation: From Political Thought to Political Power, and our general issue featuring an interview with Nigerian novelist Chinelo Okparanta, and more! Since print copies are limited, subscribe to volume 48 soon.

*Available volumes are for 2017 (47) and 2018 (48). To subscribe, you must contact subscriptions@tandf.co.uk and specify what volume you want. This late in the year, print copies for 2017 are limited and they may or may not be able to fulfill your request, or may only be able to offer digital access. You can also order individual print copies from current and past volumes here.

As The Black Scholar inches closer to celebrating 50 years of existence, the journal is proud to conclude our current volume on a high note. Organized as a general issue, Volume 47, Number 4 opens with a challenging and provocative introduction by TBS Editor-In-Chief, Louis Chude-Sokei, titled “Blackness As Method.” Noting the many different ways notions of “Blackness” have been and continue to be put into motion, the brief introduction also gestures to the methodological (and ideational) variation that constitutes the content of this particular volume and the contemporary state of Black intellectual ferment and cultural production in the country, more broadly. If, as Chude-Sokei points out, notions of blackness have become ubiquitous and multifarious, then the contributors of this volume epitomize the varied ways thinkers are approaching the study of Black lives.

In his essay on Lerone Bennett, E. James West harkens back to a previous decade that witnessed an explosion in appreciation of all things “Black”—the 1960s. West recalls the central role Lerone Bennett played in popularizing African-American history, while also reminding us that social movements—like Black Power and the current Movement for Black Lives—also play a part in rejuvenating a popular historical imagination and public inquisitiveness.

Chandra Ford’s “Notions of Blackness in the Context of HIV/Aids Disparities and Research” focuses our attention on the epistemic (and medical) problems produced by racism. Taking square aim at the field of Public Health, Ford argues that racism and distorted notions of blackness continue to impact the presuppositions and methods used to study HIV/AIDS.

In an essay that resides at the point where the public and private spheres overlap, Siobhan Brooks prods us to think about the symbolic meaning of marriage for Black queer women after DOMA. Continuing with the theme of “blackness as method,” Brooks asks how the racialized experiences of Black queer women has impacted their notion of marriage as a legal right and its desirability as a social right of passage.

The articles in volume 47, Number 4 round out with Nathaniel Nesmith’s interview with Frank Rich. Discussing the life and legacy of the late, great Pittsburgh playwright and author, August Wilson, Rich and Nesmith prompt us to consider if, in fact, it is the creative mind—that of the artist—who might be best suited to capture this thing called “blackness.”

The issue closes with a review essay and a solid selection of book reviews.

For a limited time, you can download and read Chude-Sokei’s introduction, “Blackness As Method,” and Brooks’ article, “Black on Black Love: Black Lesbian and Bisexual Women, Marriage, and Symbolic Meaning,” for free. You can also preview the contents of the issue here.

The cover of this issue was done by Delita Martin. See more of her amazing work here.

Information on personal subscriptions to TBS can be found here. For a limited time, use the discount code RTBSDIS for 10% off a personal subscription. As they become available, individual copies are available for purchase in our online store.

 

The below articles are free to download and read for varying lengths of time. Download while available and enjoy!

 

The Black Scholar Interviews James Baldwin (1973). Click on green PDF button.

An Interview with Dr. Robert D. Bullard (from 46.3, “Climate Justice: Blacks and Climate Change”)

Multiple articles from our first issue of 2017, “Black Experimental Poetics” (47.1) Click on articles with the green check box.

From “After Madiba: Black Studies in South Africa” (47.2)

• Introduction: Black Studies, South Africa, and the Mythology of Mandela 
• Beyond the Elder Statesman: Reflections on Teaching About Mandela and South Africa in Neo-liberal Times

From “Black Code” (47.3)

• Introduction, Wild Seed in the Machine
•  Black Scholars Matter: #BlkTwitterstorians Building a Digital Community

For limited access to more free archival content, keep an eye out for our virtual issues that come out 3-4 times a year. We expect the next issue sometime in fall. Finally, the introduction and one article from each issues are free to read during the entirety of the volume/year.

Follow us on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram to get updates. Subscribe and get both print and digital access to current volume. Use the discount code RTBSDIS for 10% off (personal subscriptions only).

 

 

The Black Scholar is proud to announce the release of “Black Code,” by guest editors Jessica Marie Johnson and Mark Anthony Neal. Johnson and Neal have assembled a collective of digital soothsayers working on the margins of Black Studies, Afrofuturism, radical media, and the digital humanities. Black Code Studies is queer, femme, fugitive, and radical; as praxis and methodology, it waxes insurgent when the need arises. And in this moment, we are in need of Black digital insurgency, one attuned to racial scripts of the past even as it looks to future modes of Black thought and cultural production for inspiration. Barely scratching the surface, this issue welcomes new work and celebrates a Black digital fugitivity that has been present since the beginning of the internet. Our contributors include Alexis Pauline Gumbs, Lauren Cramer, Alessandra Raengo, Tara L. Conley, Ashleigh Wade, Aleia Brown, Joshua Crutchfield, Megan Driscoll, Ahmad Greene-Hayes, and Joy James, with an introduction from Jessica Marie Johnson and Mark Anthony Neal, and cover art from John Jennings celebrating Octavia Butler’s iconic novel, Wild Seed.

For a limited time, download and read the introduction, “Wild Seed in the Machine,” and “Black Scholars Matter: #BlkTwitterstorians Building a Digital Community” by Aleia M. Brown & Joshua Crutchfield for free.

To receive both print and digital versions of this issue, subscribe to Volume 47. When you subscribe to Volume 47, you will also receive “After Madiba: Black Studies in South Africa,” “Black Experimental Poetics,” and our final issue of 2017.

“There are new metaphors, there are new sounds, there are new relations.”

In 1973, TBS interviewed James Baldwin. Through the month of September, we’re opening up our archives and giving readers the opportunity to download and read this incredible, relevant piece of history. Follow this link and click on the green PDF button to access free of charge.