Tonight, I watched Clint Eastwood at the RNC in Tampa address an empty seat as though he were talking to The President of the United States, Barak Obama. During the whole convention we kept hearing that Barak Obama is an absentee leader in a time that demands real leadership. We were then told that the "real" leadership is Ryan/Romney, unlike the invisible leadership of Barak Obama.
As I watched Clint Eastwood's 12 minute monologue, I thought to myself that something was really wrong with this obvious jab at Obama. What is the metaphor and rhetoric being offered up in this empty chair piece? For me, like many of my friends, I mused, in cynicism, that Mr. Eastwood was going senile having left a local Tampa nursing home headed in the direction of a microphone at the RNC convention.
But then I heard Toni Morrison's thought offered up in Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination, (as paraphrase) sometimes the greatest revelation about people's understanding of race is best understood when you are not around. It was this criticism in literature that began to shed light on me about what I was seeing in a mostly monolithic (White American) crowd as they began to share in jest about President Obama.
To use an empty chair as a descriptor of his leadership was ultimately to reify the entire novel by one Ralph Ellison. Ellison offers through his protagonist, "I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like
the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as
though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When
they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves or figments
of their imagination, indeed, everything and anything except me." This quote sums up much of what I'm thinking tonight.
As the Republicans seek to take office, I am concerned at the way in which they have painted distortions of Obama through their heavy-handed take on his leadership which they want us to consider as problematic. Only, they want us to forget the derelict leadership of one dubious George W. who was a critical contributor to the problem we see today.
They want us to dismiss context and concentrate on the immediate. This approach has never served black people well...because it distorts the reality of what we see, hoping to disconnect past from present. But, we must be ever watchful of anybody or anything that will tell us to brush off the past as though it was/is inconsequential. Our current predicament is always dancing in the dark of the past, and are ultimately conjured notions of race that inform this present-day.
Thus, when republicans get on stage and talk to an invisible Obama, there are many things that are being offered up for consumption in the public square. I think they are saying that we see you Obama as insignificant, as an aberration in our history. I think they are saying that Obama is ineffective. I think they are saying that Obama must be overlooked: he is just a spook who sat "in the wrong chair." I believe that Eastwood is calling Obama a paranormal figure in our world. His presidency is invisible and empty. This is not just absolutely racist...it is downright saddening. Its disrespectful...and it is hard to take seriously the RNC's desire to have black folk join them in their efforts, particularly as they have sought to reinvigorate powerful metaphors that describe the intersection of race and gender.
It's hard to believe that the RNC are simply that stupid, or that under-educated, when they seek to lead this United States of America in an international world (which is full of people of color with experiences that MUST be taken into consideration). While the use of Morrison's literary theory in this historical moment sheds light on what was conceived in this political moment, it is challenging to continue to see racialized images heaped upon the president in this election cycle. While I admire the Christian convictions often championed by the conservatives, I shudder at their heavy handed use of race that seem to operate as a sort of glaze to their political agenda.
What might be invisible to them is this racial glaze making everything taste a bit off. However, it is not invisible to the rest of us who are watching the RNC make our president invisible on a stage and in a space that seems to lack diversity (and at the same time making an unconscious commentary on both of those realities). It might be good for them to know that we are not interested in going back to days when people looked down, hid in corners, and entered through the back doors...as if we/they were invisible. Further, our president is not invisible and neither is the depth of racial conceptualizations that are being served by the RNC. I'm sorry, I'll pass on your Invisible Man entree, I've already read the book by a much more thoughtful artist.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Sunday, August 12, 2012
A Nigger in the Back of the Classroom...
My good friend, classmate, and fellow preacher/theologian Brian Foulks posted recently about his time in Lexington, South Carolina, and at Lexington High School. This post got me thinking about the intersection of race, institution, and education. I'm particularly sensitive at this time of the year where students are headed back to school: grad students, undergrads, hs, middle, primary, and pre-k. And, with all of the intelligently funny Old Navy commercials...how could I forget what time of year this is.
So let me begin with a story of a few snapshots of Lexington. I remember moving back and forth to Lexington after my grandparents passed when I was in middle school (88'). It was the first time I had ever been to a school that was predominantly white, as I had lived in Columbia prior and had attended predominantly black schools there. I remember when I first transferred that I had to take additional tests after the school realized that my standardized tests meant I should be in their accelerated classes. White hands pressed papers in front of a scared 7th grader asking me to read words aloud to make sure I could pronounce them in order to advance to their honors/accelerated classes. It was simply not enough for the scores on the nationally standardized tests to be indicative of my placement. Nevertheless, after additional testing, I was handed a sheet indicative of my new class schedule and told to go to class. This memory of being asked to pronounce words has always left an indelible impression on me. Having transferred to more than 7 schools, it was the only time I was asked to "say the words on the paper."
Fast forward to my freshmen year of high school. Between my middle school career and my high school career, I tested into the South Carolina Junior Scholars program and was placed in Algebra I during 8th grade in a neighboring school district. At the beginning of my freshmen year in another school, I had begun taking Geometry. When my family suddenly moved back to Lexington, I was placed in the coordinating Geometry class which was out of sync with LHS' curriculum. Thus, I became the only freshmen to take a class that was an expectation for the college bound sophomore curriculum. As I walked into my first day of class, in a sea of white students, the teacher of that class instructed me to sit in the back row which had been emptied, and then to the far left of the class where learning would be more difficult. It was as though I had been placed in isolation. I can remember sophomores looking at me, wondering how did the black freshmen get in here. At the time, there were very few Black students taking college prep classes. I always felt out of place...like I was in quarantine.
The frictive nature of Lexington H. S. meant that black kids had to pick sides without a lot of support from faculty or family (who were just trying to make sure that we stayed in school). Black kids had to choose whether are not they were going to spend time with other black kids (who were most likely distant relatives or people they knew from de facto segregated neighborhoods) or the white students (with which they went to class or shared common interests). Black kids in the college prep and honors classes were going to be one of a handful...and stood to be isolated because of the perceived threat (by white students) or the perceived tokenism (by black students). It can be an aweful thing to be caught in the middle.
Add to these polite incidents a variety of overtly racist overtures...like sitting in a Chemistry class and having the white kid turn around and say, "Sean, you are still a nigger." Or, putting up a black history month display, and coming in on a Monday to find the whole thing defaced by words like, "Nigger History is Not History." The polite racism of some via isolation or the overt racism of others with the use of one of the most vitriolic words in American history can create a complex that can make you both defensive and scared: defensive of criticism and scared to trust anyone.
I am so envious of people who can look back on their HS career with joy and/or a sense of nostalgia.
I think one reason, I've never really returned to Lexington is because of the hostile treatment that it represented. This isn't to say that there weren't moments that I will always cherish, but it is to say that going to school in Lexington, SC always made me feel less than, which ultimately forced me to be more than. Thus, I became an overachiever. I had no choice but to be better, in order to leave and never look back...I wanted to be more than a "nigger" in the back of the classroom.
When I think about the kind of relationships I have today with people of all races, its a wonder that they exist because my time in Lexington was painful. It's only been in my adult life that I have seen God's hand in healing me. There's been a lot of soul searching, a lot of praying, a lot of talking, and a lot of forgiving. I get it: RACE is a difficult subject...and an even harder problem to combat! But people of God character must seek to build school systems that empower all youth. Parents must seek to be involved to challenge injustice when their children are being confronted with isolation, racial antagonism, and institutional oppression. And, we must all be change agents in a world that sometimes wants us to be separate and unequal.
I pray for the day where my sons and daughters will be able to sit in classrooms and won't have to be subjected to isolation or being ashamed of the rich African heritage from which they come. I pray that we can be a better today...then we were before. SELAH
So let me begin with a story of a few snapshots of Lexington. I remember moving back and forth to Lexington after my grandparents passed when I was in middle school (88'). It was the first time I had ever been to a school that was predominantly white, as I had lived in Columbia prior and had attended predominantly black schools there. I remember when I first transferred that I had to take additional tests after the school realized that my standardized tests meant I should be in their accelerated classes. White hands pressed papers in front of a scared 7th grader asking me to read words aloud to make sure I could pronounce them in order to advance to their honors/accelerated classes. It was simply not enough for the scores on the nationally standardized tests to be indicative of my placement. Nevertheless, after additional testing, I was handed a sheet indicative of my new class schedule and told to go to class. This memory of being asked to pronounce words has always left an indelible impression on me. Having transferred to more than 7 schools, it was the only time I was asked to "say the words on the paper."
Fast forward to my freshmen year of high school. Between my middle school career and my high school career, I tested into the South Carolina Junior Scholars program and was placed in Algebra I during 8th grade in a neighboring school district. At the beginning of my freshmen year in another school, I had begun taking Geometry. When my family suddenly moved back to Lexington, I was placed in the coordinating Geometry class which was out of sync with LHS' curriculum. Thus, I became the only freshmen to take a class that was an expectation for the college bound sophomore curriculum. As I walked into my first day of class, in a sea of white students, the teacher of that class instructed me to sit in the back row which had been emptied, and then to the far left of the class where learning would be more difficult. It was as though I had been placed in isolation. I can remember sophomores looking at me, wondering how did the black freshmen get in here. At the time, there were very few Black students taking college prep classes. I always felt out of place...like I was in quarantine.
The frictive nature of Lexington H. S. meant that black kids had to pick sides without a lot of support from faculty or family (who were just trying to make sure that we stayed in school). Black kids had to choose whether are not they were going to spend time with other black kids (who were most likely distant relatives or people they knew from de facto segregated neighborhoods) or the white students (with which they went to class or shared common interests). Black kids in the college prep and honors classes were going to be one of a handful...and stood to be isolated because of the perceived threat (by white students) or the perceived tokenism (by black students). It can be an aweful thing to be caught in the middle.
Add to these polite incidents a variety of overtly racist overtures...like sitting in a Chemistry class and having the white kid turn around and say, "Sean, you are still a nigger." Or, putting up a black history month display, and coming in on a Monday to find the whole thing defaced by words like, "Nigger History is Not History." The polite racism of some via isolation or the overt racism of others with the use of one of the most vitriolic words in American history can create a complex that can make you both defensive and scared: defensive of criticism and scared to trust anyone.
I am so envious of people who can look back on their HS career with joy and/or a sense of nostalgia.
I think one reason, I've never really returned to Lexington is because of the hostile treatment that it represented. This isn't to say that there weren't moments that I will always cherish, but it is to say that going to school in Lexington, SC always made me feel less than, which ultimately forced me to be more than. Thus, I became an overachiever. I had no choice but to be better, in order to leave and never look back...I wanted to be more than a "nigger" in the back of the classroom.
When I think about the kind of relationships I have today with people of all races, its a wonder that they exist because my time in Lexington was painful. It's only been in my adult life that I have seen God's hand in healing me. There's been a lot of soul searching, a lot of praying, a lot of talking, and a lot of forgiving. I get it: RACE is a difficult subject...and an even harder problem to combat! But people of God character must seek to build school systems that empower all youth. Parents must seek to be involved to challenge injustice when their children are being confronted with isolation, racial antagonism, and institutional oppression. And, we must all be change agents in a world that sometimes wants us to be separate and unequal.
I pray for the day where my sons and daughters will be able to sit in classrooms and won't have to be subjected to isolation or being ashamed of the rich African heritage from which they come. I pray that we can be a better today...then we were before. SELAH
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Too Much Heart, In A Heartless World: A Reflection on Brother Ennis Koonce
Since Ennis’ passing, I have been meandering around a graveyard. This isn’t the kind of graveyard where we come to visit our departed brothers and sisters. No, I have been meandering around a metaphorical graveyard. I can be found regularly stumbling around the tombstones of questions that begin with "Why?": Why Ennis? Why my friend? Why my fraternity brother? Why such a good and gracious person? Why now?
I do not think that I am alone. My phone has rung off the hook since Ennis’ passing. And I have concluded that there must be a crowd and a VIP line at this graveyard because so many in this room are asking a question to which we will never get an answer: "Why oh God did you take our friend and brother?"
And with Ennis-level Sarcasm, many of us have added that "If you, Oh Lord, wanted to call somebody home, we have lists of people…" And yet, we are thinking about our own mortality, and we are remorseing about one who has so much life, and we are remembering a friend who seemed to have so many more miles and miles to go.
We who are here, and not yet in heaven are wandering around, driving ourselves crazy like the man whom our God cast out a "Legion" of demons who was found among the caves of the dead.
It is when I have screamed "Why?" in this graveyard I have found my God speaking,
in a tender, quiet voice “Sean, My ways are not your ways.”
This is a contradiction in my mind: How can we trust you, if we can’t understand you Oh Lord?
And there are more contradictions afoot between us and God. Ennis, a brother with too much spiritual and emotional heart, has a physical heart that cannot keep up with him. Ennis, a brother, who would ride with his friends until the wheels fell off, could sometimes find himself without the support of his friends. Ennis, my brother, who called me his mentor, often taught me more about loyalty, honesty, and joy that I can remember. My friend Ennis is a brother filled with heart, in a world unprepared to appreciate the magnitude of Ennis’ love for others.
If he were here, he would tell you about a deep love for a fraternity that caused him to not let a near death car accident keep him from what he knew that God was calling him to. If he were here, he would tell you that he didn’t believe in being fake. If he were here, he would show you excellence in his commitment to make the impossible possible. If he were here, he would tell you about all the times he opened up his home, wallet, cabinets, and closets to share what he had with brothers like Larry, Lee, Chauncey, Darrell, Greg, Javon, Chase, Terrence, Thomas, Vince, Mario, and this list goes, on and on and on. If he were here, he would tell you that “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
Everyday, Ennis rose to lay down his life for his friends: stepping in at the last minute to help, fixing stuff he didn’t break, and mentoring young brothers into men. Ennis believed whole heartedly in the better making of men, and we were made better because of Ennis. It is in knowing this, that all of us have been caught off guard by what seems like God’s untimely calling of Ennis home. From our vantage point, it seemed like Ennis had just answered his calling to live out a life mentoring and supporting college students: First at Paine, then at Georgia Southern
and finally at the University of Oklahoma. It was here that Ennis was preparing a dissertation on Black Male Mentorship…after having done the work of mentorship. It was here that we could see our dear brother coming into his own, but our God caught us off guard and called our dear brother home.
Ennis, you should know that you have left an indelible impression. You should know that the hole in our hearts is big…because we do not know who to call when we need counsel, encouragement or help. Ennis, we have no idea what we should do when we get so angry…and you make us laugh. Ennis, we are not prepared to be at weddings, and parties, and graduations, and ordinations, and celebrations
without your gregarious joy!
Ennis we are not prepared to live in a place without the contradiction…
For you were a friend to many, in a friendless environment.
For you were a father to many, even though you had no children.
For you were unselfish, in a selfish world.
And you answered your call, in a world where so many of us are running scared.
We, the men of Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity, Inc.
We, the Brothers and Sisters of Paine College
We, who are seeking to live out our various callings
We, who count ourselves lucky to call you our friend…
We must carry your memory in our action.
We must mentor a generation of brothers and sisters who need us.
We must have joy in our own lives.
We must not be hindered by pain.
We must live the kind of life you lived…
We must be “A Credit to Our Race.”
We must carry this light, until we meet you again, dear brother.
For we know in heaven that you are mentoring the angels.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Trayvon and the Mourning of Justice
In the Book of Judges there is a curious passage about a man named Jephthah who promised to offer the first thing/person who came out of his door to the Lord as a burnt offering, if the Lord would let him win a battle with an opposing force. In the end, Jephthah won the fight...and returned home to find his only child, his only daughter, barreling out of his home to greet him. Unfortunately because of the hasty vow, Jephthah kills his daughter...and for two months the daughters of Israel lamented the loss of life of the daughter of Jephthah. It eventually became an Israelite custom, where each year the daughters would go out and mourn the injustice.
Like the vulnerable daughter of Jephthah, we, the people of African descent living in this America, find ourselves vulnerable to the vows of this country. A vow to bear arms by any means necessary, over and above, the right to live seems to be but one controversy emerging from the slaying of Trayvon Martin. And now we mourn the tragedy of his death...the tragedy of walking through white suburbia armed with a cell phone, skittles, and iced tea, as racist on-lookers survey his every move...the tragedy of a three day waiting/missing period for parents whose son lay dead, as police failed to identify his body...the tragedy of an armed adult shooting an unarmed child, that he called a "coon" on the 911 tape, as he claimed self-defense. We mourn a system that fails all of us so miserably.
This historical moment has conjured every part of America's racialized past: from the many lynchings against which Ida B. Wells-Barnett railed to the limp and brutalized body of Emmitt Till to the more recent killings of James Byrd, James Craig Anderson, and Frederick Jermaine Carter. As well, the experience of living here has created the depth of empathy for Trayvon Martin and his family.
During slavery, black bodies were watched in order to sequester rebellion. After reconstruction, many black bodies, quite a few who were business men and returning military, were hung on Saturday nights as family members woke up on Sunday morning to find their children dangling from trees, like strange fruit. And now, at every turn black bodies are followed down streets, through stores, in libraries, and around neighborhoods to ensure, what I can only assume is, order.
I think often about the many friends who have attended graduate schools at quite a few Historically White Institutions that do not run in the early evening in fear that their exercise regimen will be confused with running from some crime scene. I think often about classmates stopped in libraries and asked to show ID. I've even watched a few people be escorted off campuses for just being there. And then, I remember. I remember police officers pulling me over in my brand new car, because the officer thought I had "stolen it from the lot." Only a few days ago, a police officer pulled behind my car while I was seated talking on the phone in front of my home, asking me to pull out my ID because neighbors thought I was suspicious. These non-fiction accounts operate as oral histories into the lives of Black people who have had enough. You can find these stories in the intimate places where Black folk reside and "know the truth."
And it is unfortunate that some like Armstrong Williams, the tenable and derelict voice from the right, will see the objections being offered in sanctuaries as unconscionable (as people wore hoodies to church). To him, it may look like we are a people who are acting out...behaving madly. But, he would be wrong. He may not be reading enough of the words of our Bible. For, we are led to remember our grief...to create altars that are indicative of our need for Justice. We are charged with bending the world toward its greater good. We are charged with edifying and exhorting the saints in works that restore, revitalize, and re-envision. There is biblical precedent for attire in front of the Lord...just read any of the first five books of the Bible. There is biblical precedent for crying out to God...just read the story of the Israelites and their bondage, or the prophets, or the Psalms, or...well the whole Bible. There is biblical precedent for faith that leads to works...it is in James that we find the words, "faith without works is dead."
Faith is a beautiful thing. However, I am grateful for the galvanizing efforts of so many around communities across the country who are able to connect faith with works...for faith and works are the hallmark of people who know how to fight and pray! Thus I, like the daughters of Israel, mourn. I mourn the loss of Trayvon with his family and his community. I mourn the loss of possibility for Trayvon. I mourn the reality that black people must endure surveillance and containment. I mourn the reality that many brothers (and sisters) face near death experiences with vigilantes who sometimes wear uniforms that would suggest protection. I mourn justice...for it is dead.
It is only a belief in God that causes me to know that it can be resurrected.
Like the vulnerable daughter of Jephthah, we, the people of African descent living in this America, find ourselves vulnerable to the vows of this country. A vow to bear arms by any means necessary, over and above, the right to live seems to be but one controversy emerging from the slaying of Trayvon Martin. And now we mourn the tragedy of his death...the tragedy of walking through white suburbia armed with a cell phone, skittles, and iced tea, as racist on-lookers survey his every move...the tragedy of a three day waiting/missing period for parents whose son lay dead, as police failed to identify his body...the tragedy of an armed adult shooting an unarmed child, that he called a "coon" on the 911 tape, as he claimed self-defense. We mourn a system that fails all of us so miserably.
This historical moment has conjured every part of America's racialized past: from the many lynchings against which Ida B. Wells-Barnett railed to the limp and brutalized body of Emmitt Till to the more recent killings of James Byrd, James Craig Anderson, and Frederick Jermaine Carter. As well, the experience of living here has created the depth of empathy for Trayvon Martin and his family.
During slavery, black bodies were watched in order to sequester rebellion. After reconstruction, many black bodies, quite a few who were business men and returning military, were hung on Saturday nights as family members woke up on Sunday morning to find their children dangling from trees, like strange fruit. And now, at every turn black bodies are followed down streets, through stores, in libraries, and around neighborhoods to ensure, what I can only assume is, order.
I think often about the many friends who have attended graduate schools at quite a few Historically White Institutions that do not run in the early evening in fear that their exercise regimen will be confused with running from some crime scene. I think often about classmates stopped in libraries and asked to show ID. I've even watched a few people be escorted off campuses for just being there. And then, I remember. I remember police officers pulling me over in my brand new car, because the officer thought I had "stolen it from the lot." Only a few days ago, a police officer pulled behind my car while I was seated talking on the phone in front of my home, asking me to pull out my ID because neighbors thought I was suspicious. These non-fiction accounts operate as oral histories into the lives of Black people who have had enough. You can find these stories in the intimate places where Black folk reside and "know the truth."
And it is unfortunate that some like Armstrong Williams, the tenable and derelict voice from the right, will see the objections being offered in sanctuaries as unconscionable (as people wore hoodies to church). To him, it may look like we are a people who are acting out...behaving madly. But, he would be wrong. He may not be reading enough of the words of our Bible. For, we are led to remember our grief...to create altars that are indicative of our need for Justice. We are charged with bending the world toward its greater good. We are charged with edifying and exhorting the saints in works that restore, revitalize, and re-envision. There is biblical precedent for attire in front of the Lord...just read any of the first five books of the Bible. There is biblical precedent for crying out to God...just read the story of the Israelites and their bondage, or the prophets, or the Psalms, or...well the whole Bible. There is biblical precedent for faith that leads to works...it is in James that we find the words, "faith without works is dead."
Faith is a beautiful thing. However, I am grateful for the galvanizing efforts of so many around communities across the country who are able to connect faith with works...for faith and works are the hallmark of people who know how to fight and pray! Thus I, like the daughters of Israel, mourn. I mourn the loss of Trayvon with his family and his community. I mourn the loss of possibility for Trayvon. I mourn the reality that black people must endure surveillance and containment. I mourn the reality that many brothers (and sisters) face near death experiences with vigilantes who sometimes wear uniforms that would suggest protection. I mourn justice...for it is dead.
It is only a belief in God that causes me to know that it can be resurrected.
Monday, January 9, 2012
What Are We Worth: Cultural Centers Around The Triangle
Today, I had the opportunity to visit the Sonya Haynes Stone Center at UNC-Chapel Hill, the African American Cultural Center at NC State, and the Hayti Center. While I had been there before, today I took a variety of young, gifted black minds who participated in discussions, toured the depth of these spaces, and reflected on their work.
In it all, I realized how much all of these spaces were built out of demand to house and showcase Black cultural and historical traditions. In some cases, Black people were striving to salvage what had been torn apart as in the case of the Hayti Center. I watched my students try to make sense of this...but I too was trying to make sense of the depth of the work that was done so that we could congregate, learn, remember, and work.
What is saddening is too few of us see our history, our traditions, and our intellectual pursuits as something of merit and worth. And moreover, we are not supporters of those things which seek to be keepers of our knowledge. Whether it is our museums, our schools, our cultural centers, or our non-profit organizations, we have not been good stewards of patronizing and supporting things that were built by Black hands. I think it is a problem that people marched, challenged administrations, took broken pieces and built a variety of centers that seek to explore Black culture.
And today we live in a place where so many take it for granted...and what's worse...too many don't care...and the thing about it all is that you can't prepare for a future without knowledge of your past. There must not only be an understanding of one's self, but there must also be an appreciation.
Today, I am thinking about the many people who contributed to my life, as well as the many people who shall come after me. My work leads me to believe the people I see everyday are priceless...and therefore the mission of this center and the centers around me are priceless as well!
The work of The Stone Center, The NC State African American Center, The Mary Lou, and The Hayti Center are priceless!
In it all, I realized how much all of these spaces were built out of demand to house and showcase Black cultural and historical traditions. In some cases, Black people were striving to salvage what had been torn apart as in the case of the Hayti Center. I watched my students try to make sense of this...but I too was trying to make sense of the depth of the work that was done so that we could congregate, learn, remember, and work.
What is saddening is too few of us see our history, our traditions, and our intellectual pursuits as something of merit and worth. And moreover, we are not supporters of those things which seek to be keepers of our knowledge. Whether it is our museums, our schools, our cultural centers, or our non-profit organizations, we have not been good stewards of patronizing and supporting things that were built by Black hands. I think it is a problem that people marched, challenged administrations, took broken pieces and built a variety of centers that seek to explore Black culture.
And today we live in a place where so many take it for granted...and what's worse...too many don't care...and the thing about it all is that you can't prepare for a future without knowledge of your past. There must not only be an understanding of one's self, but there must also be an appreciation.
Today, I am thinking about the many people who contributed to my life, as well as the many people who shall come after me. My work leads me to believe the people I see everyday are priceless...and therefore the mission of this center and the centers around me are priceless as well!
The work of The Stone Center, The NC State African American Center, The Mary Lou, and The Hayti Center are priceless!
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