Race Consciousness
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Race Consciousness

Reinterpretations for the New Century

Judith Jackson Fossett

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Race Consciousness

Reinterpretations for the New Century

Judith Jackson Fossett

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About This Book

Bringing together an impressive range of new scholarship deeply informed both by the legacies of the past and current intellectual trends, Race Consciousness is a veritable Who's Who of the next generation of scholars of African-American studies. This collection of original essays, representing the latest work in African-American studies, covers such trenchant topics as the culture of America as a culture of race, the politics of gender and sexuality, legacies of slavery and colonialism, crime and welfare politics, and African-American cultural studies. In his entertaining Foreword to the volume, Robin D. G. Kelley presents a startling vision of the state of African-American Studies--and the world in general--in the year 2095. Arnold Rampersad and Nell Irvin Painter, chart the different disciplinary and theoretical paths African-American Studies has taken since the 19th century in their Preface to the volume.

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Information

Publisher
NYU Press
Year
1997
ISBN
9780814728918

1
INTRODUCTION: LOOKING B(L)ACKWARD
AFRICAN-AMERICAN STUDIES IN THE AGE OF IDENTITY POLITICS

ROBIN D. G. KELLEY
(The tale you are about to read was inspired by Edward Bellamyā€™s Utopian socialist novel Looking Backward, published in 1887. My apologies to the late Mr. Bellamy for my shameless appropriation of the structure of his fascinating book. The ideas contained in this essay, however, are my own, and I take complete responsibility for all of themā€”including the most retrograde.
Finally, many of the characters herein are fictitious and are not intended to resemble real persons living or dead. If they do, it is purely coincidental.)
ā€œDonā€™t try to speak. If you can hear me, blink your eyes.ā€ The voice was faint but distinctive. Obviously a mature, learned man, though in the flood of bright lights he was little more than a brown silhouette.
ā€œWhere am I? Who are you?ā€ I asked, trying desperately to gather my bearings and sound intelligible.
ā€œYouā€™re at University Hospital. How are you feeling?ā€
ā€œI feel fine. What am I doing in a hospital? Iā€™m perfectly healthy.ā€ It was true; I felt very good, indeed, as if Iā€™d been vacationing in the Caribbean for three solid months. Given my usual pace, it had been a long time since I felt so rested and relaxed.
ā€œThe matter is quite complicated,ā€ the man replied. As my eyes adjusted to the light, the silhouette leaning over me became visible. He was an elegantly dressed black man, perhaps sixty years of age, with salt-and-pepper hair closely cropped around his ears. He had a kind face, though his expression was one of obvious concern laced with heavy doses of curiosity. ā€œYouā€™ve just been roused from a deep sleep, or, more properly, a coma. So much I can tell you. Do you recall when you fell asleep?ā€
ā€œWhen?ā€ I stammered, confused by the question. ā€œWhen? Why, just last evening, of course. I was attending a conference on Postraciality at the Crossroads of Significationā€”I think. I was on my way to a roundtable discussion on The Bell Curve but got turned around and couldnā€™t find the room. I donā€™t quite remember. In any case, there were two other sessions that caught my eye: one called Whatā€™s the ā€œMetaā€ For?: Narrative, Metanarrative, and Constructing the Sign in Post Modern America, the other titled Deconstruct to Reconstruct, Thatā€™s All We Do. I chose the latter, found a nice comfortable seat in the back of the room, and proceeded to doze off.ā€
ā€œI understand, Dr. Kelley. But if thatā€™s your story, it wasnā€™t last night.ā€ As he uttered these eerily familiar words, I was suddenly overcome with anxiety; I felt an asthma attack coming on.
ā€œHow do you know my name, uh, Mr. . . .ā€
ā€œLegend. Ralph Legend. Iā€™m a part-time instructor at the university and a part-time medical attendantā€”what they called in your day an ā€˜orderly.ā€™ I know a great deal about your day because, like you, Iā€™m a historian. My specialty is the mid- to late twentieth century, which isnā€™t very popular these days since everyone wants to work on the twenty-firstā€”ā€
ā€œWait, hold on just a goddamn minute. Iā€™m sure your life story is all that, but I need to know how long Iā€™ve been sleeping. What day is it?ā€
ā€œThursday,ā€ he said. ā€œMaybe youā€™d like to rest just a bit before weā€”ā€
ā€œThe conference was on a Saturday, so does that mean Iā€™ve been sleeping for five days?ā€
ā€œA bit longer than that, Iā€™m afraid.ā€
ā€œMore than a month?ā€
ā€œLonger. Please, Dr. Kelley; you need to preserve your strength. If you calm down Iā€™ll tell you. Today is March 3rd . . . 2095.ā€ Though his words fell somewhere between a whisper and a mumble, the final sentence felt like a gunshot in a dark, soundproof room. Silence stood between us for what felt like fifteen minutes but was probably more like thirty seconds.
ā€œI know this is shocking and awkward, but I donā€™t know how else to tell you. Perhaps you might want to rest a bit beforeā€”ā€
ā€œHell no,ā€ I shouted, surprised at the tone of my own voice and my use of profanityā€”something Iā€™ve never been very good at, by the way. ā€œTell me everythingā€”and I mean everythingā€”right here and now.ā€
ā€œWell, Iā€™ve been following your case for the past thirty years. For several months back in 1995 you were in the news. The headlines read, ā€˜Promising Young Professor Falls into a Coma during Academic Conference.ā€™ Just when you were about to fall out of the media, Charles Murrayā€”you remember him, right?ā€”used you as the basis for his book The Negro Mind: A Case of National Distraction, in which he argued that members of racial groups with lower average IQ scores who make it into the ranks of the cognitive elite are incapable of processing so much knowledge. Either they fake their way through their careers, suffer emotional breakdowns or severe nervous disorders, or fall into a coma. Granted, your case was his only evidence, but the man won a Pulitzer nonetheless.
ā€œAnyway, you were eventually brought to the university and placed under observation. I discovered you because I wrote my thesis here at City Community University on race and the rise of the Right at the turn of the centuryā€”the twenty-first century. Since nobody wanted to publish the thing and I couldnā€™t get a job, I ended up teaching one course a semester here at CCU and taking odd jobs to make ends meet. When I found out you had been relocated here, I took a position at the hospital so that I might be around if and when you woke up.ā€
I couldnā€™t believe my ears. At first I thought it was some kind of a jokeā€”asleep for a hundred years? Be real! But as I carefully studied the hospital room and took notice of all the new technology, it quickly became clear that things were different. Once I realized it was not a joke, I became angry and resentful. I missed seeing my daughter grow up or my wifeā€™s artistic career take off. I never had a chance to say goodbye to anyone in my family, not even my mother. And I never had the pleasure of seeing a book of mine reviewed in the New York Times or the New York Review of Books, or the Village Voice, for that matter. Nevertheless, my melancholy mood was quickly overtaken by curiosity: after all, I am, in essence, a 132-year-old time traveler with a rare opportunity to see the future.
The doctors checked me out and released me that afternoon under Dr. Legendā€™s supervision. Legend kindly offered to show me around campus. ā€œI read many of your articles and both of your books,ā€ he told me, ā€œdespite the fact that neither the Times nor the New York Review of Books reviewed them.ā€
ā€œDonā€™t forget the Village Voice,ā€ I added, perversely grateful that Iā€™d outlived all those book review editors.
At first I walked slowly and tentatively across the sprawling urban campus; although modern technology preserved my thirty-two-year-old frame, my legs were still weak. Once I got my stride, Dr. Legend started to fill me in.
ā€œA lot has changed since your day,ā€ he warned. ā€œBlack college students make up about one tenth of one percent of the undergraduate students nationally and an even smaller proportion of the graduate population. With the exception of English, the number of black faculty has dropped to about a fifteenth of what it was a hundred years ago. To make matters worse, the Afro-American Studies program here at City Community, and elsewhere, is now balkanized into several different programs.ā€
Dr. Legend gave me much more than I could absorb. After a few minutes I began to fade out, hearing bits and pieces of his narrativeā€”none of which sounded uplifting or positive. Fifteen minutes later, we entered a tiny gray building in bad need of repair. ā€œThis is Asante Hall, the home of the Center for Africological Thought and Practice. The director, Dr. Muhammad Khalid Mansa Musa, usually has office hours about this time. He is pretty well known around these parts, does a lot of media spots, and holds the Distinguished Man of Kemet Chair in Africology. I should add, however, that all black faculty nowadays have chairs except for those of us who teach part-time.ā€
Dr. Musa seemed genuinely pleased to see us. The place was dark and deserted and, besides himself, the only other live body in the building was his part-time secretary. There were no students to be found anywhere.
ā€œI heard on the radio that you had finally been jolted out of your deep sleep,ā€ he said as he extended his hand to greet me. ā€œThe ancestors work in mysterious ways.ā€ Without skipping a beat, he proceeded to tell me about the strength and vision of Africology generally and his program in particular.
ā€œWe are out here in the community working with folks who buy our literature religiously. Itā€™s these outside funds that keep us going, not the university but the street vendors. Unlike those other Negroes, always talking about difference and diversity within blackness, we know that the man sees only one typeā€”Niggerā€”and weā€™ve been fighting for him to see us as Africans, noble and proud. Any scholars not down for the struggle, not writing about the history or liberation of black people are worthless to us.ā€
ā€œWith all due respect, Dr. Musa,ā€ I interrupted, ā€œthatā€™s a very old debate. The pioneering black scholars practically had no choice but to devote their work to uplifting the race. But is that always the best place for them to be? Arenā€™t there some negative consequences to allowing skin color and ethnic allegiances to drive oneā€™s scholarship?ā€ I spoke with hesitation, surprised that people were still talking about such issues but cognizant of the fact that I hadnā€™t a clue as to what transpired over the course of the past century.
ā€œI beg to differ, my brother. Youā€™re either with us or against us. If you donā€™t work on some aspect of black life then youā€™re selling out.ā€
ā€œIā€™m not too sure,ā€ I interjected. ā€œI recall seeing something John Hope Franklin wrote a long time ago. An article titled ā€˜The Dilemma of the American Negro Scholar.ā€™ I read it in a collection of his essays published a couple years after I finished grad school, but itā€™s olderā€”indeed, it predates Harold Cruseā€™s Crisis of the Negro Intellectual.ā€
ā€œNow youā€™re digging into some old school shit!ā€ blurted Dr. Legend, whose loss of composure surprised all of us. ā€œIā€™m sorry gentlemen. I donā€™t know what came . . ., uh. Anyway, please continue.ā€
ā€œThank you. Franklin was pointing out how difficult it was for black scholars to carry the burden of the entire race on their shoulders and how that kept many from pursuing important work in the fields in which they were trained. Do you have a copy of that book around here?ā€
ā€œSure, we have everything online or on the ECD system. ECD stands for Extremely Compact Disc. Let me pull it up real quick.ā€ The new technology was fascinating. One subway token-sized disc had the capacity to hold an entire university library. In addition to the printed words, we had the benefit of hearing the text read aloud in the authorā€™s voice, which had been digitally reconstructed through technology developed by a company called Da Lench Mob Electronics. Dr. Musa highlighted the text in question and pressed the return key. Magically, I was back in my own day listening to the eloquent voice of the dean of black history:
Imagine, if you can, what it meant to a competent Negro student of Greek literature, W. H. Crogman, to desert his chosen field and write a book entitled The Progress of a Race. Think of the frustration of the distinguished Negro physician C. V. Roman, who abandoned his medical research and practice, temporarily at least, to write The Negro in American Civilization. What must have been the feeling of the Negro student of English literature, Benjamin Brawley, who forsook his field to write The Negro Genius and other works that underscored the intellectual powers of the Negro? How much poorer is the field of the biological sciences because an extremely able and well-trained Negro scientist, Julian Lewis, felt compelled to spend years of his productive life writing a book entitled The Biology of the Negro.1
ā€œI see your point, Dr. Kelley, but you completely misunderstand why these scholars made the decisions they did. Nobody held a gun to Benjamin Brawleyā€™s head and told him to abandon English lit. He was committed to black freedom and made the proper sacrifice. Besides, where could he have studied Black Studies? Harvard? Howard? Come on, man! He had to invent it first.ā€
ā€œYes,ā€ I retorted, ā€œbut donā€™t you think we ought to work in all fields? Perhaps our collective experience gives us a different perspective on science, technology, European literature and art, and so forth? Or maybe our experience does not give us any unique perspective on issues related to black people in the United States. After all, youā€™re not suggesting that Africological insights are something we are born with or learn in our families and communities, right? If that were the case, why offer college classes and degrees?ā€
Dr. Musa, who looked visibly agitated, started to tug on his kente watchband. ā€œYou obviously missed a lot while you were sleeping. Weā€™re not the naive essentialists weā€™ve been made out to be. We insist that culture is learned, it isnā€™t biological. If it were, weā€™d be out of business. We believe that the best culture, the most liberating culture, existed before the European invasion. Weā€™re trying to recover that and reconstruct it for the present generation. That has been our project over the past century plus. And you should know better than anyone that the work we do grows out of real, deep historical scholarship, not guessing games or abstract theorizing. Go back and read the works of William Leo Hansberry or Cheikh Anta Diop or Frank Snowden.ā€
I should have left it alone, but I couldnā€™t. One hundred years is a long time without an argument. ā€œBut Dr. Musa,ā€ I interjected, ā€œwhy does every useful thing have to always come out of Africa? What about the important contributions by black nationalist scholars who looked to the black experience in the United States, or the Americas more generally, for resistive and community-sustaining cultural values? Iā€™m thinking about V. P. Franklinā€™s book Black Self-Determination or John Langston Gwaltneyā€™s Drylongso.2 Where do they fit in the paradigm youā€™re constructing?ā€
Dr. Musa simply shrugged his shoulders and said, ā€œIā€™m not familiar with those texts.ā€
ā€œYea,ā€ Dr. Legend added, ā€œthey ought to be foundation texts but your predecessors couldnā€™t see the sand for the pyramids. The lefties were no better, though. As soon as black folk start talking about ā€˜us,ā€™ ā€˜our people,ā€™ ā€˜black aesthetic,ā€™ any of that, they start crying essentialism.ā€
ā€œDonā€™t get me wrong,ā€ I added, trying to move our discussion to more institutional concerns, ā€œIā€™m not arguing that the work Africologists do isnā€™t important, politically or otherwise. There are obvious benefits to your approach; in the past black leaders have been able to mobilize folks by invoking a sense of community, a sense of nationhood, and in so doing they have made tremendous strides toward improving their condition and transforming America. But judging from the current situation, you all obviously didnā€™t win. Why do you have such a small office, small staff, and from what I gather, an abysmal enrollment?ā€
ā€œI admit, weā€™ve made mistakes in the past. A century ago we were aware of declining enrollments and the assault on affirmative action, but we didnā€™t have a very good strategy to deal with it. We thought building independent schools and independent institutions within established universities would create a base of support. But not many of our people responded; see, theyā€™re brainwashed and we need to set them straight. They need a trip to the East to see our heritage, to understand that we have a long tradition of learning dating back from Egyptian scientists to the Muslim clerics of West Africa. Modern Negroes are justā€”ā€
ā€œNow hold on just a second, brother Musa,ā€ chimed Dr. Legend. ā€œDonā€™t forget that black enrollment declined because they could no longer get into college; they dismantled all efforts to recruit people of color; used test scores against us; and cut out all financial aid. Now college is the preserve of the white minority.ā€
ā€œWhat happened to the black colleges?ā€ I inquired, ā€œlike Morehouse and Spelman and Morgan State?ā€
ā€œYou really want to know? Some became racially integrated colleges, the rest are behavior adjustment centers.ā€
ā€œBehavior adjustment?ā€ The words struck me as both familiar and absurd. ā€œYes,ā€ Dr. Legend responded, ā€œweā€™ll talk about that later. At any rate, for the past three decades there have been fewer and fewer options for black high school grads. Even trade and technical schools have all but been abolished since there are no more trades to learn. Dr. Musa is right to say that the Africologists tried to establish independent schools for black folks, and it was a good strategy given the circumstances, but few could afford the tuition, and those who could usually got their children into mainstream colleges.ā€
ā€œRunning a school costs, you know,ā€ added Dr. Musa. ā€œSo does running a programā€”and time is money. I must bid you good day, sirs. Thanks for stopping by.ā€ Dr. Musa turned from us and stared coldly out the window. ā€œYou are quite fascinating,ā€ he murmured, ā€œeven if you are possessed with a limited late twentieth-century understanding of the world. I wish you the best of luck readjusting to our society. Tuta o nana.ā€
Dr. Legend gathered me up and together we walked next door to Stuart Hall, where the Program in Antiessentialist Black World Studies was housed. The program was run by committee instead of a single chairā€”each member representing a different voice, though the faculty was so small that certain individuals had to speak for multiple constituencies. Yet everyone in the family of blackness was represented: Africans, West Indians, black Europeans, Afro-Canadians, black Pacific Islanders, women, men, gays, lesbians, ethnic and cultural hybrids, mulattoes, intellectuals, poor people, middle-class Negroesā€”you name it. Unfortunately, their vast and inclusive definition of blackness was not accompanied by vast office space. The program had one main office, four tiny faculty offices, and a copying machine that they shared with Africology. The walls were adorned with beautiful artwork and strikingly original posters. My favorite was from a conference titled ā€œā€™Sheā€™s a Bricolage Houseā€™: Art, Desire, and Black Female Sexuality.ā€
ā€œDr. Kelley, allow me to introduce you to Dr. Patricia Post; sheā€™s on faculty here in the program and holds the RuPaul Chair in Black Culture/Gender Studies.ā€ Dr. Post was pleasant, though she looked tired and disheveled. As she explained to us, because of budget cuts, she and her colleagues had to teach overloads in order to cover the range of identities represented by the program. When I asked her whether Dr. Musaā€™s program offered some of these courses, she scoffed. ā€œThe Africologists have written off the majority of black folk, and they certainly have no interest in the less flattering and more complicated aspects of black life. Do you know their story? Let me tell you.ā€ She leaned toward me and began speaking in...

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