Reckoning

T R A N S G R E S SI N G B OU N DA R I E S
Studies in Black Politics and Black Communities
Cathy Cohen and Fredrick Harris, Series Editors

The Politics of Public Housing: Black Women’s Struggles against Urban Inequality
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Reckoning: Black Lives Matter and the Democratic Necessity of Social Movements
DEVA R. WOODLY
 Reckoning
Black Lives Matter and the Democratic
Necessity of Social Movements

D EVA R . WO O D LY

1
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For my family, blood and chosen
 Contents

fUu,5tmt1ons ix
Pre/nu: Who Am l 10 Write JhisMm•ement?
Ad.'l1owl�dg,,1e11ts ..•
xi
X\ii

PART ONE. DEMOCRATIC PRECJPJCE

lnl roduction: The Democratic NecessilyofSodal MO\remenls 3
l. Emergence: A Contemporary History 20

PART TWO. DEMOCRATIC NECESSITY

2. Polit-ical Philosophy: Radical Black rcminist Pragmati.sm 49
3. The Politics ofCare and the Jdcaof Healing )uslkc 89
4. Tb•ArtofOrganizing 127

PART THREE. DEMOCRATIC POSSIBILITY

5. Movement Means Changing Politics: Discourse, Tactics, Policy,
and a New Political Ecosystem 161
Conclusion: On Futurity 206

Appe,id;x A: £xamplts cf8ailouts and Regular 8nil�0,,1 Aaio,is 217

Appc11dix B: Ongoing Ba,I Fu11d.1 22.l
Apptndix C; Police Oversight Boards /11 the li11ittd Slatt"S 231
Appendix D: Progw�iw find Reform />ro$eeu10,1 237
Appendix F.: Movemenl Syllabi 2,15
Bibliograplry 247
hulrx 271
 Illustrations

Tables

Chap. 2 Table 1: The Elements of Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 50

Chap. 3 Table 2: Values Underlying the Politics of Care 93

Figures

Chap. 4 Fig. 1: M4BL table structure (example) 149

Chap. 4 Fig. 2: M4BL ecosystem (example) 150
Chap. 5 Fig. 3: Number of Black people killed by police in the United States,
2013–​2019 182
Chap. 5 Fig. 4: Number of reform and/​or progressive prosecutors in each US state 186
Chap. 5 Fig. 5: Western regional map of progressive and reform prosecutors 186
Chap. 5 Fig. 6: Midwest regional map of progressive and reform prosecutors 187
Chap. 5 Fig. 7: Southern regional map of progressive and reform prosecutors 187
Chap. 5 Fig. 8: Northeast regional map of progressive and reform prosecutors 188
 Preface: Who Am I to Write
This Movement?

The timeline of my engagement in this project mirrors the timeline of the

movement itself. I am a scholar of political discourse, public meaning, and
political change. When I was in graduate school in the early 2000s, Black lib-
eration movements in the United States and most places in the world were
in what the social movement literature calls abeyance—​a state of temporary
disuse or suspension. The Black civil rights movement, which reached its ze-
nith in the 1960s, had been, for better and worse, fully incorporated into the
regular flow of common discourse and institutionalized politics, so it was not
my primary subject of study. Because I wanted to examine the ways that social
movements change our understandings of politics and create new political
possibilities in real time, I wrote about the then active and growing struggles
around the living wage and marriage equality in my first book, The Politics
of Common Sense. Later, as I was getting into research on what I planned to
be my second book, an empirical examination of popular understandings of
“the economy,” what it means to different segments of the American popula-
tion, and how it might be changing, videos of Black people being murdered
by police started circulating online in a terrifying proliferation. Without
making a conscious decision, my nascent mappings of American economic
discourse slowed, and I began researching and writing about the political
implications of the movement that was rising in defense of Black lives.
Of course, I had been primed to pay attention to the mass demonstrations
in Ferguson, Missouri, and other American cities because in 2013, I, like
most other Black Americans, had followed the trial of Trayvon Martin’s mur-
derer closely. I had engaged in online discussions about the details of the
case. I had talked to my parents, my colleagues, my friends. I was outraged
that the prosecution slandered the teenager—​a boy who died with Skittles
in his pocket—​after he had been hunted in the neighborhood where his fa-
ther lived. I had been upset at the way both the prosecution and some Black
people lambasted the testimony of Rachel Jeantel, critiquing her demeanor,
her speech, her clearly present anger and sadness, as though she were not a
human being, but instead a failed vessel for respectability. Even with these
xii Preface

foreshadowing pieces of evidence that the purpose of the trial was not to
judge the murderer, but to prove that Trayvon’s life didn’t matter, I was still
hopeful that the man who had stalked and murdered this teenage boy would
be found guilty.
But he wasn’t.
I am a Black woman, the wife of Black man, and the mother of Black chil-
dren. I was already aware that police could, would, and did harm Black,
brown, and poor people without cause and based on their own whims and
fears, but I had not understood the stultifying regularity with which po-
lice and vigilantes who believed themselves aligned with the state executed
Black people—​men, women, and children—​for minor alleged infractions
or no reason at all. And, more pointedly, I had not understood how easily
they would get away with these acts of racial terror even when they murdered
people on video and in plain view of the public. I was shocked by the excuses
that were made for wanton police violence in public discourse, the ways that
the Black victims of aggression and assault were demonized, always already
deemed terminally guilty of something, having once smoked marijuana or
being possessed of the gall to fight for the lives that vigilantes, police, and the
state clearly indicated did not matter. It was heartbreaking. I can hardly de-
scribe my furious grief.
Almost four years before that savage acquittal, I had stood in Chicago’s
Grant Park on the evening of November 4, 2008, surrounded by an ebul-
lient multiracial crowd of classmates, friends, and strangers as we waited
for the results of the presidential election. I will never forget the roar of the
tens of thousands of voices when, around nine o’clock, much earlier than
we expected to know the outcome, an Obama campaign aide walked to the
microphone on a raised stage facing the throng, and said into the hushed an-
ticipation, “Check, check. Mic check. Mic check for the president-​elect of the
United States of America.” The night seemed to explode with joy. We were
carried away. The first Black president. Such a stunning declamation to kick
off the second decade of the twenty-​first century. Reader, I was never under
any impression that the election of Barack Obama would usher in a so-​called
post-​racial society, but I did think, “We have come so far.” I did hope that it
would be the beginning of something good, the clearing of a path forward,
the sign that the American polity might be ready to become what it had al-
ways claimed to be.
But the next eight years showed that this hoped-​for future had not arrived
after all.
 Preface xiii

When Trayvon’s murderer was acquitted in Florida, I took to my Facebook

page and wrote the following:

I have been struggling with what to say. I’m a political scientist. And a po-
litical junky. I ought to say something politically productive. But my pre-
dominant response to this verdict—​the very need for the 45 days of protest
to even bring this vigilante to trial—​is pain. And fear. I am the mother of
Black children. The wife of a Black man. They are not safe. They are not safe.
They are not safe. I cannot keep them safe from eyes that have no capacity to
consider their humanity and no notion that they might be ordinary people,
innocent of any crime but walking around in their skin. My loves, my whole
life, everything we have built together, may be snuffed out by any armed
coward who takes it upon themselves to exercise their prejudice at any time
in any place. And there may be no recourse. And there will certainly be no
justice. Because all my pictures here of my beautiful, brilliant boy. My ebul-
lient, gifted girl. Of my talented and dedicated and hardworking husband.
They mean nothing to a stranger with a gun. I am overcome with sadness
that this is my America. And sadder still that this sentiment is not new.
This fear is a fear that has flooded the heart of every Black woman since the
nation’s inception. And the pity of it is, this fear recedes in moments. Many
moments. It recedes among my multi-​racial and multi-​cultural friends and
colleagues and associates. My family lives in a liberal, racially, and econom-
ically mixed artistic town on a beautiful river in a charmed valley. And it
is no accident that we do. Because here, this fear, this hurt, recedes. But
always, something like this brings that fear, that rage at being always out of
place, never ordinary, never innocent, back. And so I mourn. I mourn for
the life I wanted for my children. The country I wanted for them. Because that
world, that country is not to be. Listen, I am not naive, I know about prob-
abilities, I understand how rare justice is, how fundamental struggles are,
for all intents and purposes, unending. But I am an American. So I dream.
And my American dream, cherished and mostly unspoken, has been that
despite what I know of history, what I know of structural-​isms, what I know
of the stickiness of old paradigms in new days, despite all of that, perhaps,
in my children’s time, they could be free. Free of this fear and this rage. Free
to be an individual. Free. I have held this kernel of hope in my heart that
their generation would be gifted with struggles that were at least a little dif-
ferent. I know, I know. Impossible! Of course. But I am an American. So
I dream. Because honestly, how could I be who I am without the dreamers
xiv Preface

who came before? The dreamers who worked and died for things the world
could barely fathom? It is my birthright to “dream a world,” as Langston
Hughes wrote. And yet, the reality of my American life, of my son’s and
my daughter’s, swirls down and down around the same narrow drain of
possibility that has sucked us—​all of us, every single American—​down
from the very beginning. So I turned my profile picture into a black box in
mourning. Soon I will think about politics. Soon I will think about reme-
dies. Soon I will think about struggle. Soon. Because these things give me
hope. And something productive to do in the face of this great sadness.
But today I mourn. Because though I should have known, though I did
know in every measurable way, even still, I am shocked and more hurt than
I thought I would be, that this is my America. Still.

My America. Some of you will read that cynically. During the course of
the writing and review of this book, many have asked me: Why not let go of
this American idea? It has never been. This place has always been a shining
city built upon the unmarked and unremarked-​upon graves of Black and
Indigenous people. And, if the slaughter were not bad enough, all of the
institutions of the country, and almost everybody who got rich under their
auspices, have traded in our bones.
My first impulse is to give an answer about ideas. That the audacity of the
American idea is worth nurturing, worth bringing into being, even if the ap-
paratus built to enact it was built to fail Black, brown, and Indigenous peo-
ples. But that answer is a dodge. Logically, a thing that is built to fail most
people ought to be scrapped. So let me be honest. My attachment to the
American idea is much more personal. Like most Black Americans who are
descendants of enslaved people, my family can’t trace all the generations that
have been born in this land, but as far as we can tell, my roots in this country
go back at least seven generations on both sides. Those generations include
the often forced but sometimes passionately defiant intermixture of Black,
white, and Indigenous bloodlines that make up most of the African diaspora.
Those generations toiled to build and serve this nation while being brutal-
ized, stolen from, disrespected, and disavowed. They built triumphantly,
tragically effervescent human lives in the face of systematic dehumaniza-
tion. They are owed—​for both their unpaid labor and their faith that this
American idea could one day justly serve the entire polity.
What that means to me is that this nation is mine. Mine to claim. Mine to
hold to account. Mine to participate in reshaping. So I tell an American story
 Preface xv

because it my story to tell. It is why I reflected, in 2015, shortly after the coa-
lescence of what had become the Movement for Black Lives:

Listen, the movement was born, as all beings are, in pain. But what made it
possible, what lets it live, is ecstatic, defiant, world-​beating, unconditional
love. The love of a people for our own breath. Our own raised hands. Our
own spoken names. Our own queerness. Our own magic.
Mine is the only story I can tell. I speak it. Sing it. Tweet it. Me and the
rest of we who figured out how to love us and turn up. And so there are a
million true tales whipping across the screen in real time. Vivid as fiction,
but instead a history. This is what it looks like not to despair.
We remember what every political animal has ever known: speech-​is-​
action-​that-​creates. And all these players slaying, giving life, unapologeti-
cally declaring their political love as power because survival is not enough.
We want to live.
Let me tell you, there is no “post-​”. There is the unmasking. The decon-
struction of grins and lies. The deferred dream of other possible worlds that
are not yet. The breach to which we return.
Listen, my grandmother was born to sharecroppers on a farm in North
Carolina in 1924. At two years old, she was run over by a horse and buggy.
Somehow, she stood up, unbroken, crying, ready. When she was grown,
she moved north so she could work, vote, live. But my mother, a dentist’s
daughter, spent her youth wiping the spittle of white children from her
face and learning not to let the word nigger knock her down. Later, I was
told, Black girls are never beautiful unless they look like white girls. Good
thing I was smart, “like Oprah.” Smart enough to walk the halls of one ivory
tower after another, not minding—​not too much, not enough to fall—​the
loud whispers wondering how such a Black girl could take up so much
white space.
And of course, along the way, there have been too many losses.
Unspeakable losses. In money and blood. Yet to mention reparation is not
polite. We are supposed to get up (pants pulled up, hoodie shed, respect-
able). Unbroken, crying, ready. They call us to forgive. But the movement
reminds us that the choice in answering is ours. That’s how I know the
movement loves us—​is us—​getting free.
Listen, this hearing will be no easier than any other trial. The outcome, as
uncertain. All I can report is what movements have long showed: together,
we are a reckoning.
xvi Preface

This book is an account of this ongoing reckoning. But let me be clear: I am

not an architect of this movement. That honor and labor belongs to others,
many, though not nearly all, named within these pages. I am not pretending
to offer a definitive history of the movement or an inside look at how things
unfolded. I cannot tell you what it was like to be a person on the ground,
making decisions about how to keep people safe during direct actions or
choosing what campaigns would be pursued, what policies written, or how
resources would be allocated. I was not in the rooms where these historical
decisions were taken. I do not know all the ins and outs of the conflicts that
resulted, the tensions that festered, the friendships that grew and broke, or
the sacrifices made. In the coming years, I hope that we have a plethora of
histories and analyses from those who were in the rooms where these things
happened.
For now, the task of this work is to shine a light on the sophistication and
significance of the political work organizers and activists in the Movement
for Black Lives have done to create the incredible change in common sense,
public opinion, and the policy environment of the twenty-​first-​century
American polity. I have done my best to report what has happened from a
variety of evidence—​most importantly, the accounts of people who were
willing to share their experiences and reflections with me. My goal in this
book is to present the implications, public meaning, and impact of this rad-
ical, innovative, and successful movement for our understanding of politics.
Additionally, I aim to articulate the political philosophy I have observed
animating the movement in a way that makes clear its complexity, depth,
and usefulness to political and social thought. Herein, I put movement
philosophers in conversation with canonical thinkers in political theory not
to authorize the movement, but to show how it should disrupt, challenge,
and revolutionize canonical thinking. I hope I have made legible the intellec-
tual gift that the movement has given us, in addition to the practical changes
that their work has enabled.
In sum, I assess and share what I believe the movement has to teach us
about democracy, radicalism, persuasion, power, and the pragmatic paths
toward making other worlds politically possible. My work is to make sense
of things—​to relate experience to concept and evaluate concepts in light of
experiences. And though I am neither architect nor visionary of this move-
ment, I am a witness. The movement made me a witness. And this book is my
testimony, an act of political care rendered by way of scholarship, because
that is the language I know best and the service I can render most faithfully.
 Acknowledgments

This book has been nearly five years in the making, and it is difficult to begin
to thank all the people who have contributed to its possibility, writing, and
completion. First, I must thank my husband, Anthony Davis, who is a true
partner in every sense of the word. He has provided the encouragement, lo-
gistical, and co-​parenting support that has been critical to my ability to bring
this long-​term project to fruition. You are my home, and I am yours. That
is a great gift. I would also like to thank our children, V and L Davis, who
teach me, by example, what it means to be a fully engaged, totally messy, ever
learning, immanently loving human in the world. My gratitude, also, to my
parents, Ann and Donnell Woodly, who always believed in me and taught me
to believe in myself—​an indispensable, soul-​saving armor for a person born,
as Lucille Clifton writes, “nonwhite and woman.”
There are those with whom I share no blood but who are, nevertheless,
my family. So, I must thank the Friendsgiving crew: Daniel Reid, my first
reader and longtime editor, who never fails to honor and lift up my voice
amid the stew of words I drop in his lap. I love you avidly. Aaron Carico,
who has processed every emotion with me since we were eighteen-​year-​olds
sitting on porches and back steps trying to make sense of growing up and
growing into who we wanted to be. Sarah Landres, who first taught me and
keeps teaching me the crucial, life-​giving difference between wasting time
and spending time.
I am also blessed with an irreplaceable community of mentors and
interlocutors who have helped to shape my mind and hone my thinking.
In this capacity, no one has been more dedicated to my intellectual thriving
than Danielle Allen, who possesses a colossal intellect, a kind soul, and a
heart for service that I strive to emulate. I am continuously astounded by
her capacious, heterodox mastery of so many subjects, which is neverthe-
less combined with an unfailing generosity. Cathy Cohen, who has always
cheered, pushed, and challenged me to say what I mean and mean what I say,
and who, with the appearance of this book in the series she co-​edits, has wel-
comed me back to my intellectual home. Iris Marion Young, who left all our
lives too soon but gifted me with a deep understanding of what it means to
xviii Acknowledgments

value clear, rigorous, and righteous thought and language. Because of her,
I know what it means to be a scholar, and much of my work is an homage to
her oeuvre, which still teaches me. I had no idea of my delirious good fortune
in attending the University of Chicago at a time when I could learn political
theory, American government, and Black politics from these women while
also learning statistics from Melissa Harris Perry, who somehow managed
to make this girl who had always thought she was bad at math, into a multi-​
method whiz. My thanks, also, to Patchen Markell and Jacob Levy, who each
carried on their advising duties long past the time when they ought to have
expired and made me feel smart and seen. I am also thankful to Barbara
Ransby, who trusted me to get her footnotes together on Ella Baker and the
Black Freedom Movement, giving me an exciting and educational sneak peek
at what Black feminist scholarship in-​progress looks like. She also contin-
ually shows what scholar-​activism is with inspiring grace and aplomb and
never fails to offer a thoughtful word of encouragement.
I also wish to offer my thanks to Shanelle Matthews, a blindingly talented,
keenly smart, and boldly visionary communications expert and educator in
the movement (and beyond), who just happened to be my very first inter-
viewee. Without her, this book likely would not have happened. She trusted
me and believed in this project enough to vouch for me in movement spaces
when people were overwhelmingly busy with urgent and sometimes dan-
gerous work and suspicions of outsiders were high. I will be forever grateful
that she took a chance on me.
All books are challenging to produce, but this one was deeply personal to
me in a way my first book was not; therefore, it took shape slowly and I was
privileged to participate in several workshops and symposia that were essen-
tial to its development. I want to acknowledge them all and thank my fellow
participants for their camaraderie and engagement. In chronological order
these are: Political Theory In/​As Political Science (May 2018) organized by
Jacob Levy at McGill University; The Democracy and Freedom Conference
(April 2019) organized by Neil Roberts at Williams College, including
fellow participants George Shulman, Lawrie Balfour, Angelica Bernal, Nick
Bromell, John Drabinski, Marisa Fuentes, Victor Muniz-​Fraticelli, Emily
Nacol, Keisha-​Khan Perry, and Michael Hanchard. The Seeing Beyond the
Veil Symposium (November 2018) organized by Melvin Rogers and Juliet
Hooker at Brown University, with fellow participants Baron Hesse, Michael
Hanchard, Michael Dawson, Ainsley Lesure, Alexander Livingston, Erin
 Acknowledgments xix

Pineda, Jasmine Syedullah, Neil Roberts, Candice Delmas, Charles Mills,

David McIvor, Shatema Threadcraft, and Stephen Marshall.
I would also like to acknowledge the Edmond J. Safra Center for Ethics
at Harvard University, which extended me a fellowship in 2019–​2020 that
was crucial for the completion of this manuscript. My thanks to my fellow
members of the 2019–​2020 Safra Center class: Anna Lewis, who gen-
erously extended an invitation to me to room with her during my time in
Cambridge, Roni Hirsh, Attila Mraz, Naomi Scheinerman, Allison Stanger,
Adom Getachew, Eric Beerbohm, Jacob Fay, John Basl, Greg Keating, Meira
Levinson, Rebecca Henderson, Josh Simmons, Leah Downey, and essential
staff members Emily Bromley and Vickie Aldin.
I also want to thank the Center for hosting my manuscript workshop,
allowing me to bring together Shanelle Matthews, Quincy Mills, Jenn
Jackson, Jasmine Syedullah, Shatema Threadcraft, Melvin Rogers, Neil
Roberts, and Danielle Allen for crucial and helpful commentary on the first
complete draft of the book.
In addition to these venues where I was gifted with more formal commen-
tary and critique of this project, I am also privileged to have a fantastic group
of scholar friends who push me and inspire me through their own work and
through regular engagement with mine. Let me extend my eternal thanks to
Jasmine Syedullah, my writing partner and soothsayer, who is full of bold,
poetic ideas, rare knowledge, and trenchant critiques. Melvin Rogers, whose
intellect is patient and profound. He always makes time to chat with me
and lend a word of advice, despite his busy schedule and full life. Shatema
Threadcraft, whose keen mind and good humor keeps me sharp, informed,
laughing, and connected to all the good stuff the academy has to offer. Neil
Roberts who has been sharing his intelligence and intellectual generosity
with me since graduate school. Andrew Dilts, who pushes and challenges
me with his unique combination of cranky determination and fierce love.
Sina Kramer, whose serene manner and loyal friendship is underpinned by
a ferocious and careful mind. Chris Harris, who is a passionate advocate for
and articulator of the Black radical tradition and whom I had the pleasure to
learn from and teach during his graduate studies at the New School. Thanks
also to Will McKeithen, who sat through the longest run-​through of the talk
based on this book and helped make it better. And, last but far from least,
buckets of gratitude to my research assistant Liam Bouquet, who provided
invaluable support.
xx Acknowledgments

I would also like to shout out my thanks to the Geek crew, who buoyed my
spirits and provided invaluable community, especially during the plague year
2020: Chris Lebron, Chris Robichaud, Utz McKnight, Daniel Silvermint,
Elizabeth Barnes, Ross Cameron, Marisa Parham, Zachary Callen, Nolan
Bennett, and Tilda Cvrkel.
My heartfelt and humble thanks to organizer and artist Kei Williams for
agreeing to design the beautiful cover of this work. I am in awe of your many
talents and so grateful you agreed to share them with me and the world.
To anyone I have omitted, please accept my apologies. It is a failure of
my brain and not my heart. I am full of gratitude for every person who has
touched my life during this process because I know, as Octavia Butler writes,
that “all that you touch, you change and all that you change, changes you.” My
cup overflows. Selah.
 PART ONE
DE MO C R AT IC PR E C I PIC E

The whole history of the progress of human liberty shows that all
concessions yet made to her august claims, have been born of ear-
nest struggle . . . If there is no struggle, there is no progress. . . . Power
concedes nothing without demand. It never did and it never will.
—​Frederick Douglass, 1857

The cause of freedom is not the cause of a race or a sect, a party or a

class—​it is the cause of humankind, the very birthright of humanity.
—​Anna Julia Cooper, 1892

We who believe in freedom cannot rest.

—​Ella Baker, 1964

It is our duty to fight for our freedom.

It is our duty to win.
We must love each other and support each other.
We have nothing to lose but our chains.
—​Assata Shakur, 1987

There is no end to what a living world will demand of you.

—​Octavia Butler, 1993
 Introduction
The Democratic Necessity of Social Movements

In 2016, three years after the emergence of the Movement for Black Lives,
President Barack Obama chided the movement by saying that it had been
“really effective at bringing attention to problems,” but claiming that “once
you’ve highlighted an issue and brought it to people’s attention . . . , and
elected officials or people who are in a position to start bringing about change
are ready to sit down with you, then you can’t just keep on yelling at them.”
As reported in the New York Times, he went on to say that “the value of social
movements and activism is to get you at the table, get you in the room, and
then to start trying to figure out how is the problem to be solved” (Shear and
Stack 2016).
Obama’s view is a common one, but it is also incorrect. The value of
movements is something much more profound. They are necessary, not
only to address the concerns of those engaging in public interest, nor only
for the ethical purpose of achieving more just conditions for all, but also for
the health and survival of democracy, as such. Movements are what keep de-
mocracy from falling irrevocably into the pitfalls of oligarchy and the bu-
reaucratic iron cage described by Max Weber, chiefly dehumanization,
expropriation, and stagnation. Democracy demands a broad political ori-
entation toward participation and citizenship from “the people” who are to
govern. A democracy where people have come to believe that voting is the
only kind of participation that matters, that their vote, in any case, doesn’t
count, that the system is fundamentally “rigged,” and that those who govern
are not “like them” and, worse, are unresponsive is a polity that will struggle
(and perhaps fail) to bear the burden and responsibility of self-​governance. If
citizens, from whose authorization the legitimacy of democratic government
arises, come to believe that their capacity to act as authors of their collective
fate is a fiction, then what follows is what I call a politics of despair.
In this book, I argue that the force that counteracts the Weberian pitfalls
of bureaucratization and oligarchy and that can counteract the politics of
4 Reckoning

despair by “re-​politiciz[ing] public life” (I. Young [1990] 2011, 81) is social
movements. Social movements infuse the essential elements of pragmatic
imagination, social intelligence, and democratic experimentation into public
spheres that are ailing and have become nonresponsive, stagnant, and/​or
closed. However, this book is not only a theoretical exploration of the place
of social movements in democracy. If social movements help to repoliticize
public life, we should see some observable changes in the polity. Therefore,
I undertake an examination of the ideas and impacts of one of the most in-
fluential movements of our moment: the Movement for Black Lives (M4BL).
To be clear, I do not intend to claim that M4BL is the only movement
making a political difference in the second decade of the twenty-​first cen-
tury. In fact, I would assert that since 2009, the United States and, arguably,
the world have been in what social movements scholar Sydney Tarrow (1998)
calls a “cycle of contention,” which is a “phase of heightened conflict across
the social system.” Contentious cycles are characterized by the rapid diffu-
sion of collective action and mobilization; innovation in the forms of con-
tention; the creation or major change in collective action frames, discourses,
and frames of meaning; coexistence of organized and unorganized activists;
and increased interaction between challengers and authorities. In the United
States, the 2009 emergence of the Tea Party movement, followed by Occupy
in 2011, #BlackLivesMatter in 2014, #Me Too in 2017, and March for Our
Lives in 2018 evinces all the above.
In the following chapters I explore the Movement for Black Lives as a case
study, not only because it has had a measurable and dramatic political im-
pact on American (and, indeed, global) politics, but because as it persists
over time, it has the promise for effecting transformative, historically
unique change. This is because the movement has a peculiar political phi-
losophy that I call radical Black feminist pragmatism (RBFP). This philos-
ophy is new—​no historical corollary combines all of these elements—​and
it has struck an unusually resonant political chord, resulting in the trans-
formation of our understanding of racial justice and of the entire political
environment in 2020.
I undertake this study not only to outline the sophistication and sig-
nificance of the Movement for Black Lives, but also to explicate what so-
cial movements do for democracy in general. The importance of social
movements goes beyond the political claims they make on behalf of mar-
ginalized groups and cuts right to heart of what makes democracy, as such,
sustainable. Herein, I explain how movements can reinvigorate the public
 Introduction 5

sphere and what such remembrance and recommitment to politics, if it

occurs, means for the polity as a whole.

The Political Context

The graphic and bewildering 2016 electoral contest, and its surprising out-
come, seemed to make the world anew overnight, especially for the 73.68 mil-
lion voters who had cast their ballots for someone other than President
Trump (figures from Federal Election Commission). However, the political
tumult that gave rise to the contentious and surprising election cycle began
much earlier. Already the twenty-​first century had put the lie to the 1990s
notion that America and the world had reached “the end of history,” in which
the liberal international order and increasing development would lead to
ever-​growing tolerance and prosperity. The first year of the new millennium
saw the birth of a new form of international conflict and the first decade
ushered in the largest financial collapse the world had seen since the 1930s.
During what was dubbed the Great Recession, one-​quarter of American
families lost at least 75 percent of their wealth, and more than half lost at
least 25 percent (Pfeffer, Danziger, and Schoeni 2013). As with almost every
indicator of American well-​being, for African Americans, the news was
even worse: the median net worth of black families fell 53 percent (NAREB
2013). The national unemployment rate had climbed to above 10 percent; for
Blacks, the rate topped 17 percent (US Congress Joint Economic Committee
2010). When the wave of job loss began to recede in 2013, it left in its wake
occupations that did not provide as much stability or income as the ones that
had been swept away.
But the economic devastation of the Great Recession and the precarity
that it laid bare were not the only upheavals testing the temerity of American
dreamers by 2016. Already, a Black teenager named Trayvon had been
hunted and gunned down by a vigilante as he walked home in a small town
in Florida. Already, Rekia Boyd had been shot dead by an off-​duty cop on a
burger run, while standing in her neighborhood park. Eric Garner, a Black
man selling loose cigarettes on a New York City street corner, and pleading
“I can’t breathe,” had already been choked to death on video by a police pa-
trolman. Twelve-​year-​old Tamir Rice, mistaken for a twenty-​year-​old man,
had been slaughtered by law enforcement while playing behind a community
center. Already, Sandra Bland had been disappeared into the cell where she
6 Reckoning

would die for behaving as though she were free during a traffic stop. And
Michael Brown’s cooling body had already lain uncovered on the hot con-
crete for four hours after being shot dead by a police officer who claimed the
unarmed teen looked like a “demon.” In each case, the killings were deemed
justified. The perpetrators left free.
The justice system’s shrug of acceptance in the face of the violent, unneces-
sary deaths of Black people at the hands of vigilantes and the state mirrored
the unconcern that seemed to suffuse all the institutions of power as they
witnessed the post-​recession suffering of ordinary people of all colors, and
seemed to do little or nothing in response. Indeed, in the second decade of
the twenty-​first century, the world had already witnessed a series of uprisings
demanding democratic accountability and economic fairness. This context
suffused organizer Alicia Garza’s hastily typed cry that “black lives should
matter” with grief and gravitas. Garza’s friend and fellow organizer Patrisse
Khan-​Cullors put the exhortation behind a hashtag that yet another or-
ganizer and collaborator, Opal Tometi, pushed onto what were in 2012 the
lesser-​used social media platforms of Twitter and Tumblr. #BlackLivesMatter
quickly diffused across social media and became a part of national discourse,
and later a rallying cry for mass mobilizations in the streets. But what charac-
teristics created a “political opportunity” for the commotion that has charac-
terized America’s early twenty-​first century?

The Politics of Despair

In the early twentieth century, social movements were regarded as purely

emotional mobs reacting to some stimulus of deprivation. After the Black
civil rights movement of mid-​century, along with the rise of the New Left,
social movement scholars tended to downplay the emotions stirred by so-
cial movements in order to emphasize their strategic and political impacts.
Contemporary scholars, particularly those who have studied the role that
emotions played in the militant politics of ACT UP in the 1980s and 1990s,
eschew the division between emotions and effective political strategy, instead
investigating how emotions inform and shape the collective commitments,
agenda-​setting, and political strategies of social movements. Veterans of the
gay rights movement, most notably the sociologist Deborah Gould, began
insisting that studying movement organizations without taking note of
the emotions that motivated, animated, and complicated them overlooks
 Introduction 7

major dynamics of the emergence, maintenance, and demobilization of

movements.
In 2012, Gould introduced the concept of “political despair,” which she
described as a “feeling of inefficacy and hopelessness, the sense that nothing
will ever change no matter what some imagined collective ‘we’ does to try to
bring change” (Gould 2012, 95). Gould describes political despair as a part of
the “affective landscape of the early twenty-​first century” (95). But political
despair is more than a public mood, it is also a politics, “the activity through
which relatively large and permanent groups of people determine what they
will collectively do, settle how they will live together, and decide their future”
(Pitkin 1981, 343). Politics “concerns all aspects of institutional organization,
public action, social practices and habits, and cultural meanings insofar as
they are potentially subject to collective evaluation and decision-​making”
(I. Young [1990] 2011, 9). For citizens, a politics of despair is characterized
by a lack of institutional investment and public trust, suspicion of the so-
cial practices and habits of others in the polity, cultural meanings that are
illegible across difference, and deep cynicism about the possibility of political
efficacy. For governors, a politics of despair is characterized by a Weberian
retreat to bureaucratized oligarchy particularly marked by either indiffer-
ence or inability to respond to the concerns of constituents.
Evidence that the United States can be described as in the grips of a poli-
tics of despair can be found in several trends that have been intensifying for
decades: (1) rising inequality, (2) declining political trust, (3) declining in-
terpersonal trust, (4) declining civic knowledge, (5) declining and stratified
political participation, and (6) declining political efficacy. The data demon-
strating each of these trends is voluminous and robust. Social and economic
inequality has been rising since the mid-​twentieth century, with income ine-
quality currently more stark than it has been since the Gilded Age imploded
in 1928. The top 1 percent of income earners saw their share of total income
rise from 8.9 percent in 1973 to 21.2 percent in 2014, where it has remained
(DeSilver 2015; Schaeffer 2020). This startling proportion does not capture
the fact that income growth during that time has accrued almost exclusively
to the top 1 percent of income earners, or that for all but top earners, incomes
have been stagnant since 2000. Moreover, the proportion of Americans who
are middle income has been decreasing, falling from 61 percent in 1971 to
51 percent in 2019 (Schaeffer 2020).
The data on the increasing wealth gap is even more severe, with America’s
upper-​income families possessing 75 times the wealth of lower-​income
8 Reckoning

families and 7.4 times the wealth of middle-​income families, the largest gap
recorded by the Federal Reserve in the thirty years it has been collecting
data (Kochhar and Fry 2014; Kochhar and Cilluffo 2017). When these num-
bers are parsed by race and ethnicity, the already wide divide reveals itself
to be a chasm, with the median wealth of white households increasing by
2.4, from $138,600 to $141,900, between 2010 and 2013, while Hispanics’
median wealth decreased by 14.3 percent, from $16,000 to $13,700, and
Black households’ fell 33.7 percent, from $16,600 to $11,000 (Kochhar
and Fry 2014). As of 2016, the picture had barely improved for Black and
Hispanic Americans, while white Americans had, on average, recovered the
wealth they lost the previous decade (Kochhar and Cilluffo 2017). These
gaps in income and wealth are not unique among indicators of well-​being.
Egregious and persistent gaps by class, race, and gender are evident in eve-
rything from education to physical safety, health, maternal and infant mor-
tality, and contact with disciplining institutions, including carceral and
welfare agencies (Pew Research Center 2016a; Atkinson 2015; Piketty 2015;
Bonilla-​Silva 2013).
Additionally, trust in government is at a historic low (Smith and Son
2013). According to the Pew Research Center (2019), only 17 percent of
respondents trust the government in Washington to do what is right “just
about always” or “most of the time.” By comparison, 73 percent of Americans
answered this question affirmatively in 1958, and 49 percent did so in 2001.
Questions about individual institutions reveal similar skepticism. According
to Gallup’s Historical Trends data, the only institutions that a majority of
Americans trust are the military (73 percent) and police (53 percent). Only
38 percent trust the president and the Supreme Court, 29 percent trust or-
ganized labor, 24 percent trust the criminal justice system, 23 percent trust
newspapers, and 11 percent trust Congress (Gallup 2016).
Alongside this lack of trust in institutions, Americans have become
much more likely to sort themselves by party sympathies now than they
were two decades ago (Lupia 2015). This partisan sorting is not limited to
issue positions, with more Democrats and Republicans espousing policy
preferences that align with their chosen party, but also includes social
sorting. Democrats and Republicans are now less likely to participate in the
same entertainment, live in the same neighborhoods, or consume the same
goods (Pew Research Center 2014; Bingham 2012; E-​Poll Market Research
2016). In addition, 80 percent of Democrats believe the Republican Party
has been taken over by racists, and 82 percent of Republicans believe the
 Introduction 9

Democratic Party is now run by socialists (PRRI 2019). Perhaps because of

this sorting, there has also been a stunning increase in personal antipathy
between Democrats and Republicans, with 86 percent of Democrats re-
porting that they have an “unfavorable” view of Republicans and 55 percent
“very unfavorable.” Likewise, 91 percent of Republicans report that they view
Democrats unfavorably and 58 percent very unfavorably (Pew Research
Center 2016c).
The personal antipathy between partisans hints at an even more troubling
phenomenon: Americans’ declining trust in each other generally. In 1974,
46 percent of Americans reported that they trusted most people; by 2012,
only 33 percent said the same, with millennials reporting less trust in others
than any other generation (Twenge, Campbell, and Carter 2014). To make
matters worse, Americans know less than ever before about how their gov-
ernment is structured and how it is supposed to function, with only one-​
quarter of Americans able to name the three branches of government, and
one-​third unable to name any of them (Annenburg Public Policy Center
2016; Lupia 2015).
These changes in fortunes, trust, and knowledge have taken a toll on the
belief that democratic government can be responsive to most citizens, pro-
ducing dramatic and widespread disillusionment with the idea that polit-
ical participation by ordinary citizens can create positive change. This bleak
view of the effects of traditional political participation is not merely the result
of a cynical outlook. Americans have good reason to doubt their ability to
effect national politics. Political scientists have shown that government re-
sponsiveness is stratified by socioeconomic status (Gilens and Page 2014;
Hetheington and Rudolph 2015). Is it any wonder, then, that political par-
ticipation is stratified in the same way, with the wealthy and educated much
more likely to contribute their “money, skills, and time” in the political
arena than those who have fewer resources, but need more responsiveness?
(Schlozman, Brady, and Verba 2012; Verba, Schlozman, and Brady 1995).
For Black Americans, the reality of stratified representation is even more
severe. Though the civil rights movements of the 1950s and 1960s opened
pathways for more African Americans to participate in the political process
and elect some members of the group as political representatives, the price of
the ticket has been electoral capture by one increasingly unresponsive party,
and the decline of a politics dedicated to confronting racial inequality head
on (Frymer 2010; Harris 2012). Given these realities, the breadth of the crisis
we now face is profound.
10 Reckoning

Analysts of democracy spanning diverse political times and traditions—​

from Thomas Jefferson to Frederick Douglass, Max Weber to John Dewey,
and Rosa Luxemburg to Angela Davis—​have warned that though democ-
racy is based on the idea that the people will govern, checking governors’ and
institutions’ tendency toward consolidating power and ruling in the interest
of the few is work that requires muscular and often rebellious engagement
from the people.
The American pragmatist John Dewey reasoned that since “progress is not
steady and continuous [and] retrogression is as periodic as advance” (Dewey
[1927] 2016), citizens will often find themselves in a situation in which they
must “build power external to the state” in order to “create, through protest
or violence, a new space where inquiry may once again thrive in the service
of collective problem-​solving” (as explained in M. Rogers 2010, 84). Because
democratic institutions derive their legitimacy from the people and exist to
serve them, the bureaucratic disconnect is particularly toxic in democratic
systems. Indeed, that disconnect’s resulting lack of responsiveness, lopsided
responsiveness, and malign neglect creates conditions ripe for a politics of
despair.
A series of pointed and urgent questions arise from these facts: What helps
members of the polity recover from the cynicism wrought by insufficiently
responsive governance? What reminds us of the power of the public sphere?
What causes governing officials to be responsive to new or neglected constit-
uencies and attentive to their causes? What helps us to feel that our opinions
and political actions matter—​that “we the people” have power? What makes
a citizenry both believe and act on behalf of the belief that “another world is
possible?”
The answer is social movements.

Theorizing Social Movements as Democratic Institutions

When people think of the structure of democratic societies, they often think
of the institutions formalized in the US Constitution: the legislature, the ex-
ecutive, the judiciary, and the press (as acknowledged and protected in the
First Amendment). I argue that a complete theory of democratic politics
ought to include social movements as another essential institutional ele-
ment, a Fifth Estate that is an indispensable check on institutional tenden-
cies toward bureaucracy and oligarchy. Although social movement scholars
 Introduction 11

generally do not spend much time contemplating the function of social

movements in democracy, the sociologist Hank Johnston writes in States
and Social Movements that it is crucial to understand the role that social
movements have played in the formation of the modern state:

Let us be clear: for most of history, when a ruler’s attention turned to the
common folk, it was usually not from compassion or concern for their well-​
being or a desire to protect their interests, but for practical considerations
of maintaining power and squelching the threat of rebellion. The long-​term
effects of popular mobilizations and protests have been to force the ruling
classes . . . to consider the popular will in state politics. . . . Although this is
not usually the intended consequence of social movements, to this day they
continue to bring new challenging groups, new ideas, new coalitions, and
new interests into today’s system, such that the strong undemocratic ten-
dencies are often mitigated to the extent that social movements mobilize.
(Johnston 2011, 3)

Democratic theorists sometimes point out the essential functions that

movements play, but often without realizing that movements are not an in-
tervention from outside a routinized democracy, but are, in practice, an es-
sential part of democracy. Sheldon Wolin, for example, famously declared
that democracy cannot be had as a form of governance or through a set of
procedures, and that, indeed, the form of government usually devolves into
“democracy without the demos as actor” (Wolin 1994, 13). Wolin goes so
far as to dismiss contemporary instantiations of representative democracy as
“various representations of democracy” bolstered by “the political burlesque
hustled by the pundits” (14). Democracy worthy of the name, by this account,
only erupts spontaneously and temporarily, via revolutions that “activate the
demos and destroy boundaries that bar access to political experience” (18).
This activated populous, though, creates a tumult, “one that comes to ap-
pear as surplus democracy once revolutions are ended and the permanent
institutionalization of politics is begun” (19). Wolin contends that this is be-
cause the democratic notions of “citizen-​as-​actor” and “politics-​as-​episodic”
are incompatible with the modern choice of “the State as the fixed center of
political life,” and consequently that “[d]‌emocracy in the late modern world
cannot be a complete political system, and given the awesome potentialities
of modern forms of power . . . it ought not be hoped or striven for” (23).
Instead, he asserts, we ought to make our peace with the idea that democracy
12 Reckoning

“is doomed to succeed only temporarily, but is a recurrent possibility as long

as the memory of the political survives” (23). Wolin concludes that “the pos-
sibility of renewal draws on a simple fact: that ordinary individuals are ca-
pable of creating new cultural patterns of commonality at any moment . . .
renewing the political by contesting the forms of unequal power” that char-
acterize society (24).
I agree with Wolin’s account of the way that democracy is, in practice, pe-
riodically recalled to itself because of the political action of resistant and or-
ganized members of the polity. However, what if these periodic democratic
renewals are not outside the bounds of regular democratic politics? What
if they are not paradoxical or contradictory? What if they are not evidence,
as Wolin colorfully puts it, of “democracy . . . betraying its own values” (24).
Perhaps these seeming disruptions are actually part and parcel of the demo-
cratic package and should be theorized as such. More pointedly, what if peri-
odic insurgency is democracy’s way of keeping itself alive?
We might look to the physical sciences for an analogy. Take the con-
cept of “swailing,” a word used in forestry and farming, which means “con-
trolled burn.” Swailing is the practice of setting small parts of the forest on
fire to reduce hazards that accumulate during the colder seasons and pre-
vent hotter, more destructive fires from erupting in the spring. This process
also stimulates the germination of some desirable forest trees, and reveals
soil mineral layers that increase seedling vitality, thus renewing the forest.
Without seasonally appropriate swailing, forests become moribund. I con-
tend that the democratic environment, one filled with the hazards of struc-
tural inequalities and manifold cross-​cutting difference, is one that requires
the political swailing that social movements provide.

The Failures of Interest Group Pluralism

Contrary to the theoretical balm of balanced pluralism offered by American

democratic theorists in the mid-​twentieth century (e.g., Dahl 2006), social
scientists have consistently demonstrated that, empirically, the “heavenly
chorus”—​that is, the collection of voices raised to speak their interests and
policy preferences in democracies—​sings with a decidedly upper-​class ac-
cent (Schattschneider 1960). To wit, nothing explains differences in political
participation better than socioeconomic stratification (Schlozman, Brady,
and Verba 2012). Likewise, elected representatives are most likely to listen
 Introduction 13

to upper-​class constituents and make policy in accordance with their wishes

(Gilens and Page 2014). Suppositions by mid-​twentieth-​century political
scientists that stratified participation in electoral politics was voluntary, and
therefore a benign expression of disinterest rather than a reflection of struc-
tural disadvantage, have been proved false (Verba, Schlozman, and Brady
1995; Bartels 2008; Schlozman, Brady, and Verba 2012). Equally optimistic
notions that perhaps the policy preferences of the upper and lower classes
were not very divergent have also shown themselves to be incorrect (Page,
Bartels, and Seawright 2013; Flavin 2012; Kelly 2009). Additionally, though
socioeconomic status is the most predictive indicator of political participa-
tion and influence, race and gender matter most in terms of the way members
of the polity understand the political world as well as how they develop and
express political attitudes and policy preferences (Hochschild 1996; Kinder
and Sanders 1996; Dawson 1994; Sears, Sidanius, and Bobo 2000; López
2004; Lien 2001; Dittmar 2015; Caroll and Fox 2013; Pew Research Center
2016a; Fingerhut 2016).
These stratifications do not balance out at any point in the electoral pro-
cess, national or local, during campaigns, or once representatives are situated
in office. Instead, our regular electoral process routinely leaves some—​
usually white, upper-​class men and associative conglomerations thereof—​on
top and others arrayed in an intersectional hierarchy that cascades below.
The well-​documented stratification evinced in the electoral system means
that the United States is (in fact, not hyperbole) governed by and for the ben-
efit of the few, rather than the expansive swath one might imagine with the
echo of the words “we the people” ringing in the doxa of our imagined com-
munity (B. Anderson [1983] 2006).
This idealized form of this arrangement, which Iris Young calls “interest
group pluralism,” is predicated on the idea that coalitions of interests will
be voluntary, based on associative rather than structural or immutable cat-
egories, and able to combine in a variety of ways. The acknowledgement of
difference is an underpinning of the idea of democratic pluralism, but the un-
derstanding of difference—​and its implications for justice and the possibility
of a well-​functioning democracy—​is so flawed as to be counterproductive
for the ideal. The kind of contestation that proponents readily acknowledge
as endemic to the political includes competing interests, competing values,
competing ethics, competing norms, competing discursive lexicons, and so
on. Traditional proponents of pluralism like Robert Dahl argue that such
conflict can and should be salved through the normal process of institutional
14 Reckoning

politics, because satisfying the demands made in these contests is simply a

question of organization on the part of citizens and responsiveness to that or-
ganization on the part of elected officials. Those with competing views must
organize with others who share their perspective, and the most organized
interest will win out, with no win ever being permanent and power shifting
over time. However, the problem, as we know, is that pluralism is character-
ized not only by conflict between equals who have differing perspectives, but
also by inequality, structural disadvantage, and, if not immutable, then de-
monstrably enduring exclusion based on ascriptive characteristics.
The issue of inequality is of great concern because it is not simply a matter
of inequality among different social groups in the current generation, but in-
equality that compounds over time, giving rise to a cumulative effect or legacy
that, while it does not always arise from the actions of the current members
of the polity, nevertheless conditions the material opportunities granted in
their lives, shaping the political meaning of their social understandings and
the effect of their political actions. In short, interest-​group pluralism might,
in ideal theory, be able to solve the problem of difference, but it is only be-
cause the concept of difference is so thoroughly misconceived as to leave
out consideration of the reality of inequality and its political and economic
consequences.
But inequality is not the only concern. Interest-​group pluralism also
“depoliticizes public life.” Because we carry out democratic politics in a way
that restricts legitimate political concerns to personal interests, we have de-
veloped the habit of making “no distinction between the assertion of selfish
interests and normative claims to justice or right” (I. Young [1990] 2011, 72).
Indeed, the most common political insults leveled in contemporary politics,
“snowflake” and “social justice warrior,” treat genuine emotional investment
in political topics and commitment to the ideal of justice, respectively, as in-
fantile, undesirable attributes.
Politics is supposed to be made of sterner stuff, namely a naked “compe-
tition among claims,” where the only worthy consideration is winning and
“one does not win by persuading a public that one’s claim is just,” but instead
by “making trades and alliances with others, and making effective strategic
calculations about how and to whom to make your claims.” This process
“collapses normative claims to justice into selfish claims of desire” (I. Young
[1990] 2011, 72). This way of conducting democratic politics is not damaging
merely because it presents ethical problems, but also because it “fosters po-
litical cynicism” and convinces people that democratic politics is less about
 Introduction 15

participation, representation, and problem-​solving, and more a great game

where the powerful compete and the rest of us clamber through our lives
trying to stay out of the dangerous messes they make.
A further concern is that when the goal is only to win and not to deliberate
and persuade your fellows regarding what is right, the range of arguments that
circulate in public discourse is narrower and the content more superficial.
Young contends that this leads to “a fragmented public life” in which people
only give an audience to the arguments of their group. Today, the media
environment, which features cable news subdivided by political attitudes,
websites, and blogs precision-​tuned for ideological preferences, and social
media feeds personally and algorithmically curated to perfect comport-
ment with our preexisting ideas, this tendency has only grown worse. Our
discursive environment now provides structural support for public fraction-
alization. This means that “there is no forum within the public sphere of dis-
cussion and conflict where people can examine the overall patterns of justice
or fairness produced by these processes.” Additionally, because the political
habit is to evaluate politics based on who’s winning and who’s losing (Bartels
1988; Capella and Jamieson 1997; T. Patterson 2005), rather than what
is just or good and for whom, it is exceedingly difficult to bring “the basic
structures, assumptions, constraints, and decision-​making procedures” that
coalesce to produce political outcomes into public discussion, “because, for
the most part, these [structures] are not effectively public” (I. Young [1990]
2011, 73). The consequence is that political proposals are not directed at
“persons as such, but at persons constituted piecemeal as taxpayers, health
service consumers, parents, workers, residents of cities, and so on” (73). This
kind of fragmentary public sphere’s most negative impact is not polarization,
but incoherence. Not only is there a dearth of public forums for discussion
of issues outside the rubric of our selfish interest, but even if there were such
settings, our political culture has not taught us what we ought to do in them.
This kind of depoliticization, more than conflict or polarization, is the death
of democracy because it means that the nation has become a mere territory,
rather than a polity, because people have forgotten how to be citizens.
I have listed the empirical and conceptual deficiencies of interest-​group
pluralism, but it is also important to remember that any way of arranging
power that starts from the world as it exists will require long-​term and on-
going commitment to adapting to the realities of structural inequality and
social difference in order to approach just political and social relations.
Likewise, there are no ideologies, procedures, or policy agendas that can
16 Reckoning

permanently or entirely undo the material and political consequences of the

historically compounded legacies of domination and oppression. Of course,
that is not to say we cannot and should not strive to do better.

An Antidote to the Politics of Despair

What is required is a political project that can meet the world where it is and
take it someplace new. Such a politics requires an ethic for deciding what
political remedy looks like and a political culture that facilitates revising
structures, laws, and routines so that they can be in comportment with what
the polity conceives as being as just as possible in a given time and place.
Fundamentally, this iterative balancing act is what democracy is built to do.
However, since democracy, like all governing systems, develops strong oli-
garchic tendencies over time, it is necessary to push through periods of polit-
ical stagnation, and social movements provide the way.
It is for this reason that social movements are a potential antidote to the
politics of despair. They allow us to enact citizenship, not only through per-
forming duties, but also by authoring new understandings, priorities, and
even governing institutions. Unlike other forms of participation, which
can also teach valuable civic skills, social movements show us how to
make change. Even if we do not immediately change policy or restructure
institutions, we change our ideas, we change our minds, we change our asso-
ciations, we change public understandings, and we change the scope of polit-
ical possibility.
It is important to note that I do not assume that all social movements will
be progressive. Nor do I think that political swailing is only delivered from
the left. Democracy is difficult and risky—​it is so because it entrusts people
who have divergent understandings of the world and deviating interests in it
to govern themselves collectively, with no power above them that can right
the ship of state should they decide, through recklessness, blundering, or
honest error, to dash it against the shores of history. A democratic society
is ever in danger of doing itself in, but democratic polities are also incred-
ibly resilient when they maintain public belief in and commitment to en-
gaged citizenship that relies on debate, persuasion, and participation rather
than resentment, cynicism, and violence. That is to say, when the democratic
polity remains properly political.
 Introduction 17

At the point when belief in the efficacy of politics becomes tenuous in

the majority, when people begin to despair—​not about the consequences of
decisions they have made in collective contestation, but instead about the
very possibility of governing themselves—​then the only hope for repair is
a repoliticization of public life, an exercise of the political that reminds
people that they are citizens. When antidemocratic movements arise and
do this work, it is the responsibility of the citizenry to evaluate and answer.
Sometimes, as we learned from the rise of the Third Reich in Europe at the
beginning of the twentieth century, the polity will make catastrophic choices.
But at others, it will author principles and construct institutions that bring
future generations closer to the ideal of justice. For these reasons, it is impor-
tant to take social movements seriously as a pragmatic political solution to a
real democratic problem.

The Repoliticization of the Public Life

Social movements’ greatest good derives from repoliticizing the public

sphere—​that is, reminding “the people” that they are the root of all legitimate
democratic authority. When movements arise, they disrupt the formation of
the bureaucratic “iron cage” that Max Weber warned of, in which elites organ-
ized into efficient establishments forget that their purpose is to serve the polity
and instead spend their energy and resources defending the perpetuation
of power and knowledge as it most benefits the organization (Weber [1922]
2013; Weber 2004). As such, “movements arise within welfare capitalist so-
ciety, on the fringes of bureaucratic institutions or carving out new social
spaces not dreamt of in their rules” to “exploit and expand the sphere of civil
society” and challenge the forms of oppression and domination that structure
contemporary social and political relations (I. Young [1990] 2011, 82).
Movements are a pragmatic politics in process; they are the performance of
the political. They remind members of the polity that there is a public sphere
where politics can and must take place if democracy is to be both authorized
by and responsive to the people. In this way, social movements are not only
instrumental, but institutionally important in themselves. They teach us how
to reclaim citizenship in times when public life has become anemic or repres-
sive, and many have forgotten that their political action is both necessary and
beneficial.
18 Reckoning

In 2013, #BlackLivesMatter arose as the current iteration of the Black lib-

eration movement. My book explores how it has inspired new political ac-
tivism, developed a unique political philosophy, imagined new horizons for
institutional change, invented new tactics for contestation, and transformed
the public sphere. In original interviews, participants report how they de-
veloped a belief in their ability to be authors of the social and political
arrangements that will characterize the new century. I explore their theory
of politics, which I call radical Black feminist pragmatism, and examine their
organizations and tactics, evaluate their influence and impact, and envisage
the possibilities that their action has revealed to the American polity.

Plan of the Book

In the chapters that follow, I analyze the emergence of the Movement for
Black Lives, its organizational structure and culture, and its strategies and
tactics, while also laying out and contextualizing its political philosophy and
measurable political effects in terms of changing public meanings, public
opinion, and policy. Throughout the text, I interweave theoretical and em-
pirical observations, rendering both an illustration of this particular move-
ment and an analysis of the work social movements do in democracy.
In ­chapter 1, I relate the story of the emergence of the movement, begin-
ning with the shocking though, for some, not surprising acquittal of Trayvon
Martin’s murderer. I discuss the way the activist hashtag #BlackLivesMatter
coalesced into an offline movement during the uprising responding to the
police murder of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, and soon after
matured into the Movement for Black Lives, which is the name of a coordi-
nating organization that helps to harmonize the autonomous efforts of indi-
viduals, groups, and organizations who take their mission to be defending
Black lives from systematic oppression, domination, and premature death.
In the second chapter, I outline the components of the political philosophy
I have observed in the Movement for Black Lives. I argue that radical Black
feminist pragmatism (RBFP) is a new approach to politics, one that takes
lessons from many twentieth-​century ideologies and forges them into a po-
litical ethic for our times. In the third chapter, I build out an analysis of one
of the key elements of RBFP, the politics of care, which holds that the ac-
tivity of governance in a society that hopes to be just must be oriented to-
ward the responsibility to exercise and provide care for those most impacted
 Introduction 19

by oppression and domination. The fourth chapter is an exploration both of

the concept of organizing as distinct from mobilization, as an understudied
yet critically important part of creating political change, and of the unique
semi-​federated organizational structure of the Movement for Black Lives.
Chapter 5 reports the political impacts of the movement thus far, including
the way it has reshaped public discourse and political meanings, transformed
public opinion, and influenced public policy. The concluding chapter returns
us to the consideration of what it means to repoliticize public life and how a
public politicized by racial justice, and specifically a political philosophy ori-
ented toward the radical imagination of pragmatic futures, promises to revo-
lutionize the terms on which the twenty-​first century will be lived.
 1
Emergence
A Contemporary History

If the soil of the United States could speak, before saying a word, it
would cough up our blood.
—​BYP100

We believe it is our right and responsibility to write ourselves into

the future.
—​Walidah Imarisha and adrienne maree brown

A Movement Born in the Caul

Trayvon Martin was not the first Black American boy killed for being out of
his proper place. Because homicide statistics are poorly kept, and vary wildly
between reporting agencies, we do not know how common it is for Black
people to be hunted in neighborhoods where they are deemed suspicious.1
We do know that America has a long history of attacking and killing Black
people deemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. From “sundown
towns”2 to “stop-​and-​frisk” policing,3 to be Black in America is to be suspi-
ciously out of place, perceived, as W. E. B. Du Bois wrote, as “a problem,” and
therefore to be ever in danger of violent, preemptive retaliation.

1 “The FBI’s Uniform Crime Reporting Program tabulates death at the hands of police officers. So

does the National Center for Health Statistics. So does the Bureau of Justice Statistics. But the totals
can vary wildly” (Wines 2014).
2 Sundown towns are municipalities or neighborhoods that enforced segregation by excluding

people of non-​white races via some combination of discriminatory local laws, intimidation, and vi-
olence. The term came from signs that were posted in such places stating that “colored people” had
to leave the town by sundown. Most famously, “Nigger, don’t let the sun set on YOU in Hawthorne,”
which was posted in Hawthorne, California, during the 1930s. These towns have been located all over
the United states, not only in the old Confederacy. See Loewen 2006.
3 “Stop-​and-​frisk” policing, or the “Terry stop,” is a practice of temporarily detaining, questioning,

and at times searching civilians on the street on suspicion of the possession of weapons and other
contraband. The overwhelming majority of people detained are Black or Latino. Between 80 and
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 21

Alicia Garza recalls that on July 13, 2013, when the jury finished its
deliberations on the fate of George Zimmerman, she was in a bar with her
husband and two friends awaiting the verdict. When it was announced,
“Everything went quiet, everything and everyone. And then people started
to leave en masse. The one thing I remember from that evening, other than
crying myself to sleep that night, was the way in which as a black person, I felt
incredibly vulnerable, incredibly exposed and incredibly enraged. Seeing
these black people leaving the bar, and it was like we couldn’t look at each
other. We were carrying this burden around with us every day: of racism
and white supremacy. It was a verdict that said: black people are not safe in
America” (quoted in Day 2015).
Alicia Garza wrote a Facebook status that soon went viral. She called the
status “a love letter to black people”:

The sad part is, there’s a section of America who is cheering and celebrating
right now. and that makes me sick to my stomach. We GOTTA get it to-
gether y’all. Stop saying we are not surprised. That’s a damn shame in itself.
I continue to be surprised at how little Black lives matter. And I will con-
tinue that. Stop giving up on black life. Black people. I love you. I love us.
Our lives matter. (quoted in Lowery 2017)

Though young Trayvon’s murder was the occasion for Alicia Garza to write
her “love letter,” which her friend and fellow organizer Patrisse Khan-​Cullors
hashtagged #BlackLivesMatter, in the years to follow the mobilizations of the
movement were most often aimed at what Vesla Weaver calls the “carceral
state” (Lerman and Weaver 2014). This is because it wasn’t Zimmerman’s
murderous actions that were most shocking, but the fact that the system
charged with “justice” legitimized them.
It was difficult to believe that though Trayvon’s killer was known, he wasn’t
arrested until after Black people protested for forty-​five days. And more as-
tonishing still, District Attorney Angela Corey, who was reluctant to bring
charges against Zimmerman on the basis of a presumed “stand your ground”
defense, two months later quickly charged Marissa Alexander, a Black
woman who fired a warning shot in the direction of her abusive husband,

90 percent of the time, those stopped have no weapons or contraband. Additionally, stop-​and-​frisk
policies are ineffective, having no correlation with crime reduction. In 2013, a federal judge ruled that
the practice was discriminatory and unconstitutional. See Bump 2016.
22 Reckoning

with aggravated assault with a lethal weapon, a charge that carried a man-
datory minimum sentence of twenty years. In one case, a known neighbor-
hood bully claimed self-​defense as he gunned down a boy walking home
with Skittles in his pocket. In the other, a Black woman could not claim self-​
defense though she was a documented survivor of domestic violence and no
one was harmed. The common denominator in the two cases seemed de-
pressingly clear: Black people are not allowed to defend themselves. And
they are never, ever innocent.
This heart-​rending supposition was given even more credence as the boy
whose life was cut short was posthumously presented at trial as guilty for his
own murder. The evidence of his culpability was that the high school junior
had trace amounts of marijuana in his system and once played hooky from
school. On the strength of these marks against Trayvon’s character, the jury
acquitted Zimmerman after sixteen hours of deliberation, with one juror
opining afterward that she was convinced that “George Zimmerman had his
heart in the right place” (quoted in Ford 2013). Meanwhile, the domestic vi-
olence survivor, Marissa, was convicted and condemned to twenty years in
prison by the jury who heard her case, after only thirteen minutes of delib-
eration. None of the jurors at her trial publicly speculated about the dispo-
sition of her heart. Most white people’s collective and habitual disregard for
the humanity of Black people is also evidenced by the fact that although most
Americans avidly followed the news of the Zimmerman trial, nearly eight
out of ten Black people felt the case raised important issues about race and
that the verdict was unsatisfactory, while only about three of ten white people
agreed (Pew Research Center 2013).
None of these phenomena—​from the lethal vigilante violence to the indif-
ference of the legal system in the face of Black suffering and death—​are new,
but the Zimmerman trial focused America’s attention on the fact that de-
spite the attractive African American family living in the White House, Black
people continued to be unsafe. Ta-​Nehisi Coates writes:

It is hard to face, but all our phrasing—​race relations, racial chasm, racial
justice, racial profiling, white privilege, even white supremacy—​serves to
obscure that racism is a visceral experience, that it dislodges brains, blocks
airways, rips muscle, extracts organs, cracks bones, breaks teeth. You must
never look away from this. You must always remember that the sociology,
the history, the economics, the graphs, the charts, the regressions all land,
with great violence, upon the body. (Coates 2015, 10)
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 23

Patrisse Khan-​Cullors, a longtime anti-​incarceration organizer and one

of the three founding women of the Black Lives Matter Global Network
Foundation, was visiting a young mentee, an inmate at a prison in Susanville,
California, when she learned the verdict. “The first thing I did was literally
drop my jaw. And then I felt intense amounts of heat in my chest” (quoted
in King 2015). She started crying, but beyond the heartbreak, she reports,
“I was clear that the acquittal couldn’t be the only thing that people remem-
bered from that day. There must also be this movement” (Khan-​Cullors
interview, 2017).
In this chapter, I provide an account of the emergence of the Movement for
Black Lives (M4BL). The movement was born twice, first as #BlackLivesMatter,
a primarily online reaction to the shock of the Zimmerman acquittal, and
second as the street mobilization in Ferguson that would inspire the in-
vention of the Movement for Black Lives, an umbrella organization Jessica
Byrd has called “a political home of political homes,” which was created “as
a space for Black organizations across the country to debate and discuss
the current political conditions, develop shared assessments of what polit-
ical interventions were necessary in order to achieve key policy, cultural and
political wins, and to co-​create a shared movement-​wide strategy under the
fundamental idea that we can achieve more together than we can separately”
(from an organizing email of June 22, 2020, to the group’s listserve).

Ferguson: Genesis of the Movement

The killing of Trayvon Martin and the trial and acquittal of George
Zimmerman were a political shock. Wesley Lowery, an African American
reporter who covered the uprisings in Ferguson, Baltimore, and other cities
around the country, wrote about the movement for the Guardian:

That year was a major awakening point not just for me but also for other
young black men and women across the country. Each story of a police
shooting solidified the undeniable feeling in our hearts that their deaths and
those of other young black men were not isolated. Peaceful black America
was awakened by the Zimmerman verdict, which reminded them anew
that their lives and their bodies could be abused and destroyed without
consequence. Trayvon’s death epitomized the truth that the system black
Americans had been told to trust was never structured to deliver justice to
24 Reckoning

them. The “not guilty” verdict prompted the creation of a round of bois-
terous and determined protest groups, initially Florida-​based, although
they would eventually expand nationally. (Lowery 2017)

Social media platforms allowed that shock to generate what social

movements scholars call a “political opportunity,” a “consistent dimension
of the political environment that provides incentives for people to undertake
collective action by affecting their expectations of success or failure” (Tarrow
1998, 19–​20). But political opportunities can be fleeting. The moment of po-
litical awakening many experienced at the acquittal of Martin’s killer could
have subsided without blossoming from grievance into movement if not
for the August killing of Michael Brown in Ferguson. Of the Ferguson fir-
mament, activist Matt Nelson writes, “This became the epicenter of a major
political earthquake, shifting the ground underneath us, shaking the core
of how America sees police and policing, and jolting us into a new, more-​
politicized normal” (M. Nelson 2015, xv).
What was it about Michael Brown that acted as such a catalyst for the
movement?
There are four characteristics that made Ferguson the conflagration that
forged the movement into a formidable political entity: (1) Michael Brown’s
killing represented a recursive trauma; (2) the city of Ferguson was at the
center of a particularly vivid confluence of not only racial but also eco-
nomic injustice, in the form of anti-​Black extortionist schemes perpetrated
by county government; (3) St. Louis County has a wealth of what Doug
McAdam calls “indigenous organizations”—​established, local, Black-​led so-
cial justice nonprofits and churches; and (4) Black activists with extensive
professional experience in a variety of sectors mobilized from all over the
country to provide advice, support, and long-​term planning services for the
budding insurgency.

Recursive Trauma

The murder of Michael Brown hit Black America, and especially African
American political activists, as a recursive trauma. People watching felt they
had seen the story before. With the murder of Martin, there was some hope
that the system would work—​that Zimmerman would be arrested, charged,
indicted, and convicted. When he was not, it shocked Black people. It made
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 25

people understand that not as much had changed since the mid-​twentieth
century as our national narrative suggests. It made people believe that jus-
tice would not come, because the ideology of white supremacy and the
institutions that serve it could justify killing Black people with impunity
and blithely blame the dead for their mortality, regardless of circumstances.
After Trayvon, seventeen-​year-​old Jordan Davis had been killed while
sitting in a parking lot with a car full of friends, because an armed white
passerby was annoyed by the volume of the music they enjoyed. Twenty-​
two-​year-​old Rekia Boyd had been shot by an off-​duty police officer while
standing in the park eating takeout with her friends. John Crawford had
been shot by police for holding a toy gun he had picked up off the shelves
while browsing at Walmart. Eric Garner had been choked to death by a cop
for selling loose cigarettes without a license, while he begged for his life,
saying that he couldn’t breathe. These were only the cases that had been
most widely publicized. Garner’s murder had been videotaped by a by-
stander with a cell phone. The cop who killed the father of six was never
charged with a crime.
By 12:00 noon on August 9, 2014, when Michael Brown was gunned
down on Canfield Drive, a street in his neighborhood, the disbelief of the
Zimmerman verdict had long since turned to a simmering, bitter anger.
Brown’s friends, neighbors, and parents gathered at the edges of the hastily
strewn yellow police tape, frantic for answers and mourning the death
of their college-​bound boy, in the face of indifferent white police officers
who stood impassively just outside the coagulating spread of Mike Brown’s
blood. The immediate aftermath of Brown’s execution was documented by
bystanders in pictures and video. At 12:03 p.m. Twitter user @TheePharoah
tweeted a picture of Brown prone on the ground, uniformed police standing
over him, with the caption “I JUST SAW SOMEONE DIE OMFG” (quoted in
Lurie 2014). Thus began the real-​time documentation of events in Ferguson
by people who happened to be in proximity to the event. In the days and
weeks to follow, professional journalists would come to Ferguson to report
on the story, but in the first hours, bystanders took to social media to share
what they witnessed, unmediated by police accounts or news editors, related
in still images, 30-​second clips, and 140-​character observations that were
raw, emotional, bewildered, and, as the hours ticked by, enraged.
This outrage was undeniably fueled by the “gruesome, dehumanizing
spectacle” of Brown’s body lying in the street for four and half hours after
Darren Wilson pumped eight bullets into his body. Michael Brown’s remains
26 Reckoning

were not transported from the scene or logged into the county medical ex-
aminer until 4:37 p.m. (Lurie 2014). Wesley Lowery reflects:

For some, first in Ferguson and later around the nation, the spectacle of
Brown’s body cooling on the asphalt conjured images of the historic hor-
rors of lynchings—​the black body of a man robbed of his right to due pro-
cess and placed on display as a warning to other black residents. (Lowery
2016, 25)

One person who came into the streets in that first afternoon commented, “It’s
like we’re not even human to them” (quoted in Lowery 2016).
At first, those gathering in the street were there to mourn. They set up a
memorial of flowers and teddy bears, around which people stood and sought
information and prayed. But as afternoon turned to evening, Ferguson police
began to mass around the crowd. Several had police dogs on leashes. One
officer allowed his canine to urinate on the makeshift memorial. In late af-
ternoon, Louis Head, Brown’s stepfather, was photographed holding a hand-
written cardboard sign that read “Ferguson police just executed my unarmed
son!!!” The image quickly went viral (Lurie 2014).
By 6:30 p.m., police from several jurisdictions had arrived and formed a
line to separate the growing crowd from the yellow-​tape-​cordoned scene.
In addition, they prohibited all vehicles from passing through Canfield
Drive except their own. Around 7:00 p.m., Leslie McSpadden, Brown’s
mother, spelled out Michael’s name in tea-​light candles and rose petals
over the bloodstains that remained all over the street after his body was fi-
nally removed. At 7:18, a group of people broke off from the mourners to
march toward the Ferguson police station to demand answers, some kind
of explanation for why eighteen-​year-​old Mike had been gunned down.
Around 8:00, someone set fire to a dumpster on Canfield Drive. When
the fire department responded, two police officers climbed atop the fire
truck, surveying the area. People in the crowd began to taunt them. The
officers called for backup and the police “swarmed the area,” according to
a tweet by St. Louis alderman Antonio French. At 9:02 p.m., French re-
ported that “police cars trampled rose petals and candles at the memorial
for #MikeBrown.” Missouri state representative Sharon Pace, who was also
with her constituents that evening, told Mother Jones, “[t]‌hat made people
in the crowd mad, . . . and it made me mad. Some residents began walking in
front of police vehicles at the end of the block to prevent them from driving
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 27

in” (Follman 2014). Witnesses tweeted out photos of the mangled memorial
and the growing volume of heavily armed police. More people came into the
streets to lend support to the family, to bear witness, and to express growing
anger. By 10:00 p.m. that night, most of the crowd in the neighborhood had
dispersed, but a growing number would return to the streets of Ferguson
to demonstrate their outrage and demand accountability every day for the
next four months (McFadden 2014).
The more than one hundred days that activists spent in Ferguson were not
spent only in outrage. During those months, people began to strategize about
how they could turn the moment of what Emile Durkheim called “collective
effervescence,” into a movement. Maurice “Moe” Mitchell, cofounder of the
movement-​facing, capacity-​building consultancy Blackbird, said,

It’s hard to explain . . . that experience, the first weeks, basically from when
Mike Brown died to his funeral, you had to be there in order to under-
stand what that was. To this day I’ve never experienced anything like it. . . .
From August 9th to the funeral, was the uprising—​a completely organic
black uprising. . . . When you hit Florissant [Ave.] there were Black people
as far as the eye could see. Of every age group. Every part of our commu-
nity. It wasn’t just the activist class or “woke” people. It was everyone. And
it wasn’t organized—​there was no center of gravity, there was no Sharpton,
there was no St. Louis version of Sharpton. It was everyone. There were
people from gangs/​street organizations out there, there were church people
out there, there were very, very young people who were holding their own
rallies and making their own signs. It was a legitimate, grassroots, organic,
homegrown, working class Black people who had been super politicized. It
was amazing . . . [it] was what I had always dreamed of as an organizer. . . .
Everybody chipping in, the sense of community and love. It was beautiful.
(Mitchell interview, 2017)

In their accounts of the genesis of the movement, activists describe their

reaction to the police killing of Mike Brown in remarkably similar ways.
While the Zimmerman affair had come as a shock, Brown’s murder and the
response of the state was, by then, familiar. But that familiarity was far from
a comfort; instead, it was a triggering trauma, one that many activists, both
lay and trained, had prepared themselves for by vowing not to miss the op-
portunity to respond in a way that was more active than commiseration
and despair.
28 Reckoning

Moe Mitchell describes what brought him to Ferguson this way:

I remember when Trayvon was killed. It just hit me. It’s hard to understand
why certain cases, certain stories hit you in certain ways, but you know the
Trayvon story—​and I felt like, as an organizer—​I been organizing since
I was 16 years old and I’m 37, will be 38 in July—​I remember, I helped or-
ganize a mobilization in New York. . . . And afterwards, I saw the way that
case was handled, I saw the Sharpton-​led mobilizations and other stuff. And
I felt really hollow, just hollow. And then when—​I’m not even gonna men-
tion his name—​when dude got off, it just really hurt. And I was like damn,
I’m an organizer, I need to be doing something. I didn’t know what I needed
to be doing, but I needed to do something. And Black death needs to mean
more. I mean, our lives need to mean more. If they take our lives, they need
to feel the repercussions of every one of our lives. Every one of our lives,
they need to feel it. They don’t. That’s why they do this. Because they can,
essentially. And so, I thought, if there’s ever a situation like this, I’m gonna
lean into it. I’m going to do everything I can do. I’m going to use all of my re-
sources, all of my relationships, all of my organizing skills and I’m going to
lean into that moment. So, when Mike Brown was killed, I felt something.
I was so inspired by how people responded on the ground in St. Louis. I was
like, I’ve never seen anything like this. (Mitchell interview, 2017)

Many young organizers made personal vows like Moe Mitchell’s, and when
the time came, they headed to St. Louis, determined to use all their resources,
relationships, and organizing skills to do everything they could do.

Confluence of Injustice

The City of Ferguson was not only unique in the ferocity and duration of the
uprising that took place there in August 2015, it also presents an extreme,
local example of the horrors of what Cedric Robinson calls “racial capitalism”
(C. Robinson [1983] 2000). A Department of Justice investigation found that
Ferguson is a community that had been subject to the routine and system-
atic exploitation of its Black residents by police for the purpose of collecting
revenue for the city (US Department of Justice 2015). Municipalities all over
Missouri profit from Black poverty by targeting Black people and levying
large, accumulating fines against them for minor and imagined violations
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 29

of the law (Balko 2014a). Racial capitalism consists of the common ma-
terial practices that result from white supremacy as a structuring—​not
interpersonal—​condition in Western social and political life. Specifically,
the City of Ferguson uses its monopoly of force, enacted by the police de-
partment, and institutional authority, enacted by municipal courts, to gobble
up the lives of the Black and brown people within its borders, both meta-
phorically through tickets, fees, and arrests that impede or end employment,
and literally via summary execution on neighborhood streets. The threat of
these state terrorisms of both an economic and physical nature put Black
and brown citizens who are marked for sacrifice in an untenable position.
It creates situations in which even an idealized “personally responsible”
working individual’s entire life, and that of their family, can be decimated by
a traffic ticket. Barbara Ransby writes in her contemporaneous history of the
movement, Making All Black Lives Matter, “It was evident that, while Brown’s
killing was the catalyst, the Black working class of Ferguson was angry about
much more, and their anger resonated around the country and beyond”
(Ransby 2018, 6).
In a wonderful example of in-​depth reporting from the Washington Post,
Radley Balko describes in detail confirming the Department of Justice’s 2015
findings of racially motivated municipal exploitation of Black residents in
Ferguson, and how St. Louis municipalities profit off the poor Black residents
within their borders. Balko tells the story of Nicole Bolden, who had a fender
bender with another town resident. When the police arrived, Bolden was
filled with dread because she knew that she had unpaid parking tickets. True
to her fear, she was arrested on site in front of her children and taken to jail.
Some of the towns in St. Louis County can derive 40 percent or more of
their annual revenue from the petty fines and fees collected by their munic-
ipal courts. A majority of these fines are for traffic offenses, but they can also
include fines for fare-​hopping on MetroLink (St. Louis’s light rail system),
loud music and other noise ordinance violations, zoning violations for uncut
grass or unkempt property, violations of occupancy permit restrictions,
trespassing, wearing “saggy pants,” business license violations, and vague
infractions such as “disturbing the peace” or “affray” that give police officers a
great deal of discretion to look for other violations.

“These aren’t violent criminals,” says Thomas Harvey . . . of Arch City

Defenders. “These are people who make the same mistakes you or I do—​
speeding, not wearing a seatbelt, forgetting to get your car inspected on
30 Reckoning

time. The difference is that they don’t have the money to pay the fines. Or
they have kids, or jobs that don’t allow them to take time off for two or three
court appearances. When you can’t pay the fines, you get fined for that, too.
And when you can’t get to court, you get an arrest warrant.” Arrest warrants
are also public information. They can be accessed by potential landlords or
employers. So they can prevent someone from getting a job, housing, job
training, loans or financial aid. “So they just get sucked into this vortex of
debt and despair,” Harvey says. (Balko 2014a)

Some will say that the only answer to these crippling, systematic impediments
to self-​development and self-​ determination is “personal responsibility.”
This is often the refrain in American policy and rhetoric—​and it was the ex-
plicit reason cited by the police and city officials questioned by the Justice
Department about the bald disparities in Ferguson. That being the case, how
can one resist political despair? The answer that occurred to the people of
Ferguson and hundreds of African American activists watching the events un-
fold was to follow some advice embedded in Black vernacular English: “show
up,” “show out,” and “shut it down.”

Local Organizations and Professional Help

The longing to do something positive that had been percolating among Black
activists around the country might not have come to fruition if not for the
“indigenous organizations” that existed in St. Louis County. Indigenous or-
ganizations, according to Doug McAdam, are local institutions that enable
and support those who have developed an “insurgent consciousness” or
shared sense of injustice as they mobilize in response to “political opportu-
nity” or observed vulnerabilities and interruptions in the regular arrange-
ment of power and privilege that govern social institutions, habits, or mores
(McAdam 1982). St. Louis County has several long-​established community
organizations that have worked tirelessly to combat the local effects of dis-
crimination, domination, and oppression. One of those establishments,
Organization for Black Struggle (OBS), played a pivotal role in supporting
people who gathered in the street to mourn Mike Brown when protests
erupted on August 9, the day of his funeral.
OBS was founded by veterans of the Black Power wing of the civil rights
movement in 1980. By their own account, they are “one of the oldest
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 31

Black-​led, mass organizations with radical politics in the state of Missouri”;

they work to address issues in the areas of “prison industrial complex (in-
cluding police violence and court corruption), workers’ rights, women and
youth”; and their political focus is the “fight for political power, economic
justice and cultural dignity for African Americans, especially the Black
working class,” according to the group’s website (Organization for Black
Struggle, n.d.).
For Black organizers who wanted to come to Ferguson in the days after
Brown was gunned down, OBS was often the first point of contact. Moe
Mitchell relates the way OBS and outside organizers came together:

I finally reached somebody from the Organization for Black Struggle, and
I was like, “Hey Sis, I don’t know you that well but from afar this is my read
of the situation. And it seems like y’all could use more capacity, y’all could
use more hands. And, I know there’s probably a lot of people coming at you
with all different types of politics, all different types of tensions, but I know
really, really dope and really, really honorable Black organizers who would,
if they could, support you.” (Mitchell interview, 2017)

Another organization that provided support to local protestors and a point

of contact for outside organizers was Saint John’s United Church of Christ,
known locally as The Beloved Community church. The church’s stated mis-
sion, according to their website, is to “nurture the closeness, care, fellowship
and faith of the congregation; to be a catalyst for neighborhood wholeness
and growth; and to work toward the elimination of violence” (St. John’s
Church, n.d.). The pastor, the Reverend Starsky Wilson, endorses “political
docetism,” which emphasizes the political nature of Jesus’s life and ministry
(Hendricks 2007). The church served as one of the major bases of operations
and respite during the uprising. Organizers and activist met in the pews to
connect with each other, rest, and strategize. Direct action trainings and
wellness workshops were held, and the pastor preached sermons to fuel and
fill the spirit of those participating in and/​or supporting the rebellion. At a
sermon during the uprising, Wilson preached:

[Jesus] lived under Roman occupation and there were militarized forces in
his neighborhood. Jesus lived under an elite priestly system that turned the
temples over to Rome to exact taxes on people that kept them oppressed.
These priests were in bed with the Roman establishment to keep people
32 Reckoning

poor. . . . We don’t call it taxes today. We call it profiling and being ticketed
for driving while black. Somebody got here today and didn’t know that
there were three arrest warrants for every household in Ferguson. . . . It
was noted that there were people who were so poor, that they decided to
act out against the system by looting people who came down the pathways
in Galilee. Crucifixion was an execution reserved for insurrectionists and
rebels. Jesus was not killed between two thieves, but between two looters or
“social bandits.” . . .
There are those who have attempted to forget . . . the political nature of
[Jesus’] ministry. They suggest that Jesus was more concerned with indi-
vidual morality than he was with social justice—​that he was more con-
cerned with inward evil than systemic evil and oppression. Jesus’ political
climate is our political climate, and therefore we must not forget the revolu-
tionary reality of our religious roots. (quoted in Vaughn 2014)

These community institutions provided an entry point and anchor for a net-
work of educated, mostly young, Black people trained as organizers, who had
honed their skills in social justice-​focused nonprofits. Black organizers from
all over the country abandoned their work at large nonprofits and redirected
their efforts, in part or wholly, toward the movement. Although it is tough to
pinpoint the total number of activists who traveled to Ferguson from else-
where, we do know that hundreds of people, mostly self-​funded and on a
volunteer basis, flocked to Ferguson.
People like Maurice Mitchell, who at the time was serving as the coor-
dinator for the New York State Civic Engagement Table, a project of the
New York Foundation. In his capacity as coordinator, he served as a liaison
and communications hub for more than sixty social justice nonprofits,
helping them share information and technology, and assisting them with
messaging for public campaigns. His friend and fellow organizer Thenjiwe
McHarris was at the time working for the US Human Rights Network,
heading up the Human Rights at Home Campaign, which sought to hold
the United States accountable for human rights violations the organization
had documented when it came up for UN review in 2014. Mitchell gave this
report:

I got down on the ground, Thenjiwe was coming back from Geneva, she
did a lot of work with the UN and with other international [human rights
groups]. So, she hit me up on Facebook and was like, “Yo, I hear you’re out
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 33

in St. Louis,” and I was like, “Yeah, you should come.” And so, I got in that
night, the next morning, she was there. I picked her up. And then, that
was history. . . . I came for five days and stayed for five months. (Mitchell
interview, 2017)

During those months, Ferguson frothed with protest and the eyes of the
nation turned to the small city, debating what caused the uprising, what it
meant, and when and where it would end. But for the activists in the city, the
goal was that it never would. In those early days, the daily demonstrations felt
like a revelation, a communal purgation, an example of what Emile Durkheim
(1995) calls “collective effervescence,” a moment when a group comes to-
gether to communicate the same thought and participate in the same action,
a ritual that unifies the group. Interviews with people who participated in
the protests convey a feeling of organic rupture, a welling-​up of sentiment
and the ebullient sense of people coming to recognize their own power. In
the midst of mass uprisings, this feeling that everything is happening spon-
taneously and without having been planned is common. Writing of the sit-​
ins that swept the South in the 1960, Francesca Polletta (2006, 32) reports
that students described their motivations for participating “unplanned, im-
pulsive, and, over and over again, spontaneous. ‘It was like a fever . . . eve-
ryone wanted to go.’ ” While the energy of mass protest does effervesce
unpredictably, creating its own velocity, it is almost never the case that no
one has organized a framework for protest to become sustained. As Polletta
points out, “student activists called up ‘spontaneity’ in the same breath as
they pointed toward (and stood within) the local spaces in which they or-
ganized, deliberated, gathered, planned, and theorized” (148). Likewise, in
Ferguson there existed an “ecosystem of local organizations” (Ransby 2018,
7), including those planning actions and campaigns as well as movement-​
facing support organizations that provided communications and logistical
support, trainings in direct action, health and healing support, legal aid,
and more. In the midst of this cathartic, “organic” organizing tumult, many
new organizations had their founding. For example, Mitchell, McHarris,
and their friend Mervyn Marcano founded Blackbird, a movement-​facing,
capacity-​building, and public relations nonprofit that exists to provide “com-
munications, organizing, [and] policy/​advocacy support to a growing field
committed to ending racism in the United States” (according to McHarris’s
LinkedIn page). While the combined efforts of local organizers and outsiders
who came to support the Ferguson uprising were crucial to its duration and
34 Reckoning

success, there were tensions that resulted from the combination of forces.
Ransby reports that Brittany Ferrell, one of Ferguson’s most prominent local
organizers, said “she sought advice from those with more experience” and
said “I would never downplay the knowledge that Merv [Marcano from
Blackbird], Patrisse [Khan-​Cullors], and Alicia [Garza] brought to the situa-
tion,” but notes that there were a lot of local people whose names never made
it into the paper: “Tony Rice, Ebony Williams, Derek Robinson, Diamond
Latchison, and Low-​Key from Lost Voices” (Ransby 2018, 52). There were
also the steady efforts of Kayla Reed, founder of St. Louis Action Council,
and Jamala Rogers (“MamaJamala”) of the Organization for Black Struggle,
who was “often the first person people called when they arrived in town to
help, or when they encountered a problem or dilemma locally” (55). Rogers
framed the main message of the Ferguson uprising this way: “We are moving
from an era of police impunity and the perception that police killings are rare
and isolated occurrences into an era of heightened awareness, consciousness,
organizing, and mobilization.” Put more bluntly, “[t]‌he Ferguson Rebellion
is a statement that it will not be business as usual in this country. It’s time to
choose your side” (J. Rogers 2015, xxi, 130).
The combined knowledge and effort of organizations that had long
been fighting racism in the St. Louis area with the skills-​based expertise of
organizers who offered to support their efforts made the uprising in Ferguson
uniquely sustainable. Patrisse Khan-​Cullors writes,

We understood Ferguson was not an aberration but, in fact, a clear point

of reference for what was happening to Black communities everywhere. . . .
When it was time for us to leave, inspired by our friends in Ferguson,
organizers from 18 different cities went back home and developed Black
Lives Matter (BLM) chapters in their communities and towns. . . . People
were hungry to galvanize their communities to end state-​sanctioned vi-
olence against Black people, the way Ferguson organizers and allies were
doing. Soon after, Opal, Alicia, Darnell and I helped create the BLM net-
work infrastructure. (Khan-​Cullors 2016)

From BLM to the M4BL

The atmosphere of the summer was tense because Brown’s killing came after
a season filled with the viral images of Black people being detained and killed
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 35

by police. Khan-​Cullors and her friend Darnell Moore, a queer activist and
reporter, decided that they should develop a way for Black people outside St.
Louis to actively learn from and contribute to the uprising that was taking
place. Khan-​Cullors and Moore quickly put together what would become the
Black Lives Matter Rides.
Brittney Cooper, an academic and activist based in New Jersey, relates the
story of her recruitment to the rides this way:

Like most Black folks, I was sitting in front of my TV in August of 2014

horrified every night at the tanks and the tear gas and the way our folks were
being treated. And I get this text from Darnell one night and he says, “Do
you want to ride to Ferguson this weekend?” and I was like, “Yup, let’s do it.”
And as he kept talking to people, it became, “Well, let’s take a bus of folks.”
Really, I knew something was going on when I got on the bus to Ferguson.
It was a terrible bus. It had no outlets, no Wi-​Fi, we had all been promised
that these things were going to be on the bus. So, that meant we were going
to have to talk to each other for 20 hours. A couple things happened on the
bus, some of it, I don’t even have the language for it. There was this feeling
that folks were engaged and that we all knew that something—​we were
using all this moral language and so you had all these young folks who were
disconnected from religious institutions—​yet, there was still this sense that
something uniquely evil had happened. And that it required us to show up.
(Cooper interview, 2017)

Although Moore and Khan-​Cullors had planned the rides in only two weeks,
by utilizing their personal contacts and social media networks and putting
out a call for participants on YouTube, as well as setting up GoFundMe ac-
counts to raise money for busses and basic accommodations, the action
drew hundreds of people. Modeled after the Freedom Rides of the 1960s, the
BLM riders were five hundred strong and hailed from Boston, Philadelphia,
Chicago, Detroit, Houston, Los Angeles, Portland, and Tucson, among other
cities. The stated goal of the rides was to “support the people of Ferguson and
help turn a local moment into a national movement” (Solomon 2015).
In Ferguson, the riders from around the country were greeted by St. Louis-​
based organizers who had been sustaining the protests in Ferguson since
Brown was gunned down, including Organization for Black Struggle, Hands
Up United, and Missourians Organizing for Reform and Empowerment.
The riders, who included students, scholars, journalists, lawyers, nurses,
36 Reckoning

organizers, pastors, and tech mavens, among others, converged on Saint

John’s United Church of Christ, which served as a home base for the four
days of the riders’ sojourn.
Accounts of the Black Lives Matter riders’ experiences in Ferguson
emerged on personal blogs as well as on popular news sites all over the
Internet. Three riders—​Tamura Lomax, Stephanie Troutman, and Heather
Laine Talley—​wrote up their experience for The Feminist Wire:

We were asked one question over and over again, “Are you committed to
transforming this moment into a movement?” Our final conversations in
Ferguson reveal that the answer to that question is quite simply, “Yes.” We
emphatically believe that Black Lives Matter—​all Black Lives Matter. And
changing the narrative and ultimately socio-​political praxis from Black
insignificance, which enables all kinds of structural and interpersonal vi-
olence and dehumanization to innate Black importance and value will re-
quire the concerted and strategic works of all of us. (Lomax, Troutman, and
Talley 2015)

In a September 2014 editorial for the Guardian, Darnell Moore and Patrisse
Khan-​Cullors underscored this point:

But the real work begins now: Nearly a month after Brown’s brutal killing,
after the camera crews have left and in a moment when justice has yet to be
realized, many more of us have decided that we could not allow Ferguson to
be portrayed as an aberration in America: it must remain understood as a
microcosm of the effects of anti-​black racism.

Underscoring the political conviction was an emotional, even spiritual, ex-

perience. Participants reported that they were moved by the experience of
standing in the place where Brown’s body had lain. That they were made more
determined than they had been because they witnessed the pain and fear of
the people who lived in the town. That they were impressed by the commit-
ment of all those who gathered—​a commitment that was made concrete by
the promise activists made to each other to take what they had learned and
discussed during the rides back with them as they planned actions tailor-​
made in and for the cities from which they hailed. A BLM rider and writer
for Colorlines magazine, Akiba Solomon, related the aftermath of the rides
this way:
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 37

On Facebook I friend everyone I recognize from the trip. . . . Throughout

the week, tag-​filled testimonies begin to appear. Several people (including
me) say they can’t find the right words to describe our journey. One rider
describes a change within: “I felt something shift in me and more impor-
tantly, I bore witness to an emergent Black political consciousness and a
movement led by our youth.” (Solomon 2015)

Activists working for different organizations, on different coasts, and in

locales in between, used the Black Lives Matter Rides to forge the popular in-
justice frame “#BlackLivesMatter” into a movement with a collective identity.
This is a rare accomplishment for a collectivity that is neither single-​issue, nor
located in any one organization, nor coalesced behind the charismatic pres-
ence of any one person. Instead, the movement for Black lives repurposed
the “freedom ride,” a successful tactic of the twentieth century’s racial justice
movement, and made it their own. In this way, activists were able to build
relationships upon face-​to-​face encounters that gave participants the selec-
tive emotional incentives that Fancesca Polletta and James Jasper (2001) note
are necessary to the formation of collective identities that are meant to en-
dure during sustained political challenges. These relationships were later able
to be maintained and deepened online. This style of organizing, rooted in
real life but bolstered by a vibrant and variegated virtual civic space housed
on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Vine, WhatsApp, GroupMe, and other
platforms, adopted as needed by participants, gave the collective action frame
and slogan of the movement additional meaning for the leaders and residents
who converged in Ferguson that fall. Not only did Black lives matter in the
abstract, as an aspirational political goal, but their politicized and mobilized
Black selves, very clearly and concretely, mattered to each other.

The Convening in Cleveland

As winter came, the protests in the streets of Ferguson waned. However,

organizers and activists who had worked together in those streets, and many
others who had supported those efforts from afar, continued to come to-
gether. Barbara Ransby recounted that in December 2014, activists gathered
in New York to reflect on their experiences and to try to strategize about how
to continue the political work that had begun. It was there, she says, that “the
Movement for Black Lives was born.” After the meeting in New York, there
38 Reckoning

were additional regional meetings in Los Angeles and Selma, Alabama. It

was decided that the newly formed Movement for Black Lives would have
its first convening in the Midwest. Blackbird helped organize M4BL’s first
convening in Cleveland, Ohio, in July 2015. It brought together over two
thousand Black organizers. There, seven “tables” were organized: “strategy,
action, communication, policy, organizing, electoral strategy, and resources”
(Ransby 2018, 153).
In Cleveland, people representing dozens of organizations based in
cities around the nation came together again, including Ferguson Action,
BYP100, Million Hoodies, Project South, Dream Defenders, and many
others. The gathering was called the Movement for Black Lives Convening.
It was organized as a series of sessions on broad topics covering the activity,
strategies, tactics, vision, and trajectory of the growing movement. One of
the planners, Los Angeles–​based organizer Tanya Lucia Bernard, reported
in The Root that “when we started planning the Movement for Black Lives
Convening, we had our love for our community at the center of the pla-
nning. From the outset, the team wanted to come together not only to pro-
cess and heal from the trauma we’d suffered over the past couple of years,
but also to love one another and build lasting relationships” (Bernard 2015).
Brooklyn-​based organizer Mark Winston Griffith described the gathering
as “less about creating a definitive agenda or a centralized leadership and
coordination structure than it was about framing the moment in a legacy
of resistance and grounding it in black-​on-​black love” (Griffith 2015). He
goes on to describe the horizontal organization of the gathering, noting that
the session agenda was set by participants and that there were no keynote
speakers:

The planning and organizing team, which included the three co-​founders
of #BlackLivesMatter, barely introduced themselves to the attendees, and
there were no pictures or bios of them to be found in the program or on
the official website. This horizontal form of leadership and relinquishing of
ego has emerged as one of several generational markers in this movement.
There were plenty of elders, old-​school black nationalists, and middle-​aged
nonprofit professionals in effect, but the weekend and its dominant sensi-
bility belonged to radicalized, under-​35-​year-​old social-​justice organizers.
The Cleveland gathering was not only conspicuously devoid of white people
but, unlike more traditional political and cultural events, there were neither
headliners nor lionized personalities.
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 39

The workshops were conceived and provided by the participants them-

selves. Several hundred were proposed, and the final line up was decided
by online voting. Sessions on political prisoners, the legacy of the Black
Panther Party, queer and transgender leadership, reparations, and the in-
tersection between nationalism, gender, and sexuality, stood side by side
with sessions on healing and self-​care, organizing for resilience, urban
farming, and intra-​community conflict resolution. (Griffith 2015)

At the convening, organizers attempted to create a democratic experience

utilizing a politics of care in line with their values. Organizers spent time
making sure that people could be housed and assisted with costs of travel,
and that groups that tend to be marginalized, like trans activists and sex
workers, would have a significant voice in setting the agenda. However, con-
flict still arose. Mary Hooks, an organizer homed at Southerners on New
Ground (SONG), remembers:

I was one of the folks on the planning team. . . . What I was clocking at
the time was some of the magic of it, which was palpable, . . . and some of
our contradictions and tensions. . . . What were the plagues we were seeing
inside the movement and what was the medicine? It showed up in that
people didn’t always know how to struggle in a principled way. We saw the
tactics that we were using in the street to shut down political candidates,
taking over mics, and you know, folks were using that inside of a movement
space. . . . What I saw were people elbowing out space when an invitation
had already been made. And so, some tensions showed up. [The convening]
was at a college and the city had already passed an emergency ordinance to
limit protesting and to say that anyone caught protesting without a permit
would be held in jail for a minimum of forty-​eight hours, because they knew
that we were coming. They put in a curfew. The city was really responding
[to our presence]. (M. Hooks interview, 2018)

In the midst of all of the tension created by the hostile external conditions,
there was also trouble brewing internally. She goes on:

We were setting up the space, making the bathrooms gender neutral by

putting up signs. But the school was mandating the mostly Black janitors
to take down any signs. So then, we would put them back up. Finally, the
Black janitors were like, “We see what you all are trying to do, but if you
40 Reckoning

keep doing this, our jobs are at stake.” And we knew that our fight wasn’t
with them. But, then, when we opened the doors for the M4BL meeting,
people were immediately triggered because the bathrooms were not ac-
commodating. And they were like, “Y’all are transphobic.” And we didn’t
say this, but we should have said it: “Y’all, we were expecting 800 people,
because that’s how many registered, but then 600 of you have called to say
you’re coming since registration. And the 20 people organizing this have
been hustling to make sure all of y’all have a place to sleep.” Real talk, people
were pulling out their own personal credit cards, booking flights for fami-
lies who had lost someone and felt they had to be there. And we were like,
“Of course!” Trying to get as many families as possible who had been im-
pacted. And I was like, “Really, y’all mad because of the signs? Because also,
y’all know us. Some of y’all we have relationships with. Look at our body of
work!” But there were still those tensions, and people were turning up on
each other. And we were all really grappling with how to be principled in
this struggle. (M. Hooks interview, 2018)

Hooks reports that these kinds of disagreements about what it meant to live
the principles of the movement in their own organizing space did not go
away, but that there was also a unique energy.

There were so many traditions of Black organizing in that space. There

were the nationalist folks, people who were doing political prisoner
work, queer organizers, people coming out of the church, it was all dif-
ferent manifestations of Black struggle. It was all of us. And the magic of
that. What happens when all of us get together and share space? There’s
a recognition and a rhythm. Somebody would get on a drum and people
would begin singing. Even in moments of tension, you could feel the power
rise as people came and stayed, you could feel the power rise. It was cool.
It was new. You could feel the possibility, that’s what we felt. (M. Hooks
interview, 2018)

Nevertheless, there were also tensions around what kinds of direct action
would be planned. It was June 2015, and thirteen-​year-​old Tamir Rice had
just been murdered by police in Cleveland while playing with a toy gun in
the back yard of a community center. People argued about what level of con-
frontation was appropriate. Some having traveled very far to make clear
and uncertain statements that “turning up on the State” was not a tactic
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 41

confined to the streets of Ferguson. Some had come expecting to shut down
highways and sit in at municipal buildings and were disappointed that others
were more interested in more limited actions like guerilla theater or legal
processions on sidewalks as opposed to marching in the streets, which had
been made temporarily illegal by the city. People couldn’t agree, so no ac-
tion was planned. This was a source of extreme frustration for many, and as
the convening ended, it was unclear what next steps for collaboration among
this diverse group would or could be. However, as people were leaving, the
Cleveland police presented a stark reminder of the injustice that the fledgling
movement was fighting. Hooks goes on:

I was walking from my room and saw a comrade just sitting on a bench
reading a book and looking across the street. I looked over and saw a police
officer yelling at a young boy in handcuffs. I went over to sis and said, “Sis,
you been watching this?” She said “Mmhmm. They’ve been there about
seven minutes, the officer said this, this, and this.” I mean, she was like
staying ready. And then she pointed out that there was a bottle of beer or
something right there next to the boy and the police were trying to say he
was drinking. At that point, I saw some of the comrades from BYP coming
up from the other side of the street. And we went over there and said, “Hey,
young man? Have they called your mama? Have they called your people?
How old are you?” The boy said he was fifteen although the officer had told
us he was older than that. And the officer also claimed when talking to us
that the boy’s own mother was the one who called the police on him. But
the boy gave us his mother’s number and we called her [and told her the
situation]. She said, “Why would I ever call the police on my son?” I said,
“They haven’t arrested him yet, with your permission, can he come with
us?” And she said, “Yes! I’m going to get there as soon as I can.” So it started
escalating because the police were by then taking him to try to put him
in the paddy wagon [away from us]. And all the people coming out of the
convening were like “not today!” People kept gathering—​folks got off their
buses, folks missed their flights—​there had been about 1,200 people at the
convening and I would say at least four to six hundred of us massed in the
streets to protect this kid. We surrounded the police car. Shit got tense.
The police [sprayed] Mace at everybody. But, guess where people were?
All the queer and trans folks who had been upset were on the front lines
fighting to keep this boy from being taken. And all the churchwomen who
had been upset because they thought they didn’t have a space in movement
42 Reckoning

anymore. And the healers, who had been concerned about what kinds of
direct actions would be traumatizing for our people [and problematized
many ideas] were on the grass putting milk in people’s eyes so they could
see and be ready to fight. I mean, people got in formation. And it became
clear. We sit in these rooms so that we can support, love, and protect each
other outside, where none of us is in control of what the police decide to
do. We all put our bodies on the line, and we understood what was at stake.
And if people went to jail, we would still think with our principles. Who
will be the most harmed? When we get the bail fund together, we know,
get the transwoman out first, the folks who are on medication, the disa-
bled, get them out first, but we all put our bodies on the line. (M. Hooks
interview, 2018)

Finally, the boy’s mother came. The boy was transferred from the paddy
wagon to an ambulance that had been called. They tested his blood alcohol
and it turned out, just as the boy had been insisting, that he had not ingested
anything illegal. The boy was released into the custody of his mother and, as
she walked him from the ambulance to her car, Hooks describes the jubi-
lance of the crowd:

My God. People formed like—​almost like a soul train line so it was like
a corridor for them to walk—​and they were shouting “We love you, we
love you!” And I promise to God, there were two or three butterflies that
followed after that boy and his Mama. And I was like, y’all, if we could lev-
erage this alchemy. This is what we should do every time the police roll up
on someone. We refuse to get in the car. We demand that they give us back
our people. It was so much. So much. (M. Hooks interview, 2018)

Brittney Cooper, who was also present in Cleveland adds:

We unarrested that kid and gave him back to his Mama. We forced the
cops to give him back to his Mama! It was incredible. And there’s video
of this—​when the boy and his mom drive off, the crowd—​hundreds of
Black people—​just goes into a rendition of Kendrick Lamar’s “We Gon Be
Alright.” And, you know, that is on an album called To Pimp a Butterfly and
as we are doing this, I shit you not, a butterfly, a Black butterfly fluttered
through the crowd where the boy had been. And it was like, Oh My God!
So that was a moment. I mean, there are these moments where it felt like
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 43

a spiritual experience, for real. Because it came out of nowhere! And eve-
ryone sees this and you have this moment where you just feel this is the work
we’re supposed to be doing. (Cooper interview, 2017)

The fact that this highly effective action took place spontaneously, after
participants in the convening failed to agree about how to conduct a planned
action, served up a key lesson: Everyone didn’t have to agree about every-
thing. In the midst of tactical divergences, concerns about health and safety,
tense conversations about harm, conflicts over differential resource levels,
and even petty jealousies about credit claiming, one thing was clear—​none of
it could or would outshine the movement’s reaffirmed purpose: fighting for,
protecting, and defending Black life.
The convening thus served as the moment when the coalition, dubbed
the Movement for Black Lives, began to acquire an offline structure. One
year after the convening, in the summer of 2016, The M4BL released the
Movement for Black Lives Platform. The platform is a six-​plank policy docu-
ment (published in English, French, Spanish, Arabic, and Chinese) outlining
the areas of concentration and policy goals of the movement, including
details about the organization’s working in each policy area, the campaigns
underway to promote policy goals, and the successes and challenges
advocates have faced in each case. The document was produced in stages,
first through a large convening of people with expertise in public policy, law,
and communication to gather ideas and prioritize issues called the Black
Lives Matter Policy Table. The policy table was assembled after the convening
and worked for a year soliciting “feedback from hundreds of people through
surveys, national calls, organizational membership, [and] engaged dozens
of other organizations, researchers, and other individuals for their insights
and expertise to begin developing a framework for shared policy priorities”
(Justice Roundtable 2020).
Anyone who reads the platform, organization or individual, can “endorse”
it by signing their name and giving their contact information on an online
form linked to the M4BL platform website. Those who endorse the platform
are added to a list of people who can opt to receive texts and emails about
movement actions, including street protests, bail fund actions, giving circles,
and policy education webinars.
A final point about the M4BL organization: though the movement is
decentralized in its structure, there are leaders in what historian and activist
Barbara Ransby calls the Ella Baker style. She writes,
44 Reckoning

Baker represented a different leadership tradition altogether. She combined

the generic concept of leadership—​“A process of social influence in which
a person can enlist the aid and support of others in the accomplishment of
a common task”—​and a confidence in the wisdom of ordinary people to
define their problems and imagine solution. Baker helped everyday people
channel and congeal their collective power to resist oppression and fight for
sustainable, transformative change. Her method is not often recognized,
celebrated or even seen except by many who are steeped in the muck of
movement-​building work. (Ransby 2015)

It is in acknowledgement of this model that M4BL founders describe their

organization not as leaderless, but as “leaderful.” This leaderful model cor-
responds to the ethic that demands that the movement seeks political justice
from margin to center, but it also has strategic advantages that movement
participants recognize. Cooper observes:

This is the model that the movement strives for, it wants to have multiple
leaders and the brilliance of that is that we know the disarray of the civil
rights movement after King gets assassinated. So, I think the thing that they
have figured out and that I’ve heard said is, you can kill some of us, but you
can’t kill all of us. And at the point that the leadership is diffuse, then you
can’t kill the movement by targeting key actors. This is the strategy, that you
want people to feel like they can just step into the movement at any given
place and do work because you don’t ever want . . . folks to feel like they
have figured out who the movement people are, they know where its gonna
come from and then they can, sort of, target and shut it down. (Cooper
interview, 2017)

Though this lack of centralization provides many advantages, there

are disadvantages as well. According to some of the participants I have
interviewed, the process for those who sympathize with the movement to
become involved beyond getting text notifications about where to show up
to protest or where to send money is less clear. A drawback to eschewing
a national coordinating body beyond task-​based committees, given the
autonomy and diversity of organizations affiliated with the movement,
is that there is no clear pathway for people to become involved between
mobilizations. Instead, those interested in supporting the movement must
find their own way in, whether through local organizations that chose to
 Emergence: A Contemporary History 45

affiliate with the movement or by developing and cultivating relationships

with people who are already involved through online engagement with so-
cial media or the thriving Black news, opinion, and commentary sphere that
has come into being and has been sustained, in part, as a result of the signif-
icant cultural impact of the movement’s emergence in 2011. These include
websites like The Root (2008), Very Smart Brothers (2008), Black Youth
Project Blog/​Opinion (2011), RacebaitR (2014), and HuffPost Black Voices
(2011) (Silva 2017).

Conclusion: A Movement, Not a Moment

In this brief overview of the emergence of the Movement for Black Lives,
I have related the story of its genesis, using the words of activists to illumi-
nate the motivation for the reinvigoration of this iteration of the Black liber-
ation movement. I have argued that there were four characteristics that made
Ferguson, Missouri, the catalyst for the movement’s consolidation following
the murder of Michael Brown. The first is that Brown’s killing represented
a recursive trauma for Black Americans in general, and for young Black
activists in particular. Second, the city of Ferguson was at the center of a par-
ticularly vivid confluence of not only racial but also economic injustice, and
that combination created a seethe of grievances that outside observers rightly
took to be representative of a larger set of unjust structural conditions. Third,
St. Louis County had several established organizing institutions, or “indig-
enous organizations,” that provided the resources needed to extend the in-
itial gathering of mourners into a set of demonstrations that lasted several
months. Fourth, Black activists with extensive experience in social justice
nonprofits mobilized from all over the country to provide advice, support,
and long-​term planning services to the people who had massed on the
ground. And as all these actors worked together during the Ferguson up-
rising, they authored new ways of articulating Black striving and founded
new organizations to support their emerging vision.
In the following chapter, I outline the major tenets of the movement’s po-
litical philosophy: radical Black feminist pragmatism (RBFP). I emphasize
that the philosophy of the movement cannot be easily collapsed into the
Black visions that we are familiar with from the 20th century (Dawson 2003).
Instead M4BL takes a point of view that is characterized by a belief that ap-
peals for justice must begin with concrete lived experiences rather than
46 Reckoning

abstract universalisms, and that the diagnostic and evaluative imperative of

justice must be one that centers capabilities rather than rights. Further, for
radical Black feminist pragmatists, the experiences of the most marginalized
are the ones that speak the truth of political problems and which must be the
beginning of political solutions.
 PART T WO
DE MO C R AT IC NE CE S SI T Y

My parents’ generation taught us that we can be somebody, our gen-

eration knows that we can make something.
—​Black student activist, Amherst College1

There is no such thing as a single-​issue struggle because we do not

live single-​issue lives.
—​Audre Lorde

Freedom is a constant struggle.

—​Angela Davis

1 As reported by Professor John Drabinski at the exploratory conference “Race and the Imagination

in African American Political Thought,” held at UCLA, April 28–​29, 2017.

 2
Political Philosophy
Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism

The Movement for Black Lives (M4BL) is often misperceived as merely a

reaction against police brutality. On the contrary, M4BL is based on a rich
and dynamic political philosophy that is unique in that it is distinct from
twentieth-​century ideologies and, perhaps more profoundly, because it
embraces an inductive approach to theory building. The immediate subject
of the philosophy, which I call radical Black feminist pragmatism (RBFP),
provides a lens through which one can view all of the forces that inhibit Black
people’s ability to live and thrive. However, in this chapter, I will also show
the deep contribution RBFP makes to political thought in general, gifting us
with the first political philosophy born and bred in the twenty-​first century.
This political philosophy should be thought of as akin to Imani Perry’s notion
of “liberation feminism,” a set of practices for understanding and working
against domination and oppression rather than a doctrine (Perry 2018, 6).
This is because, from the perspective of the movement, doctrinal dictates
cannot rise to the task of undoing oppression, a state that Prentis Hemphill, a
leading practitioner of somatics and healing justice in the movement, defines
as “the requirement that you hold another’s center at the cost of your own”
(Instagram post, July 1, 2020). This focus on addressing politics from lived
experience, simultaneous with the belief in a duty to imagine transformative
solutions to the systemic plagues that make Black life precarious, is the key to
radical Black feminist pragmatism.
That the political philosophy is new does not mean that it has been invented
out of whole cloth. RBFP contains within it elements of political thought that
have come before but have been reconstituted and supplemented to create a
natal expression of political thought. In other words, I argue that the political
philosophy of the Movement for Black Lives cannot be collapsed into what
Michael Dawson has called the “Black visions” of the twentieth century, and
that it instead offers something new.
50 Reckoning

Each word that identifies the political philosophy of the movement is im-
portant in its explanation: radical is a mode of questioning, Black feminism is
an ethical system, and pragmatism is a mode of judgment that guides action.
Substantively, RBFP has nine elements, four constitutive and five substan-
tive (summarized in Table 1). The constitutive elements of the theory—​
those ideas that function as the framework or scaffolding for the substantive
principles—​are recognizably in the tradition of American pragmatism (West

Table 1. The Elements of Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism

Principle Definition

Constitutive
Pragmatic Imagination Imagination toward action; speculative, not make-​
believe; the world it conjures may be fantastic, but it is
practicable. The pragmatic imagination is concerned
with “not yet here” rather than “nowhere.”
Social Intelligence The ability to connect old habits, customs, institutions,
beliefs, and new conditions. The movement seeks to
press foundational American ideals into service to
salve and correct the structural conditions that enable
domination and oppression in present day.
Democratic Characterized by the importance of meaning, evidence,
Experimentation accountability, fallibility, and revision while enacting
practical ideas.
Liberatory Aim Marronage and the practice of freedom—​rejecting the
binary free/​unfree, instead preferring a congregational
flight toward liberation, a “constant struggle.”
Substantive
Political Claim Socio-​ontological claim—​Black being matters as such,
but phenomenological understanding of Blackness as
not a what or a who, but a how so.
Radical Mandate To aim at the root of systemic injustice, that is, social and
political structures (ideologies, institutions, politics) that
organize the consequences of racial categorization.
Intersectional Lens Oppressions are not additive, but intersect given the
material, social, and psychological consequences of
politically relevant categories of disadvantage.
Margin-​to-​Center Ethic Reasoning about justice from the evidence of the lived
experience of those at the margins or exterior rather than
from an abstract ideal.
Politics of Care Oriented toward intentional community rather than
natural rights/​laws; acknowledges trauma; upholds
political action/​change as integral to healing.
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 51

1989). These include a belief in the Deweyan concept of social intelligence, a

fundamental investment in pragmatic imagination, a commitment to dem-
ocratic experimentation, and an aim toward liberatory ends. The substan-
tive elements of the theory—​those ideas that give the philosophy content and
meaning—​combine new thinking with ideas that have surfaced in a variety
of traditions, most significantly Black feminism. They include the political
claim that Black Lives Matter, the radical mandate, an intersectional lens, a
margin-​to-​center ethic, and a politics of care. The substantive elements are
ideas about the meaning and ends of politics, and the constitutive elements
relate those ideas to a theory of political process.
Radical Black feminist pragmatism is specific and experience-​based; it
calls out anti-​Blackness directly and forcefully because without that direct
address, our political tendency is to look away toward abstract universalism.
However, the fact that this philosophy is built from the specific lived experi-
ence of Black peoples should not obscure what the vision has to offer every-
body: the idea that we deserve to thrive because life is valuable and the only
way to build a society, polity, and world where this is possible is to devise
ways to change the lived experience of the most marginalized in the direction
of what we all deserve.
This chapter proceeds in two parts. In the first, I explore the constitu-
tive elements of RBFP, both the pragmatist roots and the creative ways that
movement actors demonstrate their adherence to this framework in action.
In the second, I explicate the substantive elements of the new political phi-
losophy, putting the explanations of movement actors in the forefront while
pointing to some of the places where RBFP touches more familiar theoretical
accounts.

The Four Constitutive Elements

Pragmatic Imagination

The movement’s philosophical commitments come from inductive obser-

vation of the problem of injustice, building the theory by examining the
structural, institutional, and political forces and practices that allow Black
lives to be “systematically and intentionally targeted for demise” (Garza
2016, 23). This basis in experience makes RBFP divergent from the abstract
humanisms that have characterized modernity. Instead of asking, “What
52 Reckoning

constitutes justice?,” this philosophy asks, “What does it mean to experience

justice?” The form of that question is what makes the philosophy pragma-
tist. Charles Sanders Peirce wrote that the aim of pragmatist inquiry is to
think about what the truth of statements means in terms of action—​that is, to
think of not only the concept, but also of what it means for the concept to be
enacted in reality. Now, importantly, pragmatism is not identical with conse-
quentialism (or utilitarianism). This is because pragmatism does not require
using consequences as the basis of moral judgment—​pragmatism is a mode
of judgment that guides action, but it may have any kind of organizing ethical
system (in this case, Black feminism), and the pragmatists’ decision-​rule for
what is better and what is worse is not prescribed.
In addition to the pragmatic foundation, there is an insistence on the cen-
trality of radical imagination. We often think of imagination as flights of
fancy. Not so. Imagination is the faculty or action of forming new ideas, or
images or concepts of external objects not present to the senses. Imagination
is the creative divergence from the well-​trod habitual and lexical paths that
are set in the common sense of a given time and place. Political imaginaries
are very important and have all kinds of uses. We imagine communities. We
imagine the good life. We imagine our futures. Pragmatic imagination also
understands that the circumstances that currently condition our lives were
also once imagined. In this way, imagination is a normal political faculty, its
opening is useful for political change and its closure is useful for the mainte-
nance of status quo relations of power and privilege.
In her book Emergent Strategy, adrienne marie brown points out that
“[i]‌magination has people thinking they can go from being poor to being
a millionaire as part of a shared American dream. Imagination turns
Brown bombers into terrorists and white bombers into mentally ill victims.
Imagination gives us borders, gives us superiority, gives us race as an indi-
cator of capability. I often feel I am trapped inside someone else’s imagina-
tion, and I must engage my own imagination in order to break free” (brown
2017, 18).
In this way, the imagination of social movements is political, and it is po-
litical because when movements like the Movement for Black Lives insist
that another world is possible, they do so with a philosophically pragmatist,
not utopian, conviction. Utopia, a term the novelist Thomas More coined in
1519 from the Greek οὐ (ou, no or not) plus τόπος (topos, place) is no place,
it’s make-believe. A utopian world is not in the midst of becoming, it simply
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 53

doesn’t exist, it’s pretend.2 You can describe a utopian world in detail, but it’s
an exercise of pure fantasy, there is no philosophy of action that attends it (M.
Rogers 2007). Those whose political thought is utopian exhibit a refusal to
capitulate to the present and to engage in building a bridge from the world as
it is to the world that might be. Instead, they wait for a metamorphosis, for
new political subjects who are not forged in the trenches of ordinary political
struggle, but instead appear after a collective revelation. Further, utopians are
not fond of uncertainty. In politics, utopians cannot fail. From their point of
view, it is the world that fails to become what it ought to be. As such, utopians
make political judgments based on counterfactual (perfect) situations rather
than whether their actions can create conditions that enable the world they
must actually build.
Unlike utopian imaginaries, the pragmatic imagination is rooted in inquiry
about current conditions and oriented toward actions given those conditions.
This kind of imagination does not rely on any single ideology to show the path
from the world as it is to the desired one that might be. Instead, it demands that
those who desire the change make the way. This includes not only imagining
what could be, but also, crucially, plotting a course and designing the process
and means that those involved will use to make strides toward their goals.
When asked why she is involved with the Movement for Black Lives,
Patrisse Khan-​Cullors, one of the founding women of the Black Lives Matter
Global Network Foundation, answers, “I’m involved in Black Lives Matter
because it pushes me to think creatively . . . about what actions, what kind of
strategy, what tactics can come from a call like Black Lives Matter” (quoted
in Caspar 2014). Likewise, Charlene Carruthers, former director of BYP
100, argues, “[i]‌t is within the spaces of imagination, the dream spaces, that
liberatory practices are born and grow, leading to the [ability] to act and to
transform” (Carruthers 2018, 25). Paris Hatcher, an organizer in the move-
ment and executive director of Black Feminist Future, argued in a 2018 on-
line reading circle discussion that “what our current system does is kill the
Black radical imagination. It kills our ability to dream. We start to accept
some things as inevitable—​like capitalism, like prisons—​when they actu-
ally are not inevitable, and we have the ability to build something new. The

2 Utopia is also not necessarily good, the root εὖ (eu) would need to be used to indicate a specif-

ically positive utopia, but in English these sounds are homophones, so we make no distinction in
modern usage.
54 Reckoning

autonomy to create alternatives.” Notice here the seriousness with which

these women talk about building, rather than arriving, in a new world. This
is an artifact of joy as a political resource. It is what Erving Goffman calls
jouissance, the bliss of discovering oneself as the author of experience; the ec-
stasy that allows people to explode traditional ways of understanding them-
selves in the world, including our beliefs about whether and how we change
it. What is radical about the Movement for Black Lives is not merely their
policy recommendations, but the fact that they claim the authority to author
new possibilities for the arrangements of decision-​making power, sociality,
and governance.
adrienne maree brown opines, “At this point, we have all the information
we need to create change; it isn’t a matter of facts. It’s a matter of longing,
having the will to imagine and implement something else.” She goes on to
paraphrase the novelist Toni Cade Bambara, describing the task of move-
ment as making “just and liberated futures irresistible.” In her view, people in
movement “are all the protagonists of what might be called the great turning,
the change, the new economy, the new world. And I think it is healing beha-
vior, to look at [the world as it is] something so broken and see the possibility
of wholeness in it” (brown 2017, 19, 21).

Social Intelligence and Democratic Experimentation

Pragmatic imagination gives rise to unusual approaches to leadership, or-

ganization, and political situations. Political science often envisions leader-
ship through the lens of “great men” or “charismatic authority.” In the study
of American politics, this vision is largely based on the presidential or ex-
ecutive style of leadership, where we ponder and analyze the strengths and
weaknesses of particular individuals as they inhabit and reshape their office.
The literature on social movements, which originates mostly in sociology,
takes a different tack, having no single idea of leadership, but instead fo-
cusing on producing typologies of the kinds of leader-​structures found in so-
cial movement organizations. This literature notes that the dominant style of
charismatic leader(s) heading up centralized, hierarchal organizations went
out of fashion at the end of the twentieth century, giving way to nonhierarchal,
decentralized, loosely organized new social movements, which preferred
lifestyle-​and culture-​shifting ethos to top-​down political battle plans. Though
there is no single notion of leadership in the study of social movements, there
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 55

is the underlying theory that leadership is a yoke borne by individuals or

groups (who usually inhabit formal organizations) that either happen to be or
place themselves at the nexus of favorable structural forces, allowing them to
leverage environmental and social forces toward their own ends.
The Movement for Black Lives does not approach leadership in this way.
People in movement understand the charismatic leader as a trope that is less
useful than it seems, and a myth that is more harmful to attaining movement
goals than is generally acknowledged. The historian Erica Edwards writes,

Sustained engagement with the multifarious experiences, perspectives,

movements, stories, and players that make up the contemporary history
of black American movements for social change and political progress
requires both historicizing and disposing of the fiction that social trans-
formation is impossible in the absence of singular charismatic leadership.
Charisma is a political fiction or ideal, a set of assumptions about authority
and identity that works to structure how political mobilization is conceived
and enacted. This fiction is staged in real time and in media playback: its
narrative thread is woven into the fabric of what might be called the charis-
matic scenario. (Edwards 2012, 3)

This charismatic scenario was particularly reified in the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries, but there have always been competing models of
leadership. One of those competing styles is a “leaderful” approach and was
famously championed by Ella Baker, one of the most influential and effec-
tive organizers in the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC).
In an opinion piece in the New York Times, the historian Barbara Ransby
explains:

The idea behind that model is that when people on the ground make
decisions, articulate problems and come up with answers, the results are
more likely to meet real needs. And that’s more sustainable in the long
run: People are better prepared to carry out solutions they themselves cre-
ated, instead of ones handed down by national leaders unfamiliar with real-
ities in local communities. Such local work allows people to take ownership
of the political struggles that affect their lives. (Ransby 2017)

The dominant myth of the heroes shaping the times they inhabit through par-
ticularly savvy use of their innate ability to amass, leverage, and wield power
56 Reckoning

is widespread, but it is antithetical to the political philosophy of the move-

ment, which values decentralized leadership for practical reasons: assessing
and addressing the conditions that shape people’s lives is most effective when
one begins at the local level. At the same time, building movement demands
from the diversity of data provided by “on-​the-​ground” lived experiences
helps the movement develop political demands aimed at the national (even
transnational) level that are both resonant for the values that they call to
mind and concrete in terms of local impact. Ransby further elaborates:

The Movement for Black Lives is distinctive because it defers to the local
wisdom of its members and affiliates, rather than trying to dictate from
above. In fact, the local organizers have insisted upon it. This democratic
inflection will pay off if they persevere. Brick by brick, relationship by re-
lationship, decision by decision, the edifices of resistance are being built.
The national organizations are the mortar between the bricks. That fortified
space will be a necessary training ground and refuge for the political battles
that lay ahead. (Ransby 2017)

The view of leadership prevalent in the movement refuses the dichotomy be-
tween charismatic leaders and structural serendipity and/​or strategy. Instead,
drawing heavily from both the tradition of American pragmatism and Black
feminist thought—​especially that of Ella Baker as currently expanded and
annotated by organizers in the Movement for Black Lives—​people in move-
ment assert that leadership is the process by which individuals and the
groups they are situated in intentionally and successfully shape political and
social change. I take as given, as William James writes, that “the fermentative
influence of geniuses must be admitted . . . [but] not every ‘man’ fits every
‘hour.’ A given genius may come either too early or too late. . . . John Mill in
the tenth century would have lived and died unknown . . . [and] an Ajax gets
no fame in the day of telescopic-​sighted rifles” (James 1880).
Rather, leadership comes from the interaction between genius and the so-
cial and political environment—​what John Dewey calls “social intelligence.”
Dewey argues that “[t]‌he office of intelligence in every problem that either
a person or a community meets is to effect a working connection between
old habits, customs, institutions, beliefs and new conditions” (Dewey [1935]
1991, 56).” Intelligence does not arise from the “mere abstraction of a na-
tive endowment unaffected by social relationships, but [is instead built] upon
the fact that native capacity is sufficient to enable the average individual to
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 57

respond to and use the knowledge and the skill that are embodied in the so-
cial conditions in which he lives, moves and has his being” (58). Intelligence
is not book learning or a high IQ. It is at once a fact of human capacity and a
method of human engagement. According to Dewey, “intelligence develops
within the sphere of action for the sake of possibilities not yet given,” and is
exemplified by the “remaking of the old through the union with the new. . . .
It is the conversion of past experience into knowledge and projection of that
knowledge in ideas and purposes that anticipate what may come to be in the
future and that indicate how to realize what is desired” (56). Even more in-
terestingly, Dewey contends that intelligence is not only the result of the cre-
ative and practical process of understanding the relationship between old
or extant circumstances and new possibilities, but that this process is also
“constitutive of the agent” (Rogers 2007, 93). Therefore, while the vision for
the movement arises from imagination, its end goal is neither fixed nor uto-
pian, but is instead guided by an ethic of care and a habit of inquiry that is
embedded in an intelligent and iterative political process aimed at both chan-
ging the subject and ushering in new worldly possibilities. Dewey writes that
intelligence is the “remaking of the old through the union with the new. . . .
It is the conversion of past experience into knowledge and projection of that
knowledge in ideas and purposes that anticipate what may come to be in the
future and that indicate how to realize what is desired” (Dewey [1935] 1991,
56). Further, “[i]ntelligence develops within the sphere of action for the sake
of possibilities not yet given” (Rogers 2012, 64).
This intelligence is not just a matter of the acuity of thought. Instead, it is a
union of three elements that comprise the skills one needs to connect existing
belief to new purposes. First, it is a critical orientation that questions and
interrupts old habits of thinking and acting. Second, it includes what Melvin
Rogers calls a “theory of action,” or a sense of how new ideas about govern-
ance and justice can become real in the world through changes in beliefs,
habits, custom, institutions, law, and policy. Third, and finally, it involves a
group commitment to and demonstration of those experimental actions in
the world, or, as Dewey puts it, “organization.” In this way, social intelligence
involves the ability to see existing political opportunities where they may
not be obvious. It involves a foresight that includes yet exceeds the recog-
nition of political opportunity and instead verges on prophecy—​the ability
to see through what is not yet but might be—​it is a faculty of what people in
movement call “radical imagination,” and a product of what Amna Akbar (in
a tweet) calls “visionary labor.” These radical imaginings are taken up with
58 Reckoning

practical ends in mind, and the labor in envisioning the world that might be
is one of translation into language and action that is broadly accessible.
The Movement for Black Lives believes in the efficacy of radical imagi-
nation; that is, the imagination of conditions and outcomes that cannot
be achieved in the world as it is and would require the transformation of
common beliefs, practices, laws, and institutions. But that radicalism is
also grounded in the philosophically pragmatic orientation toward the
world. Radical imaginings of systems of care that enable the well-​being of
the most marginalized are never wholly untethered from observations and
analysis of the world as it is and are always meant to return to the critical
questions: What do we have to do to get from here to there? What kinds
of logics do we have to articulate to the polity? What kinds of institutions
do we have to build? What kinds of constituencies do we have to engage?
What majorities must we build? Which kinds of policy do we have to author?
Which elections must we win? How do we make the world we have imagined
not only possible, but also irresistible? I therefore talk about the essential im-
aginative component of the M4BL as pragmatic imagination, because it is
rooted in inquiry, focused on producing practical wisdom, and ultimately
focused on problem-​solving. This pragmatic orientation toward transforma-
tion means that movement organizers are keenly aware, as Dewey was, that
their knowledge is contingent and that experience may cause them to change
their minds, revise their vision, or alter their tactics.
It is in this context that leadership takes on its significance. Ella Baker
defines leadership as “a process of social influence in which a person can en-
list the aid and support of others in the accomplishment of a common task”
(quoted in Ransby 2015). In order for this process of social influence to be
successful, the task must truly be held in common. That means that the char-
ismatic leader is always a red herring: the messianic authority is only ever as
strong as the belief in the principles embraced, and the social relationships—​
made through interpersonal connection, mass communication, and social
and political organizing—​that they foster and maintain.3 In other words,
Black feminist thought illuminates and expands the pragmatist argument
that leadership inheres in the fortuitous and purposeful interaction of ge-
nius and environment with the insight that this interaction, in its most effec-
tive form, does not and should not inhere in only one compelling individual.

3 Here, “organizing” is defined as meeting and discussing the causes and solutions of mutually de-

fined and acknowledged problems with the intention to act to solve them as a part of some self-​
acknowledged and mutually claimed collectivity.
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 59

Instead, leadership is group work. Borrowing from the physics definition of

“work,” this means the group process of amassing a force that can move a so-
ciopolitical object in the desired direction. This is something that cannot and
should not be done alone.
Organizers in the Movement for Black Lives call this Black feminist vision
of leadership “leaderful.” The movement has often been chided for not ele-
vating a charismatic figure to take charge of message and tactics; however,
I submit that such a demand misunderstands the nature, purpose, and po-
tential of leadership’s efficacy in general, and of social movements, in partic-
ular. I make this assertion for two main reasons. First, as Aristotle observed
over two thousand years ago, if one wishes to convince a broad and diverse
crowd, it is not the messenger who is most important, but the message. This
may be truer today than ever before, given the advent of social media, in
which a 280-​word tweet can go viral and become an instant common frame
for understanding current events regardless of the identity of the author.4
The movement has taken this fact to heart by building itself not around a
single leader or dominant organization, but instead around a common set of
messages that are discussed, debated, and deployed by a tightly networked
yet decentralized organizational structure. As adrienne maree brown
explains, a leader’s main priority is not to “build bases” so they can “scale up”;
it is instead their task to learn how to “create more and more possibilities. Not
one perfect path forward, but an abundance of futures, of ways to manage re-
sources together, to be brilliant together” (brown 2017, 22–​23).
Second, the movement is committed to democratic experimentation,
and implements this experimentation both within the organizations that
function under the umbrella of the Movement for Black Lives and with the
campaigns those organizations author. The Movement for Black Lives itself,
described by Jessica Byrd as a “home of political homes” utilizes a unique
organizing structure—​a networked, decentralized grouping of institutions
and individuals that make it less easily co-​opted or incorporated into tradi-
tional electoral and institutional politics. Let me pause here to say that such
co-​optation is not a danger to movements because it dilutes their purity,

4 One of the potential problems with the force of leadership inhering in the message instead of the

authoritative messenger is that when the original speaker is irrelevant, it may be more difficult to as-
sess truth claims, because one cannot quickly ascertain whether the commenter is reliable or knowl-
edgeable. However, the identity/​source of a claim has only ever been a heuristic for evaluating the
truth of a statement. In order to ascertain the relevance or validity of a claim, the one who is receiving
it must have tools for evaluation independent of the identity of the source, otherwise we are left only
with the opinions of demagogues and tyrants.
60 Reckoning

but because it limits their power. The Movement for Black Lives does not
wish to be what Paul Frymer has termed a “captured constituency,” but in-
stead a countervailing political force. The structure of the movement allows
it to utilize a full range of tactics, both confrontational and conciliatory, to
shape political change. It allows the movement to essentially say, “We’re not
endorsing a candidate, but by all means, you who are involved as individuals
or affiliated organizations, feel free to work for a candidate, or register voters,
or draft policy. Or protest outside conventions and campaign rallies, if that’s
how you think the movement is best served.”
This approach creates a situation in which decision-​makers must adopt
the frames and address the concerns present in movement messaging be-
cause they are unable to silence the claims or change the subject by wooing
individuals with prizes and perks. It also means that no entity in traditional
politics can claim to absorb the movement by supporting or employing any
particular individual. The Movement for Black Lives is aware of arguments
like those of Frances Fox Piven and James Cloward, who warn that organiza-
tions and their incorporation are often the end of movement influence rather
than its beginning (see Piven 1977). And yet they have not thrown away the
advantages that come with having professional organizers and skilled, full-​
time leadership at the heart of movement activities. The Black feminist prag-
matism that underlies M4BL gives rise to a rhizomic, leaderful style that best
enables the group work of liberatory politics.
In terms of novel approaches to political situations, the example of the
Louisville, Kentucky, chapter of the Black Lives Matter Global Network
Foundation stands out. Louisville, like many cities, is geographically seg-
regated. Most of the Black population lives in the West End, where pov-
erty rates are high and housing insecurity is common. Since BLM chapters
are not directed by a central office, they are able to tailor campaigns to the
circumstances that obtain in their specific localities. Given the deep need for
housing assistance in West Louisville, the chapter, guided by cofounding di-
rector Chanelle Helm, decided that their primary work would be reclaiming
vacant land and restoring crumbling properties in the West End. This en-
deavor would include not only salvaging space for the BLM chapter, but also
emergency housing for Black people facing eviction, and, most ambitiously,
permanent homes for Black single mothers that the BLM chapter would pur-
chase, fix up, and gift to them, deed and all (M. Jones 2018; Warfield 2019).
The goal of the project is unique—​gifting homes to vulnerable people
who are usually the target of blame and shame—​but even more interesting
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 61

is the way that Helm and the chapter framed their work. It was not an act
of charity that they sought to do, but an organized practice of reparation.
They sought out donations from wealthy white people and businesses in
the area, but did not appeal to their altruism, but instead to reparative jus-
tice. Through practices like redlining, the federal government had colluded
with state and local authorities to deprive Black people of ownership of their
own neighborhoods while subsidizing the stability and prosperity of white
neighborhoods. Black people, Helms argued, were not to blame for the
blighted West End; instead, they were owed.
In August 2017 as the chapter began raising money, a khaki-​clad army of
white supremacists infested Charlottesville, Virginia, to protest the removal
of a statue of Confederate general Robert E. Lee. During their multiday rally,
one of the members killed the young, white, anti-​racist activist Heather
Heyer, and shocked the country with the return of publicly avowed and open
racist hatred. The day after the events in Charlottesville, Louisville’s mayor,
Greg Fischer, announced that he was forming a commission to evaluate
and remove any public art erected to honor “bigotry, racism, and slavery”
(Fischer 2017).
Helm, seeing what social movement scholars call a “political opportunity,”
wrote her own response to the events in Charlottesville, where she argued
that removing monuments to racism was not enough to address the harms of
structural racism. She called her contribution to the discussion “10 requests
from a Black Lives Matter Leader.” Among, them she urged “white people, if
you don’t have descendants, will your property to a Black or brown family.
Preferably one from generational poverty. . . . If you are a developer or re-
alty owner of multi-​family housing, build a sustainable complex in a Black
or brown blighted neighborhood and let Black and brown people live in it
for free. . . . White people, re-​budget your monthly [income] so you can do-
nate to Black funds for land purchasing” (Helm 2017). These radical, prac-
tical suggestions exemplify the kind of thinking that is motivated by M4BL’s
political philosophy.

Liberatory Aim

The inductive and pragmatic question “What does it mean to experience jus-
tice?” also yields a distinctive notion of freedom, close to the concept that Neil
Roberts articulates in his 2015 book Freedom as Marronage. Conceptualizing
62 Reckoning

freedom as marronage means rejecting freedom as a binary (one is either free

or not) and holds that a linear, developmental view of progress toward a de-
finitive freedom will always yield a distorted picture that cannot account for
empirical conditions of oppression and domination. Instead, freedom in this
sense affirms that we are always in the process of flight toward freedom as lib-
eration, which is the ongoing undoing of common understandings, systems,
and practices that (re)produce oppressive conditions. Put differently, RBFP
points to the wisdom that the task of those who care about justice is always
and ever will be a striving to continue to get free.
The Movement for Black Lives has at its root a philosophy that holds that
freedom and justice will always be woefully lacking if we expect it to trickle
down from the most powerful and advantaged to the least. Instead, if we ex-
pect freedom and equity to be lived realities, then we must look at untangling
the structures of disadvantage that constrain those who are most impacted
by systematic domination and oppression.
Liberation, then, calls for political, social, and interpersonal strategies that
take aim at identifying and mitigating the complicated structural and insti-
tutional causes and effects of domination and oppression. This is not an easy
task. In fact, identifying and undoing these structures can only ever be an it-
erative process, one that just societies have a political habit of returning to. In
a liberatory framework, the future is wholly possible. That does not mean it
is unconstrained by material and other worldly realities, but instead that our
futures are natal and unpredictable. Therefore, liberation is a collective and
imaginative ongoing process of perception, analysis, experimentation, and
implementation.
Domination must be understood as structural, rather than as the imposi-
tion of the directed will of a malevolent individual or class of individuals, be-
cause “the constraints that people experience are usually the . . . unintended
product of the actions of many people” operating according to the laws and
habits of institutions that predated their existence or intentionality (I. Young
[1990] 2011, 32). Individuals have choices, but those choices are constrained
by the world as it currently exists, by the laws, customs, and common ways
of understanding that characterize the way people live their lives in a par-
ticular time and place. These constraints can and do produce outcomes that
are both patterned (e.g., systematic) and unintended by individuals that are
both acting independently and imbricated in rules and mores beyond their
control. This reality of situated individuality is true both for those who have
positions that afford them relatively more power and those whose positions
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 63

restrict them to having relatively less. Take, for example, the dominative in-
stitution of law enforcement.
This story, told to me by a police officer attempting to navigate his job in light
of the questions that the Movement for Black Lives has made salient, perfectly
illustrates how individuals can enact domination without intending to do so:

I have exercised authority as an officer that I considered abusive and created

some serious moral dilemmas for me at times. As a relevant example, I was
recently called to an apartment because a maintenance worker went inside
and found three children left alone, ages two, five, and eight. We tracked
down mom, who was working a shift at Walmart. Mom was cooperative
and honest, and it appeared she typically left her children alone during six-​
to eight-​hour shifts at night (4 to 10 or 4 to midnight). My sergeant and
I did not want to arrest her. She was violating the law by leaving an eight-​
year-​old to care for her five-​and two-​year-​old siblings which was not safe,
but she was in a really tough spot. My [sergeant] and I came to the conclu-
sion that not taking charges could create liability for us if she continued
to leave her children alone at night to work and they were harmed in the
future while she was away. I made sure to pursue the least severe charge,
in both severity and number of counts, but my ability to address the situa-
tion is limited by my professional function. I also involved CPS of course,
with the aim of getting some sort of social service in place for the mom, but
I have limited influence over how a social worker handles their case. (Police
Officer interview, 2017)

This police officer knows the circumstances that caused this mother to break
the law are well beyond her own control and intentionality. And he further
knows that enforcing the law in this case will cause more harm and damage
than the situation ostensibly being addressed. The time and expense of adju-
dicating those charges will have a measurably negative and potentially dev-
astating impact on the lives of this mother and her children. This mother
will likely lose her job because she’s been charged with a crime, and if she is
convicted of a felony, she will have trouble finding employment in the fu-
ture. She is also in danger of losing custody of her children. The children are
in danger of being separated from both their mother and one another. Or, if
they are able to remain with their mother, who will now be more financially
strapped and less employable, they are in danger of sinking into a poverty
that grabs hold of generations.
64 Reckoning

The institutional conditions that precipitate this dominative situation—​

one that prevents the self-​determination of both the mother and the police
officer—​is a symptom of oppressive conditions. M4BL seeks to take aim at
domination and oppression by actively trying to imagine and enact a world
in which Black people, and all people, might be free. Indeed, it is hard to
overstate the place of “freedom” in the conception of movement activists.
When asked about the ultimate goal of the movement, to a person, each ac-
tivist described a world in which Black people could be free of domination
and oppression. Shanelle Matthews, the former communications director
of the Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation, put it this way: “The
work is about changing people’s behavior so that Black people can live free,
full lives in this democracy. And we don’t have to be afraid. We can parent
our children into adulthood and have access to the rights, the resources,
and the recognition that we all need to live our best lives” (Matthews inter-
view, 2017). Brittney Cooper, an activist and professor of Africana Studies at
Rutgers, remarks,

[B]‌eing in movement spaces over the last three years [what I learned] is that,
these are some really big dreamers. And I really think that these are folks
who are thinking broadly about transformation. They’re not reformers.
They don’t think—​it’s not like, we can just tweak the system and these
things will happen. But a real sort of sense that, what does it look like—​I
think the sort of core goal is—​what do Black people need to live and thrive?
And so, how can we put structures in place so that Black thriving is actually
a political priority. Not just Black survival. (Cooper interview, 2017)

It is important to note that freedom, in the political philosophy of the move-

ment, bears little resemblance to the most popular liberal formulations of that
term. The conceptions of freedom that are most common in American public
discourse emphasize rights and choice. It is also a static conception—​you are
either free or you are not, as determined by the rights you are accorded and
the choices you are allowed to make. The movement, by contrast, emphasizes
that freedom is a process, one that must be measured by the capabilities that
people are able to exercise in their lived experience and the health and effi-
cacy of the communities they live in.
In this conception, freedom is fundamentally relational and dynamic in-
stead of fixed and absolute. This is because marronage, a term that originates
in part of the Caribbean colonized by the French, means “flight.” It is the
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 65

description of a “multidimensional, constant act of flight” that involves trying

to improve one’s lot in terms of “distance, movement, property, and pur-
pose” (N. Roberts 2015, 9). “Distance,” Roberts elaborates, “denotes a special
quality separating an individual or individuals in a current location or con-
dition from a future location or condition.” Movement “refers to the ability
of agents to have control over motion and the intended directions of their
actions.” Property is the “designation of a physical, legal, [or] material object
that is under possession and ownership of an individual, institution, or state.”
Purpose, in his conception, “denotes the rationale, reasons for, and goal of
an act begun by an individual or a social collective” (9–​10). Notice how these
“pillars,” as Roberts calls them, serve as modes of response to the problems
of domination and oppression that Young details. If you are facing a social
and political situation in which you and your social group are systematically
deprived of self-​determination (domination) and self-​development (oppres-
sion), then it makes sense to measure your freedom by the distance the group
has (in the past) and can (in the future) put between present conditions and
future desired conditions. Likewise, thinking about one’s control over one’s
own “movement” as a measure of freedom, and specifically of “flight” as the
motion that conveys departure from oppressive conditions, provides another
method of assessing degrees of oppression or freedom. Property and purpose
are pillars that allow one to assess degrees, or relative levels, of domination—​
these degrees of freedom exist not only between people(s) but also within
time. That is, one’s freedom is relative, not only to how free others in your po-
litical time and place are positioned, but also to how free one is compared to
a future desired state. The Movement for Black Lives is fundamentally con-
cerned with futurity. Patrisse Khan-​Cullors puts it this way:

I am hopeful for Black futures. And I say that because we live in a society
that is so obsessed with Black death. We have images of our death on our
TV screen, on our Twitter timeline, on our Facebook timelines. But what
if, instead, we imagined Black life—​we imagined Black people living and
thriving? That inspires me. (Khan-​Cullors interview, 2017)

Importantly, these ways of understanding freedom as relational and dy-

namic are more useful and important for understanding what one is actually
capable of doing, given the structural constraints of the “actually existing”
world (Fraser 1990), than are rights and choices that one may formally be
accorded but that are, in practice, difficult or impossible to exercise. In this
66 Reckoning

way, marronage describes a “capabilities approach” (A. Sen 1992) to freedom,

one that attends to the relational basis and dynamic nature of the concept,
and that is simply and potently expressed in the movement slogan #getfree.

The Five Substantive Elements

The Political Claim

The most fundamental, animating principle of the movement is its name,

a name that springs from a socio-​ontological claim: Black lives—​all Black
lives, as such—​ matter. This claim has a phenomenological expression,
which is to say that Blackness (indeed, any raced-​ness) by this reckoning is
not a what or a who, but a how so? Sarah Ahmed wants to reframe the ques-
tion of what race is to a question of what race does. In her seminal essay “A
Phenomenology of Whiteness,” she explains that “[p]‌henomenology helps us
to show how whiteness is an effect of racialization, which in turn shapes what
it is that bodies can do” (Ahmed 2007, 150). Or as Michelle Wright theorizes
in her book Physics of Blackness, “the phenomenology of Blackness” can be
described using the vectors of “when and where it is being imagined, defined,
and performed” (Wright 2015, 3).
Still, Blackness is not an empty category; it has within it an episteme—​a
way of understanding the world, born from “common historical experiences
and shared cultural codes” (Hall 1993) that are acknowledged by both the
group and those observing from outside as distinct and full of meanings that
are dependent on both being ascribed as a member and embracing member-
ship. Importantly, this idea of Blackness is not an essentialized, singular idea,
but a multiplicity that nevertheless finds anchors and touchpoints in similar
cultural practices.
Unlike the movements that characterized the twentieth century, M4BL is
not making political claims based on an appeal to the sacredness of rights,
the fairness of redistribution, or the imperative of recognition. Instead,
#BlackLivesMatter is an assertion that Black life is a category of social being,
historically and practically marked by a brutal history of specific, targeted
depravation and devastation, and as such must seek remedy in the form of new
social, economic, and political formations. These new political formations
should serve to enable not only or primarily equality, but, most importantly,
must facilitate the ability to live and thrive. Among the conditions necessary
for this kind of flourishing, according to the 2020 Movement for Black Lives
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 67

platform, are an end to the “war on Black people”; reparations for the historic
and continuing legacy of state sanctioned murder, theft, and exploitation of
Black people; investment in Black communities; local control of governance
and resources; and political power.
In When They Call You a Terrorist, Patrisse Khan-​Cullors describes the
discussions that led organizers to make the political claim that Black lives
matter the calling card of their efforts, though everyone understood it would
cause backlash:

There are people close to us who are worried that the very term, Black
Lives Matter, is too radical to use, alienating, even as we are all standing in
the blood of Black children and adults. We continue to push, to be unde-
terred. . . . [W]‌e have to change the conversation. We have to talk very spe-
cifically about the anti-​Black racism that stalks us until it kills us. . . . [W]hat
we need . . .is to press forward with a wholesale culture shift. (Khan-​Cullors
and bandele 2018, 196–​197)

The movement’s early understanding that to win they would have to change
the way people valued Black lives is profound because it engendered a focus
on what people involved valued rather than a narrow focus on what reaction
or redress they could secure in the short term. This expansive thinking about
how to change culture—​what we value—​led to the development of a political
philosophy that would serve as the foundation and guide for the campaigns
and policy recommendations that would come later. The early tenets of the
political philosophy that I codify here began to come together in those early
conversations, held in Khan-​Cullors’s living room, but also simultaneously
in living rooms and at work breaks and in organizational meetings across the
country. Khan-​Cullors writes,

In my home, we, mostly women, talk about what we deserve. We say we

deserve another knowing, the knowing that comes when you assume your
life will be long, will be vibrant, will be healthy. We deserve to imagine a
world without prisons and punishment, a world where they are not needed,
a world rooted in mutuality. . . . We deserve, we say, what so many others
take for granted: decent food, food beyond the 7-​Elevens and Taco Bells . . .
we deserve to know life without the threat of heart attacks at 50, or strokes
or diabetes and blindness because of the food we have access to and can af-
ford is a loaded gun. . . . We deserve the kind of shelter that our hard work
68 Reckoning

demands, homes that are safe and non-​toxic and well-​lit and warm. We de-
serve love. Thick, full-​bodied and healthy . . . in this place and in this time,
when hate and the harshest version of living dominate, when even the worst
assaults are blamed on victims, . . . we have come to say that we can be more
than the worst of the hate. . . . We deserve to at least aim for that. . . . We say
that this is what we mean when we say Black Lives Matter. (Khan-​Cullors
and bandele 2018, 199–​201)

And this conversation about the kind of world that Black people deserve be-
cause Black people matter, because a life where thriving is possible matters, is
the foundational premise of the political philosophy that I codify here.

Divergent Black Visions

Michael Dawson has detailed a range of Black American ideologies and
their impact on public opinion in the late twentieth century. He notes that
African American ideologies from Black Marxism to Black conservatism
are characterized by the following features: they explicitly take the African
American experience as their point of view, they embrace communalism,
there is more likely to be a spiritual component to their philosophy and
practice, and the epistemology of the movement is likely to be derived from
practical activity rather than from abstract reasoning (Dawson 2003, 22).
The ideology of M4BL has much in common with African American polit-
ical ideologies that have come before. It shares the radical egalitarianism
of Black liberalism, the commitment to redistribution of Black Marxism,
the longing for Black autonomy in Black nationalism, and the distrust
of the state, especially the federal government, that characterizes Black
conservatism.
The founding women of M4BL understood that observers might conflate
#BlackLivesMatter with Black nationalism, so they were careful to make a
clear distinction from the beginning. In “A Herstory of the #BlackLivesMatter
Movement,” Alicia Garza writes,

Black Lives Matter is a unique contribution that goes beyond extrajudicial

killings of Black people by police and vigilantes. It goes beyond the narrow
nationalism that can be prevalent within some Black communities, which
merely call on Black people to love Black, live Black and buy Black, keeping
straight cis Black men in the front of the movement while our sisters, queer
and trans and disabled folk take up roles in the background or not at all.
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 69

Black Lives Matter affirms the lives of Black queer and trans folks, disabled
folks, Black-​undocumented folks, folks with records, women and all Black
lives along the gender spectrum. It centers those that have been marginalized
within Black liberation movements. It is a tactic to (re)build the Black libera-
tion movement. (Garza 2016, 25)

Instead of Black nationalism, the movement’s most immediate and impor-

tant ideological ancestor is Black feminism, a worldview that insists on val-
uing embodiment; that is, asserting that how we actually live as well as the
interconnectedness or intersection of oppressions must be at the heart of
our analysis and our political solutions. These views, most recently coined
as “embodied discourse” by Brittney Cooper and “intersectionality” by
Kimberlé Crenshaw, assert, respectively, that Black people’s, especially Black
women’s, bodies are “a form of possibility and not a burden,” and “a commit-
ment to centering the Black female body as a means to cathect” to political
thought, and the analytical categories of gender, race, class, and other polit-
ically relevant categories of disadvantage cannot be separated in their prac-
tical impacts and so should not be separated when conceiving their legal and
political remedies (Cooper 2017; Crenshaw 1989, 1991).
As Cooper points out, “Black women’s knowledge production has always
been motivated by a sense of care for Black communities in a world where
non-​Black people did not find value in the lives and livelihoods of these
communities” (Cooper 2017, 2). This emphasis on lived experience is a key
tenet of the Black feminist intellectual tradition and has always animated the
movement. As Garza puts it, those “most impacted” by structural oppression
must be the center of the work. In philosophical terms, this means that the
theory of justice that M4BL has built looks to the “margins” as articulated by
bell hooks and the “periphery” as described by Enrique Dussel. Like these
political theorists, M4BL rejects the notion that deducing the meaning of jus-
tice from an abstract universalism can deliver its promises to most people.
This is because the inequality produced by the current dominant paradigm
is constitutive of our lives in this moment, not an accidental or unintended
consequence.
This insistence on specificity and aversion to abstract universalisms for
theory-​building locates the Movement for Black Lives outside both liberal
and Marxist traditions, and instead takes the approach of philosophical
pragmatism. Pragmatism is a perspective that rejects the sub specie aeter-
nitatis, or abstract universalist orientation, of traditional philosophy and is
70 Reckoning

instead concerned with “the problems of men” (Dewey [1946] 2007). John
Dewey, the leading figure of pragmatist thought, proposed that the task of
theorization was not to find eternal rules or perfect procedure, but instead to
understand what people are doing and why they are doing it. Only from that
perspective, he opined, could we hope to change and improve the way people
live in the world.
I should be clear here that pragmatism, in my usage, does not take on any
of the colloquial implications of preemptive compromise or triangulation
of the middle between extremes. M4BL is radical. Participants in the move-
ment understand their task to be addressing the radix (root) of the problems
that plague us, and imagining and devising ways to address those root-​stalk
ills. That necessarily means upending our current notions of the possible.
adrienne maree brown puts it this way: “What is politically possible at this
moment—​that’s what we have to be shifting all the time. Because otherwise
we’re in false solution land.” She goes on to clarify:

I don’t identify as a revolutionary because I think it’s cool. I identify because

I want . . . all the children who come from all the people I love, to have this
magical earth to live on and to be in right relationship with each other on
it. To me, revolution is the only way we get there so, the question is: how
do we make revolution politically possible? That’s what’s interesting to me.
(Carruthers and brown 2019)

In this way, M4BL’s radicalism and its pragmatism are complimentary. The
movement’s understanding of politics builds in an acknowledgement that
what is necessary for justice might not be politically possible at this time. The
job of people who are interested in freedom, in a world that has systems that
do not reproduce the current oppressions, is to create political conditions
that make new things possible. However, there is no telos that names a static
structuring of society and maps the movement of the path M4BL must take
to reach its goals. Instead, those who seek a world where all Black people
can live and thrive have to imagine, persuade, win power, and experiment
their way toward a more just and flourishing world. Put differently, the po-
litical task of people in movement is world-​building, which is why brown
and one of her coauthors, Walidah Imarisha, opine that “all organizing is
science fiction” (brown and Imarisha 2015, 3). This is because the arrange-
ment of power that will deliver the experience of justice to oppressed peoples
is neither predetermined nor proscribed. It must be imagined, plotted, and
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 71

measured, all by the yardstick set down by the question: is this what it means
to experience justice?
If you are thinking that this kind of process of questioning and measure-
ment is a prescription for a never-​ending pursuit, then you’ve got the right
idea. Pragmatist politics are implicitly democratic because they posit an
ever-​relevant quest for progress that has no end. It is a view of politics that
is built on the belief that the work of life is aligning our action with our prin-
ciples, and that such work will never be complete, though we can and must
certainly take account of when we do better and when we do worse.
For the pragmatist, politics simply is an iterative process and we should
prepare ourselves (through education, cultural orientation, material sup-
port, etc.) to be able to engage in it. There is no steady state of justice and
harmony, construed in thin procedural or thick substantive terms. By these
lights, we are capable of invention, of enormous progress, of remaking both
the cultural and material ground that we tread together, but things will al-
ways change. And so our politics will have to change as well.
In line with the movement’s disinterest in appealing to notions of justice
for idealized, unsituated subjects, M4BL is not primarily a movement advo-
cating for equality before the law or in social mores. And though many of the
participants in the movement are anti-​capitalist and prefer socialist forms of
economic organization, M4BL flatly rejects political interpretations that pri-
oritize economic reorganization over political, social, and individual libera-
tion. While most movement actors favor disruptive tactics and imaginatively
expansive ways of living together, the central idea is not war against the state, as
such, as in anarchist philosophy, nor a separatist nationalism in the tradition of
Marcus Garvey. Instead, M4BL is fundamentally a political project that wishes
to confront the realities of oppression and domination that unjustly constrain
capabilities and life chances, or the flourishing of the most marginalized, with
the understanding that if the most disparaged and maligned are free everyone
would have to also be free, because “our freedom would necessitate the de-
struction of all systems of oppression” (Combahee River Collective 1986).

The Radical Mandate

According to M4BL organizer Mary Hooks, “The mandate of Black people in

this time is to avenge the suffering of our ancestors, to earn the respect of fu-
ture generations, and be willing to be transformed in the service of the work.”
72 Reckoning

To have a mandate is to have both the authority and the mission to carry out a
course of action. Hooks wrote the mandate for the movement in a big, bound
notebook that she keeps for writing thoughts and verse, while sitting at home
in 2015. She recalls,

I can remember the train of thought. I always say our ancestors talk. And
I remember thinking, there is something that Black people need to hear.
There is something we need to be doing in this moment. And the words just
came as clear day. (Hooks interview, 2018)

The mandate would go on to be chanted as a call and response at

demonstrations and direct actions around the country. I asked her what each
phrase of the mandate meant to her, specifically how the ideas of intergener-
ational connection, responsibility, and transformation defined the twenty-​
first-​century Black liberation movement. She began her explanation with the
first line: the reason and political meaning of Black people’s need to “avenge
our ancestors.” She reflects,

[W]‌e’re clear on the genocidal attack that has happened to our people and
continues to happen. We carry the history and the stories in our DNA. And
I believe that our ancestors, some are proud. But I also think that some,
many others, are still struggling, many of the wounds they incurred still have
yet to heal. So, there is still suffering happening. (Hooks interview, 2018)

Here, it is useful to note the definition of avenge. To avenge is to inflict harm

in return for a wrong done, but the word’s root is the Latin a vindicare, to
vindicate, which means to clear someone of blame or suspicion, to show
or to prove someone right, reasonable, and justified. For Hooks, an aboli-
tionist, avenge has the potential for all of these meanings, but its most im-
portant meaning is to vindicate. This emphasis in no way diminishes the fact
that it is a term rich with anger and holds within it the potential for aggres-
sion. However, the primary purpose of vindication is not served by doing
harm. Instead, vindication is accomplished by proving that the wrongs that
have been done and are ongoing must be accounted for, reckoned with, and
repaired. Hooks explains:

[W]‌hen I think about the avenging, I think of it in two parts. The first is
Black fucking joy. Black goddamn joy, Black love, Black unity, Black fun,
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 73

Black humor, you know. . . . But there is also another level, [we] have to
grapple with a level of melancholy, with the fact that we are fuckin mad.
Like, you damn right I’m mad about what you have done to my mother and
my grandmother, my great grandmother, my foremothers. Yeah, you damn
right, I was born with a fucking attitude. (Hooks interview, 2018)

Hooks’s insistence on seeing vindication as an affirmation of both joy and

anger is a nod to the humanist underpinnings of the movement’s philosophy.
Emotion is not regarded as antithetical to reason, and people are encouraged
to bring their whole human selves into the work. In this way, people in move-
ment reject one of the main behavioral tenets of what Evelyn Higganbotham
called “respectability politics,” a long African American tradition “which
teaches one to deflect racial provocation and to master and contain pain” in
recognition of the fact that such a stricture asks Black people to deny their
humanity. This denial of humanity is a key aspect of American depictions of
Blackness, whether in service of white supremacy or in an attempt to combat
it. As the writer and cultural critic Ralph Ellison put it, “the full, complex am-
biguity of the human,” which is a “sensitively focused process of opposites, of
good and evil, of instinct and intellect, of passion and spirituality,” is left out
of this equation (Ellison 2003, 81–​82).
The emphasis on defending and cultivating Black joy is a key aspect of the
political philosophy and practice of the movement. Black joy is the defiant
affirmation of Blackness in spite of the material and psychic deprivation that
often marks members of the group. It is a critical component of movement
work for two central reasons: the first is that it is a confirmation of Black
experience beyond suffering even in the midst of colossal, intergenerational
struggle against oppression and domination. And the second is that this
joy is a political resource. This is because joy, particularly the joy in and of
the group, is a sustainable and sustaining reason to participate in collective
action.
Importantly, this politicized joy is simultaneously experienced by the in-
dividual as a single individual and by all those participating in the group, as
a group affect. It is what Emile Durkheim called “collective effervescence,” a
sensation of euphoria that one feels in the presence of others who are aligned
in thought and action. Deborah Gould notes that “such happenings have an
almost sacred quality to them” (Gould 2009, 209). They induce participants
not only to cognitively realize, but also to feel, the potential power to affect
change that they might wield, if they continue to act in concert—​with and
74 Reckoning

for each other. In this way, joy is both grounding and clarifying. It gives one
a sense of solidarity and possibility. It is mobilizing. It draws participants
into collective activity and keeps them there, reminding them that political
struggle is not only what Mary Oliver calls “pain and logic,”5 but is also af-
firmation in community and interdependent strength.
However, the second part of avenging the suffering of the ancestors is also
critical; it is about acknowledging and accepting the sadness and anger that is
the natural reaction to the systematized and intergenerational violence that
has targeted Black people. As Hooks points out, “we have to grapple with
this other level, this melancholy,” and in grappling with it, find its uses. In
her book, Eloquent Rage, Brittney Cooper takes us through the surprise and
clarity that results from the process of grappling with the anger that arises in
response to oppression, coming to understand this anger as a “superpower.”
She writes,

I was angry. As hell. And I was fooling no one. Black women have a right to
be mad as hell. We have been dreaming of freedom and carving out spaces
for liberation since we arrived on these shores. There is no other group, save
Indigenous women, that knows and understands more fully the soul of the
American body politic than Black women, whose reproductive and social
labor have made the world what it is. This is not mere propaganda. Black
women know what it means to love ourselves in a world that hates us. We
know what it means to do a whole lot with very little, to “make a dollar out
of fifteen cents,” as it were. We know what it means to face horrific violence
and trauma from both our communities and our nation-​state and carry on
anyway. But we also scream, and cry, and hurt, and mourn and struggle.
(Cooper 2018, 4)

Just as joy can be a political resource, so too can anger. Audre Lorde, one
of the key intellectual touchstones in the movement, spoke about the uses
of anger in her 1981 address to the National Women’s Studies Association.
In it, she affirmed that anger is a normal and necessary response to racism,
and that it is only in acknowledging that anger and the pain lurking just

5 The last line of the poet Mary Oliver’s poem “Singapore” poses the rhetorical question, “If the

world were only pain and logic, who would want it?”—​an instructive reflection for the ongoing de-
bate about the reasons people engage in collective action. They do so not only to achieve political
and policy ends, but also for the immaterial, but no less real, emotional and psychological benefits of
banding together in community for the sake of a common project.
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 75

underneath and beside it that it can become possible to perceive the depth of
the harm white supremacy causes and to imagine the scope of what would be
necessary to dismantle it. Lorde explains,

My response to racism is anger. I have lived with that anger, ignoring it,
feeding upon it, learning to use it before it laid my visions to waste, for
most of my life. Once I did it in silence, afraid of the weight. My fear of
anger taught me nothing. Your fear of that anger will teach you nothing,
also. . . . My anger is a response to racist attitudes and to the actions and
presumptions that arise out of those attitudes. If your dealings . . . reflect
those attitudes, then my anger and your attendant fears are spotlights that
can be used for growth in the same way I have used learning to express
anger for my growth. But for corrective surgery, not guilt. Guilt and defen-
siveness are bricks in a wall against which we all flounder; they serve none
of our futures. (Lorde 1981)

Here Lorde points out that anger is useful, not only for the person who is
angry, but also for the people she is in relationship to and with. This is an
observation that contemporary political theory does not grapple with.
Anger is so tightly associated with violence that it is treated as an emotion
to be suppressed and ignored in the service of a civilized and civil poli-
tics. However, this deliberate evasion is a mistake. Anger need not lead to
violence. Anger can often be clarifying, leading to the only kind of under-
standing that motivates the changes that can underpin peace. Psychologists
have long pointed this fact out regarding individuals, noting that anger can
be a positive emotion, motivating change that improves relationships, partic-
ularly in instances when less confrontational strategies have been attempted
but have failed to effect behavioral change. This is because anger cues people
that there is a problem that must be resolved, motivating them to try to
resolve it.
This response can actually reduce violence. For example, research on anger
and political attitudes in political science has shown that race and anger are
tightly linked in white racial attitudes—​spurring white racial conservatives
to oppose issues that trigger anger (making them more racially resentful) and
making racial liberals more supportive of (perceived) racially redistributive
policies (Banks 2014a, 2014b). In addition, anger that is expressed motivates
self-​insight, helping people to focus on the reasons why they are angry, and
therefore clarifying how the anger might be redressed. Additionally, angry
76 Reckoning

people tend to be more optimistic about resolving problems than those who
are fearful or sad. The benefits of anger are not present when it is excessive
or aimed at simply inflicting cruelty, but when the point of expressing anger
is to draw attention to a long-​standing problem, it often has positive results
(Averill 1982; Hess 2014; McNulty and Russell 2010). The benefits of anger
for individuals point very clearly to the possible uses of anger for groups in
conflict within a polity. Lorde continues,

Every woman has a well-​stocked arsenal of anger potentially useful against

those oppressions, personal and institutional, which brought that anger
into being. Focused with precision it can become a powerful source of en-
ergy serving progress and change. And when I speak of change, I do not
mean a simple switch of positions or a temporary lessening of tensions, nor
the ability to smile or feel good. I am speaking of a basic and radical altera-
tion in those assumptions underlining our lives. (Lorde 1981)

Joy and anger taken together are a powerful source of political emotion, and
one that is essential for social movements, particularly those seeking radical
change. This is because joy motivates commitment and incentivizes collective
action, while anger is the catalyst for challenging status quo arrangements
with both determination and optimism.
The intergenerational aspect of the mandate is already clear from its be-
ginning in the vindication of the ancestors. However, the intergenerational
responsibility of liberation is not only to those passed, but also to those yet
born. The mandate means that the living generation must always be cog-
nizant of the world it will leave for coming generations and consider what
must and can be done to make it more habitable and hospitable. Mary Hooks
elaborates:

When I think of earning respect. I think we will have to really work. We

are going to have to freakin’ work, and we are gonna have to sacrifice some
shit. We are going to have to grapple with our commitment to capitalism.
To punishment. We are going to have to commit to doing things a different
way. And you can decide to call it what you want, you can call it socialism,
or whatever, but it is about dismantling capitalism and doing the work of
living together. It is about being in right relationships with other people
who don’t sound like you, who don’t think exactly like you, who don’t talk
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 77

like you. People you’re still mad at. If we’re talking about abolition, then we
have to be willing to resolve differences differently. That’s the work of liber-
ation. We have to be able to model what we want to be. That is the heart and
soul of the work, that we have to become the thing that we are striving to be.
Even though the material conditions and current content of our objective
reality makes it very fucking hard. (Hooks interview 2018)

Earning the respect of future generations will require sacrifice, pragmatic

imagination, and democratic experimentation. It requires the ability to give
up some of the things that we know in order to create the conditions and
practices that make it possible for Black people to be a bit freer from oppres-
sion and domination.
Of the last term of the mandate, being “transformed in the service of the
work,” Hooks explains,

The idea of transformation is familiar to me because it’s a part of the his-

torical memory of my political home [Southerners on New Ground, or
SONG]. We are always asking each other that—​it is woven into the cul-
ture of the organization: “are you willing to be transformed in the service
of the work? Are you willing to choose courage over fear? Are you willing
to choose the movement and the collective over ‘the I’ and isolation? Are
you willing to move from a place of righteous anger, from a place of longing
and desire, from a place of love?” Because that’s why we must do this work,
not only because we’re mad but because we love Black people. It’s a different
posture. (Hooks interview, 2018)

To be transformed means to be changed in regard to condition, nature, or

character—​to become otherwise. To be transformed in the service of the
work, then, means to be changed in ways that serve the process, cause, and
ends that one identifies and affirms. That is, to become more capable of doing
the work, not only by learning new information and skills, but also by devel-
oping a new self-​understanding about the kind of person one is and wants
to be. I will discuss this concept at length in ­chapter 4, in the context of how
the notion of “transformation in service of the work” shapes the distinctive
way M4BL regards organizing and the way their conception ought to inform
political theorists about the significance of organizing as a unique political
phenomenon, distinct from mobilization and activism.
78 Reckoning

The Intersectional Lens and the Margin-​to-​Center Ethic

The movement’s concern with theorizing from and acting on behalf of those
most impacted by systems of oppression requires an intersectional lens.
Intersectionality and its theoretical antecedents—​“double jeopardy,” “triple
oppression,” “simultaneity,” and “interlocking oppressions”6—​all describe a
similar social fact: oppressive institutions and dominative arrangements of
power are interconnected and cannot be examined separately, especially be-
cause their effects are impossible to disentangle in people’s lived experiences.
If one views oppressions as intersectional, a distributive conception of justice
is not enough. It’s confusing rather than enlightening: if all one can account
for is whether one has a just portion, the question becomes, for what part of
myself? The effects of oppression and domination cannot be divvied up in
this way. Instead, to combat oppression and domination, an enabling con-
ception of justice is required. The question is thus transformed from whether
I can be said to have my just portion to whether I am able to develop myself
and determine the course of my life in a way we can all evaluate as just. In
this way, an intersectional view of politics is incompatible with a distributive
view of justice—​though the movement’s intersectional lens certainly yields
demands for the redistribution of resources, that redistribution is in accord
not with a call for rights under the principle of formal equality, but with a
call for creating capacity and capabilities under the principle that freedom
requires the ability to flourish.
Charlene Carruthers, the founding director of the movement organization
BYP100 (Black Youth Project 100), explains that the organization’s guiding
commitment to using a “Black queer feminist lens” is a specific iteration of
using the intersectional lens as a diagnostic and a margin-​to-​center orienta-
tion as a political ethic.

The analogy of the lens is crucial and what it does is, literally, is imagine if
you put on a pair of glasses, it can amplify the way you see certain things—​
no matter what you’re looking at, it will impact the way you see things. So,
the utility of a Black queer feminist lens is to impact, shape, and form the

6 The phrase “double jeopardy” refers to the pamphlet “Double Jeopardy: To Be Black and

Female” (Beal 1969). “Triple oppression” is attributed to Claudia Jones, a prominent member of the
Communist Party in the United States (discussed in Davis 1983). “Simultaneity” is discussed in the
Combahee River Collective Statement (1977), and “interlocking oppressions” comes from Collins’s
1990 Black Feminist Thought.
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 79

way you look at all issues that impact our people. And when you do that,
what it requires you to do is to make certain considerations and tell cer-
tain stories, see certain things that were hidden from view. It allows you to
see certain things as necessary to assess what the problem is and to form
a solution in different ways than you would with a lens that is simply one
of Black nationalism or Black progressivism or whatever. It’s an invitation
to see things differently and requires us to think differently. (Carruthers
interview, 2017)

For example,

When you put on a Black queer feminist lens and look at the issue of
mass incarceration it requires you to think about how mass incarceration
impacts Black trans people. Period. And you can still make the choice when
you’re coming up with solutions to say, fuck these people, they don’t matter,
but more often than not . . . it means that when you’re cutting the issue
and asking how are we going to approach the broad topic of criminaliza-
tion, you can’t just ask, how do we stop Black and brown men from being
stopped and frisked, you have to also ask: How is this impacting people
who are not men, who are not straight, who are not cisgender? You have to
ask yourself a different set of questions. And when we ask those different
types of questions in collective space as organizers, we come up with dif-
ferent solutions to the problems. And, in crafting more complete stories of
the problems that are really facing all of us, we also come up with more
complete solutions that will help us address these problems more effectively
and improve all our people’s lives. (Carruthers interview, 2017)

Here, it is important to emphasize that “telling more complete stories” is

viewed as not only ethically imperative, but also fundamentally the most
practically effective way to achieve change that is focused on the radix, the
root of our most persistent and damaging political problems.
In her influential book Feminist Theory from Margin to Center, bell hooks
describes the special perspective of those who are positioned at the margins
of society: “To be in the margin is to be part of the whole but outside the main
body” (b. hooks [1984] 2015, xvi). She contends that this marginality is rein-
forced daily as Black people move through the world. In the small Kentucky
town where she grew up, the railroad tracks were the physical symbol of the
margin. She writes that “across those tracks were paved streets, stores we
80 Reckoning

could not enter, restaurants we could not eat in, and people we could not
look directly in the face” (xvii). Today, the margins are marked differently,
by neighborhoods that are neglected and derided by city officials; stores that
offer fewer choices yet charge higher prices; restaurants that serve food that
leads to obesity, disease, and premature death; police who shake down and
shoot bystanders and people suspected of minor crimes on sight and with
impunity; and people who deny that any of these racialized phenomena
amount to more than problems of “personal responsibility.”
“Living as we [do] on the edge,” hooks explains, “we developed a partic-
ular way of seeing reality. We looked both from the outside in and from the
inside out. We focused our attention on the center as well as on the margin.
We understood both.” Note the echoes of Du Bois’s notion of the “double
consciousness,” the result of “the veil” that separates the lived experience of
oppressed peoples from those who are not. In the canonical Souls of Black
Folk, Du Bois explains:

The Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-​
sight in this American world,—​a world which yields him no true self-​
consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the
other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-​consciousness, this sense
of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s
soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One
ever feels his two-​ness, an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two
unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged
strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. (Du Bois [1903] 1994, 2).

Like Anna Julia Cooper before her, hooks also observes this tension, but is
less prone to see this twoness as “threaten[ing] to dismember the Black self ”
and more likely to understand this reality as a “generative tension” (Cooper
2017, 6). That is, hooks, in the Black feminist tradition, understands the gift
of “second-​sight” as a “mode of seeing” that reminds us “of the existence of
the whole universe . . . unknown to most of our oppressors” (b. hooks [1984]
2015, xviii).
It is not only African American thinkers who have sought to help us un-
derstand the unique perspective of oppressed peoples in conceptualizing
what justice consists in and, more accurately, evaluating when gestures in its
direction succeed or fail. Postcolonial political theory emphasizes the same
margin-​to-​center ethos that guides M4BL’s ideology. Enrique Dussel, for
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 81

example, asserts that a key principle of justice in the world as it is, character-
ized by a history of colonialism and white supremacy, is one of “exteriority.”
Exteriority is a principle that holds that we begin all investigations of justice
with the question, “Who is situated in the Exteriority of the system, and in
the system as alienated, oppressed?” (Dussel 1996, 8). Using the principle of
exteriority, it is incumbent upon those pursuing just political and social re-
lations to do two things: (1) describe the practical reality of a system of op-
pression from the point of view of the oppressed, and (2) imagine a system in
which “the personhood of the Other is the absolute criterion of both ethics
and liberation” (10).
This is the task that M4BL takes up, and it is also why the movement
doesn’t see its focus on Blackness and Black people as discriminatory, iso-
lationist, or myopic. In “A Herstory of the Black Lives Matter Movement,”
Alicia Garza explains this:

#BlackLivesMatter doesn’t mean your [non-​Black] life isn’t important—​it

means that Black lives, which are seen as without value within White su-
premacy, are important to your liberation. Given the disproportionate im-
pact state violence has on Black lives, we understand that when Black people
in this country get free, the benefits will be wide reaching and transforma-
tive for society as a whole. When we are able to end hyper-​criminalization
and sexualization of Black people and end the poverty, control, and surveil-
lance of Black people, every single person in this world has a better shot at
getting and staying free. When Black people get free, everybody gets free.
This is why we call on Black people and our allies to take up the call that
Black lives matter. We’re not saying Black lives are more important than
other lives, or that other lives are not criminalized and oppressed in var-
ious ways. We remain in active solidarity with all oppressed people who are
fighting for their liberation and we know that our destinies are intertwined.
(Garza 2016, 26)

Garza articulates a view that those seeking just political relations need to
think in terms of good policy effects “effervescing up” rather than “trickling
down.” She explicates her point this way:

The reality is that race in the United States operates on a spectrum from
Black to white. It doesn’t mean that people who are in between don’t ex-
perience racism, but it means that the closer you are to white on that
82 Reckoning

spectrum, the better off you are. And the closer you are to Black on that
spectrum, the worse off you are. When we think about how we address
problems in this country, we often start from a place of trickle-​down jus-
tice. So, using white folks as the control, we say that well, if we make things
better for white folks, then everybody else is gonna get free. But actually,
it doesn’t work that way, we have to address problems at the root. And
when you deal with what’s happening in Black communities, it creates an
effervescence—​so, a bubble up, rather than a trickle down. (Garza, Khan-​
Cullors, and Tometi 2016)

The terminology of effervescence is especially interesting because it echoes

the idea that justice is best served when we focus on the political problems
and proffered solutions of the most disadvantaged, an observation made by
radical democratic socialists like Rosa Luxemburg, who writes that

only unobstructed, effervescent life falls into a thousand new forms and
improvisations, brings to light creative force, itself corrects all mistaken
attempts. The public life of all countries with limited freedom is so poverty-​
stricken, so miserable, so rigid, so unfruitful, precisely because, through
the exclusion of democracy, it cuts off the living sources of all spiritual
riches and progress. (Luxemburg 1972, 246)

Rosa Luxemburg observes that what makes democracy indispensable is that

it enables the polity to correct its course, providing both signal and possible
solutions to political problems as they inevitably arise. But the movement
takes this observation one step further, drawing on the political philosophy
of Black feminism, and asserts that it is not the undifferentiated masses
that provide the clues for society’s greatest enlightenments, but specifically
those who are most marginalized by common practices and institutional
arrangements.
When asked whether the specificity of #BlackLivesMatter is exclusive,
Garza asserts the same principle in plainer language:

[W]‌hen Black people cry out in defense of our lives, which are uniquely, sys-
tematically, and savagely targeted by the state, we are asking you, our family,
to stand with us in affirming Black lives. Not just all lives. Black lives. Please
do not change the conversation by talking about how your life matters, too.
It does, but we need less watered-​down unity and more active solidarities
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 83

with us, Black people, unwaveringly, in defense of our humanity. Our col-
lective future depends on it. (Garza 2016, 28)

She points out that this is not only a matter of acknowledging the conceptual
position of the oppressed, but also about acknowledging the material history
and reality of the work that Black people have done to provide models of re-
sistance for all people:

And, to keep it real—​it is appropriate and necessary to have strategy and

action centered around Blackness without other, non-​Black communities
of color, or white folks for that matter, needing to find a place and a way
to center themselves within it. It is appropriate and necessary for us to ac-
knowledge the critical role that Black lives and struggles for Black libera-
tion have played in inspiring and anchoring, through practice and theory,
social movements for the liberation of all people. The women’s move-
ment, the Chicano/​a liberation movement, queer movements, and many
more have adopted the strategies, tactics, and theory of the Black libera-
tion movement. And if we are committed to a world where all lives matter,
we are called to support the very movement that inspired and activated so
many more. That means supporting and acknowledging Black lives. (26)

This centering of the marginalized extends to groups and individuals within

the Black community who are generally overlooked, dismissed, or consid-
ered disposable by dominant society. Kei Williams describes the commit-
ment of the movement this way:

The Movement for Black Lives is for every Black life. There is no tunnel
vision focus on this one type of person, which historically has been Black
men. A lot of people associate Black Lives Matter with rallies in the street
that center Black men and boys and that’s generally been a trigger event that
gets people into the streets. And, we have seen, over time, the difference—​a
thousand folks come out for a Black man, 10 come out for a Black woman
and 5 come out for a Black trans woman. And so, we’re really challenging
folks to consider that when we say Black Lives Matter we mean every Black
life. Not just the . . . person who was on their way to college and had their
life stolen. We’re talking about everyday Black girls and boys. We’re talking
about everyday Black people. We’re talking about the drug dealer, we’re
talking about the sex worker, we’re talking about the folks who are disposed
84 Reckoning

by society, but we welcome them in and show them love. (Museum of the
City of NY 2017)

Following this argument, the only way to achieve a just politics, one that has
a “sense of wholeness,” as hooks puts it (b. hooks [1984] 2015, xvii), is to start
building it, as with any edifice that one intends to be sound, from the exterior
to the interior and from the bottom up.

Politics of Care

Politics consists of the activities associated with building and achieving

power for the purposes of governing. These activities include developing
the understanding, working out the preferences, arbitrating conflicts, gal-
vanizing participation, guiding collective action, and making decisions as a
group, constituency, or polity. In the dominant liberal conception, politics
is the domain in which we manage competition over naturally divergent
interests. And in both political theory and colloquial usage, politics derives
its legitimacy (insofar as it has legitimacy) from the rational and strategic
rather than from emotion and need. How, then, can we conceptualize a pol-
itics of care?
Well, what if we conceived the currency of political aspiration not as “in-
terest,” whether “real” and material or constructed from some indistinct (yet
somehow naturally decisive) miasma of desire and cost/​benefit, but instead
in terms of dignity and flourishing? Such a change is one of orientation to-
ward the motivation and ends of politics, not in the nature of the political
enterprise. In other words, a politics of care does not take its mission to be
making the process of gaining political power for governing nicer; the com-
petition to direct the attention and resources of a polity will always remain
fierce, and movement actors do not balk at hard fights. However, the politics
of care sees interest disconnected from concern for the dignity and flour-
ishing of the individual-​in-​context as ethically unmoored and fundamen-
tally illegitimate, unworthy of collective engagement and action.
The politics of care is so central to the political philosophy of the move-
ment, and such a contribution to American political thought, that I expand
on it at length in the next chapter; however, in the context of the broader po-
litical philosophy of RBFP, it is important to know that the politics of care has
six major characteristics: the acknowledgement of oppression as traumatic,
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 85

the centrality of interdependence, the embrace of unapologetic blackness, a

focus on accountability, a defense of Black joy, and a commitment to resto-
ration and repair. In Black feminist thought, this understanding of care is
often discussed through the metaphor of mothering. Alexis Pauline Gumbs
notes that Audre Lorde and June Jordan, among other Black feminists, write
about the practices of mothering outside the confines of biological ties or
sexed roles, as specifically political because this kind of “radical mothering”
foregrounds the ways that we are obligated to care for ourselves and each
other as whole human beings, especially when we are subject to oppressions
that denote our embodiment as always already “threatening,” or “criminal”
(Gumbs 2020, 184–​190).
From this point of view, the first premise of political engagement is that
trauma and healing must be considered not only personal but also political
issues, because the ways those facts shape our experience of the world and
our motivation and ability to organize and become mobilized are considered
indispensable information for any political project, especially those that con-
sider justice to be their aim. This is because a politics of care is predicated on
an acknowledgement that oppression is not only unjust, it is also trauma-
tizing.7 Therefore, those who seek to organize and mobilize oppressed peo-
ples in an effort to unwind and upend oppressive systems must incorporate a
concern with, and a practice of, healing in their work.
This healing work is seen as not only a psychological, but also a social
and political salve and, even more profoundly, it is believed that the indi-
vidual has the best chance to heal by participating in the social and political
work of ending oppression. Healing is thus a multidimensional enterprise; it
is necessary not only for the individual but also for society, and that means
the approach to attaining healing must be from the individual as they exist
in and change the sociopolitical. This is where the concept of “healing jus-
tice” derives its meaning. There is an ecosystem of people and organizations

7 The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders defines trauma as direct personal ex-

perience of an event that involves actual or threatened death or serious injury or threat to one’s phys-
ical integrity. Witnessing an event that involves such threats can also produce a traumatic response,
as can learning about unexpected or violent death, serious harm, or threat of death, or injury to a
family member or close associate. Memories associated with trauma are typically vivid and difficult
to forget. A person’s response to trauma can range significantly, but usually involve intense fear, help-
lessness, horror, anger, and social or emotional paralysis. Oppressed peoples—​those who are subject
to laws, institutional practices, and social customs that deprive them of self-​development by creating
and reproducing conditions that decisively and often violently curtail their life chances and those
of the people in their familial and social group—​experience not only individual traumas, but also
collective trauma that arises from the cumulative “weathering” and negative consequences of being
identified with and living as a member of a structurally marginalized and socially maligned group.
86 Reckoning

that help people in movement understand what healing justice as applied to

the Movement for Black Lives means, including the abolitionist and scholar
Mariame Kaba, artist activists like Gina Breedlove, Spirit McIntyre, curator
and organizer Cara Page, somatic practitioner Prentis Hemphill, organizer
Emanuel Brown, and organizations like Harriet’s Apothecary and Black
Organizing for Leadership and Dignity (BOLD), among others.
Second, the politics of care is based upon an understanding that our selves
are always situated, which means that to account for one’s self is also to ac-
count for one’s social condition, location, and connectedness. This means
that in RBFP, the individual is not the basic unit of analysis, nor is an imag-
ined unitary collectivity; instead, attention is focused on the individual-​in-​
context. Structural conditions and interpersonal interdependence are thus
taken as always relevant to public problems and their solutions.
The third element, a focus on accountability, is a deeply pragmatic and
democratic orientation. Accountability is not only about taking respon-
sibility for one’s action, but also, critically, about acknowledging that since
one’s self is always situated and in-​context, the actions that one takes may
have unintended consequences. To be accountable is to develop a practice of
checking in with those one is working with and for in order to understand the
effects of discussions as they evolve, decisions as they are taken, and impacts
as they are felt.
Fourth, unapologetic Blackness is the practical manifestation of a rejec-
tion of respectability politics. It is the commitment to acknowledging the
whole selves, good and bad, productive and reactive, of the people in move-
ment. While unapologetic Blackness is specific to Black people because it is
a rejection of pathologizing Black people, it grows from a more general view
about embracing the human. Our movements and our conceptions of justice
must not be tuned to the exceptional but to the ordinary, not only to the in-
nocent but to those who have harmed, not only to those who fulfill norma-
tive expectations but to those who do not. Unapologetic Blackness means
that no one deserves to have their needs go unacknowledged, their concerns
swept under the rug, or their personhood thrown away.
This may be the most radical aspect of the politics of care and, indeed, the
entire philosophy of RBFP. Those involved in the movement become rad-
ical in the definitional sense: they see themselves as tasked with thinking,
speaking, and acting in a way that affects the radix, or root, of the political
problems that they understand Black people to face. That set of problems is
not only a matter of rights acquisition, economic exploitation, or quasi/​legal
 Radical Black Feminist Pragmatism 87

social exclusion. It is a historical problem, to be sure, but one of ontolog-

ical proportions. It is about the negative way that people—​including Black
people—​have understood Blackness since race became a legible concept and
the physical, psychic, and social tortures that have been rendered logical and
justified on the basis of that belief (Mills 1997; Gordon 1995).
The task of the movement, then, is to transform all of our understandings
about what Blackness is and means, which brings us to the fifth component
of the political philosophy, defending Black joy. The defense of Black joy is
not only about making and holding space for Black people to be carefree and
express unencumbered happiness, but more profoundly, this defense is also
an offense—​a cultural project meant to shift the set of dominant associations
between Blackness and suffering to a fuller panoply that offers the many ways
that Blackness is infused and characterized by a joy that is enhanced by some
of the lexicons, traditions, and habits commonly found across the African
diaspora. This is what it means when people in movement say they love Black
people. It means they are no longer approaching the fight for racial justice (or
justice of any kind) from the position of apology that usually characterizes
the posture of the oppressed. This is not a project of acceptance or inclusion
into dominant society, it is not about positioning the Black community as
acceptable or appropriate within white supremacy. Radical Black feminist
pragmatism is about what Black people deserve and demand as Black people.
In this way the movement is able to flip the perspective of analyses and
demands; they can ask, as one popular call and response at protests does: “I
love Black people! You don’t love Black people? What’s wrong with you?” This
perspective is how the movement has shifted the perspective from asking
questions about what justice requires to designing new ways of enacting the
answers that they find. As Charlene Carruthers writes, “Following the vision
of BYP100 leader Fresco Steez, we made it cool and relevant to be ‘unapolo-
getically Black.’ It was not popular to build an all-​Black activist organization
or common for a membership-​based organization such as ours to be led by
young, Black women and LGBTQ folks, but we did it anyway” (Carruthers
2018, xvi). And here, too, is the genius of the movement: by embracing that
love of Black people as whole, unapologetic selves, they made it popular to be
involved and invested in a disruptive, Black-​led, political movement.
Finally, the politics of care is concerned with how to think through harm
and its consequences from a perspective of restoration and repair rather than
one that centers punishment. The politics of care is an abolitionist politics,
which acknowledges that people are not only good or evil, innocent or guilty,
88 Reckoning

but that all people both experience harm and are capable of doing harm.
Moreover, this abolitionist perspective asks us to think first about the con-
text in which harms are committed and, with that in mind, to craft methods
of both redress and prevention of future harm. The scholar and abolitionist
Ruth Wilson Gilmore writes,

[A]‌bolition is a practical program of change rooted in how people sustain

and improve their lives, cobbling together insights and strategies from dis-
parate, connected struggles. We know we won’t bulldoze prisons and jails
tomorrow, but as long as they continue to be advanced as the solution, all of
the inequalities displaced to crime and punishment will persist. (Gilmore
and Kilgore 2019)

In this way, the concern with restoration and repair is a way both to care for
people who have been harmed by seeking ways to repair the hurt caused or
restore to them a measure of what was lost and to care for the person who has
committed harm by asserting that even as the perpetrator of harms, they are
not disposable, and because they will not be thrown away and are still a part of
the society, they are required to be accountable for their actions by repairing
and restoring, as much as possible, what they have damaged or destroyed.
This impetus toward repair is not only operative on an interpersonal level or
as a mediation between individuals mediated by institutions or the state, it
is also an orientation that is meant to be taken up at scale. A politics of care
requires us to consider what harms society ought to account for and how we
should reckon with the need for reparation.
 3
The Politics of Care and the Idea
of Healing Justice

won’t you celebrate with me

what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
—​Lucille Clifton

In the previous chapter, I discussed the principles of the political philos-

ophy of the Movement for Black Lives. Their view of what constitutes justice
and freedom and the means to achieve these goals is not identical to any of
the twentieth-​century ideologies (liberalism, communism, socialism, pop-
ulism, etc.); however, radical Black feminist pragmatism still proffers an
analysis that transcends the particular, offering a set of principles that can
be applied in multiple contexts. The key difference between it and twentieth-​
century philosophies is that RBFP does not pretend universality; instead, the
theory takes as its starting point the immanent relevance of people’s lived
experiences, centering the experiences of those who are most impacted by
systems of domination and oppression.
90 Reckoning

Domination, writes Iris Marion Young, is “the structural or systemic

phenomenon which exclude people from participating in determining
their actions or the conditions of their actions” (I. Young [1990] 2011, 31).
Domination must be understood as structural, rather than as the imposi-
tion of the directed will of a malevolent individual or class of individuals,
because “the constraints that people experience are usually the . . . unin-
tended product of the actions of many people” operating according to the
laws and habits of institutions that predated their existence or intentionality.
Individuals have choices, but those choices are constrained by the world as it
currently exists, by the laws, customs, and common ways of understanding
that characterize the way people live their lives in a particular time and place.
These constraints can and do produce outcomes that are both patterned (e.g.,
systematic), and unintended by the individuals who are both acting inde-
pendently and imbricated in rules and mores beyond their control. Take, for
example, the dominative institution of law enforcement. This reality of situ-
ated individuality is true both for those who have positions that afford them
relatively more power and those whose positions restrict them to having
relatively less.
Oppression, Young writes, is “the disadvantage and injustice some people
suffer . . . because of the everyday practices of a well-​intentioned liberal so-
ciety.” It consists of the “systemic constraints on groups that are not neces-
sarily the result of the intentions of a tyrant,” but are instead “embedded in
unquestioned norms, habits, and symbols, in the assumptions underlying in-
stitutional rules and the collective consequences of following those rules” (I.
Young [1990] 2011, 41). Oppression expresses itself in five ways, what Young
calls the “five faces of oppression”: exploitation, marginalization, powerless-
ness, imperialism, and violence (48–​62).
In addition to its analysis of domination and oppression, the move-
ment values history, imagination, and vision as the indispensable, critical
contexts that condition the ways they choose to build power and act. In
the next chapter I will explore the theory and practice of building power
or organizing as it is practiced in the Movement for Black Lives (M4BL).
However, in this chapter, I expand on the most unique aspect of the
movement’s political philosophy, what I call a politics of care. The politics of
care practiced in M4BL is characterized by an acknowledgement of trauma
and a commitment to healing, an understanding of interdependence, una-
pologetic Blackness, a defense of Black joy, an insistence on accountability,
and an abolitionist perspective favoring restorative justice practices that
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 91

deal with harm by focusing on accountability and reparation rather than

punishment.
One of the main ways this politics of care is enacted is through the prac-
tice of healing justice, a mode of analysis and action that acknowledges that
oppression causes harm that is more than distributional, instrumental, or
infrastructural, and that addressing that harm requires both personal and
political action toward care. That is, healing justice recognizes that “our
movements must invest time and money” in identifying how “we can holis-
tically respond to and intervene in generational trauma and violence, and . . .
bring collective practices that can impact and transform the consequences
of oppression on our bodies, hearts, and minds,” as well as on our politics
(Page and Kindred Healing Justice Collective, n.d.). Importantly, a healing
justice perspective takes participation in collective action for social change
to be an essential part of the process of healing, because it is only through
such activity that we can change the conditions of oppression—​the context in
which much of our trauma occurs and in which it will be reproduced unless
we can mitigate or eradicate its causes. This approach is a radical one because
its logic springs from the observation that it is impossible to resolve our so-
cially and politically produced traumas, to heal ourselves from the damage
of collective and systematic ills, while only focusing on individuals’ internal
processes. While therapy, self-​work, and personal transformation are impor-
tant, because RBFP understands individuals to always be in context, the phi-
losophy proscribes social and political change as a part of the cure for what
ails those who live under oppressive structural conditions.
In other words, for those who adhere to RBFP, care is not only an ethic or a
set of moral principles, it is also a politics, an essential activity of governance
based on the acknowledgement of the basic need for and responsibility to
provide the care that is always required for human life, and therefore must
be attended to in the arrangement, management, and maintenance of society
and politics. This notion of care has a deep affinity with the voluminous lit-
erature in feminist political theory. Joan Tronto’s notion of a “ethic of care,”
which she introduces in her book Caring Democracy, contends that “what it
means to be a citizen in a democracy is to care for citizens and to care for de-
mocracy itself ” (Tronto 2013, x). However, people in the movement do not
center care because of a commitment to the idea of democracy or the duty
and value of citizenship, but instead in accordance with the fundamental po-
litical claim animating the movement. That is, because they matter to them-
selves and to one another. There is no intermediary term between care and
92 Reckoning

the person to legitimate the necessity of caring, and there is no appeal to ab-
stract categories to bestow significance on the bodies, minds, and spirits in
need of care. People simply matter, and that is reason enough to care.
Let us pause to consider this. To matter, by its primary definition, is just
to exist as physical substance that has mass at rest. But it also means to be of
importance or significance and to have content and substance that is distinct
from manner and form. A matter is also an affair under consideration, the
reason for distress, the pus that seeps from a wound. One does not matter be-
cause of the way one behaves or the way one’s form is made or appears. One
does not earn the properties of substance and significance via motivation or
avocation. One is not bequeathed this ability to matter by right. There are
explanations for the reasons we matter, but no justification is necessary. We
simply do matter. And so we deserve care.
Care, here, is not a mere sentiment, nor does it indicate a posture of def-
erence or coddling. Instead care hews closely to the dictionary definition. In
its noun form, it means the provision of what is necessary for health, welfare,
maintenance, and protection, and also serious attention to doing something
correctly in order to avoid unnecessary damage or risk. As a verb, to care
means to feel concern for or interest in something, to attach importance to it
and provide for the needs one observes. In this way, the politics of care begins
with the conviction that it matters when whole populations are hurting
from harms inflicted by the ways we have structured society, whereby some
people are systematically advantaged and others systematically disadvan-
taged. It matters that we have designed politics so that some voices are much
more likely to be heard and have influence than others, though all may bear
an equal claim to citizenship. It matters that in the United States, we have
a grotesquely huge carceral system that consigns some people to not only
be confined in cages, but also to what Orlando Patterson has called “social
death,” the “denial of full personhood and the mark of disposability” (O.
Patterson 1982). And so to care means to take seriously not only the material
depravation, but also the pain that accompanies these political realities, and
to work to mitigate the causes and repair the devastating results. A politics
of care begins with the notion that it matters if we’re hurting—​that we must
attend to that in the conception and carrying out of our activities toward
governance.
Therefore, the politics of care is a reframing of the purpose, priorities, and
experience of politics. It is a way of pursuing self, community, and political
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 93

governance that values feelings and somatic embodiment along with what
we are enabled to do in the world as it actually exists. In this way, the pol-
itics of care acknowledges those modes of experiencing, knowing, and
doing that are most devalued in dominant liberal, masculinist, and capi-
talist paradigms. It is because of these underlying values that the politics
of care (1) acknowledges oppression as traumatic; (2) understands interde-
pendence to be fundamental; (3) insists on the centrality of accountability;
(4) affirms unapologetic Blackness, a specific instance of unapologetic
human embodiment; (5) emphasizes the defense of joy and pleasure as a
personal and collective necessity and political resource; and, finally, (6) is
abolitionist, looking to restorative rather than punitive practices to address
harm. These values are summarized in Table 2 and discussed in detail in the
next sections.

Table 2. Values Underlying the Politics of Care

Oppression as Social Effects of oppression go beyond unfair distribution of

Trauma rights and resources, and constitute psychological and even
physiological consequences that have measurable impacts
on social groups at both the individual and aggregate levels.
Interdependence The individual is always already in context. There is no
atomistic, autonomous individual; we instead are born
and develop in contexts that condition, but do not fully
determine, our life chances.
Accountability The obligation of interdependence is a commitment to
being responsible to a group or community.
Unapologetic Blackness The rejection of respectability politics and the embrace of
the notion that Blackness is plural, anti-​Blackness effects
all people who identify or are perceived as Black regardless
of performance of dominant values; the struggle for Black
liberation must include all kinds of Black people, centering
those perceived as variously deviant in the dominant
culture, without apology.
Defense of Black Joy Joy is a political resource that is especially essential to the
mental and emotional well-​being of oppressed people, as
well as their capacity to organize for social and political
change.
Abolition, Restoration, The safety of Black people and other oppressed groups
and Repair cannot be obtained through policing and prisons. Instead,
safety is a matter of having one’s basic needs met, and when
harm occurs, the goal is repair and restoration rather than
punishment.
94 Reckoning

Oppression as a Social Trauma

Though we often locate the political genesis of the Movement for Black Lives
in police shootings, a more accurate assessment of movement motivations
must consider what Audre Lorde calls the “institutional dehumanization” that
plagues Black life (Lorde 2007, 39). This dehumanization is the outcome of sys-
tems of oppression anchored by histories that stretch back to before the Atlantic
slave trade. This historiography is important not only because it explains the
origin of anti-​Black racism, but, just as importantly, because it explains the or-
igin of what Cedric Robinson calls “racial capitalism,” a tradition of racializing
social orders for the purpose of economic oppression that predates European
encounters with non-​Europeans (C. Robinson [1983] 2000). This is worth
noting because it points to a new dimension of the way that the particular
lived experience and the general “order of things” are intertwined. Anti-​Black
racism is particular and particularly virulent, playing out via oppression and
domination in various legal and practical frameworks around the world, but
it is also one example among many interlocking systems that evince the ten-
sion at the heart of modernity’s logic: that equality is a value to be distributed
among equals, and that some must be explicitly or implicitly disqualified in
order for the universal to seem to exist. This tension sharpens the edge of every
difference that we acknowledge as significant (and some of those things that we
acknowledge as significant differences can and do change over long periods of
time), and it is the logic that gives oppression and domination sense—​that is,
the ability for these concepts to help us understand the ordering of the world.
What makes the political philosophy of M4BL unique and radical is that it
goes after this ordering of the world, displacing the debates about rights, nat-
ural or otherwise, and citizenship, and puts people and their lived experience
at the center. Oppression, then, is no longer a problem of malice, bad faith,
or misapplied principles, but rather an observable fact of some people’s lives.
One that must be undone—​not for the sake of fairness, but because people
matter and should not suffer because of society’s arrangement. Indeed, from
this point of view, it is the chief mission of governance to (re)arrange laws
and practices—​political, social, and economic—​so that people do not suffer,
at least not in systematic and predictable (and thus, preventable) ways, be-
cause people matter, and the purpose of politics—​to paraphrase Tronto,
stripping away the accoutrement of citizen-​talk—​is to assign responsibilities
for care and ensure that people are as capable as possible of participating in
this assignment of responsibilities (Tronto 2013, 30).
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 95

Oppression is, in many ways, the opposite of care, and so it makes sense that
this is the place where a political philosophy committed to centering the most
marginalized would begin. Iris Marion Young writes that oppression is “the
disadvantage and injustice some people suffer not because a tyrannical power
coerces them, but because of the everyday practices of . . . society.” These “sys-
temic constraints . . . are not necessarily the result of the intentions of a tyrant,”
they are instead “embedded in unquestioned norms, habits, and symbols, in
the assumptions underlying institutional rules and the collective consequences
of following those rules” (I. Young [1990] 2011, 41). Oppression, then, is “the
institutional constraint on self-​development,” which always operates in concert
with the related social condition of domination, which is “the institutional con-
straint on self-​determination” (37). “Constraint on self-​development” means
barriers to what people can become and do given their structural positioning
amid legal, economic, and social practices that impact people in systemati-
cally unequal ways depending on the circumstances they are born into. These
structural constrains are not entirely determinative (some people will beat the
odds), but they do create patterns of inhibited opportunity that are empiri-
cally observable and probabilistically relevant. The collective consequences of
oppression accrue in an intersectional hierarchy, with relative privilege coa-
lescing at the top and lethal disadvantage pooling at the bottom. It is important
to emphasize that this constraint on self-​development is not primarily a matter
of maldistribution. Oppression’s harm includes but goes well beyond the unfair
distribution of rights and wealth.
Young writes that if we think of people as “doers and actors” instead of
“possessors of goods,” then the dimensions of oppression’s true harm
becomes more clear: it is not only that oppression prevents people from
having their due, it is also and more profoundly that oppression keeps people
from becoming who they might be if not so constrained, because oppression
limits people’s ability to increase their capabilities and expand their capaci-
ties through exploration, education, and experiences. One of the ways this
happens is via the trauma that oppressive conditions inflict on those on
the wrong slope of the hierarchy of privilege. Likewise, this trauma is not
only something that afflicts individuals, because individuals are always in
context and systematic traumas—​those traumas occurring to particular
populations because of who they are ascribed to be according to extant struc-
tural hierarchy—​impact the entire group. If these systematic conditions re-
produce traumatic social conditions for groups over time, there are broad
social and political consequences. We call such effects generational trauma.
96 Reckoning

Psychologists note that any group of people who suffer long-​term or on-
going systemic oppression may exhibit symptoms of generational trauma.
The bulk of the research on historical trauma focuses on post-​genocidal soci-
eties, including the “soul wound” sustained by the Indigenous people of the
Americas and the psychic strain borne by Jewish people after the Holocaust
(see Brave Heart 1999; Yehuda et al. 2016; Hirsch 2012). Researchers have also
“identified race-​related historical trauma as a large-​scale, systems-​related
macro-​stressor that adversely impacts both the physical and mental health
of the affected racial/​ethnic group” (Sotero 2006, 96). Race-​related genera-
tional trauma “originates with the subjugation of a population by a domi-
nant group” (102). The public health researcher Michelle Sotero posits that
to exhibit measurable effects, generational trauma must include sustained
physical and psychological violence, segregation and/​or displacement, eco-
nomic deprivation, and cultural dispossession. For example, group-​specific
maternal stressors are produced by oppression, not only regarding material
deprivations such as malnutrition, but also including external conditions
and events that pose a particular social threat to the group (see also Williams,
Neighbors, and Jackson 2008; Reid, Mims, and Higginbottom 2004; Yehuda
et al. 2005; Southwick et al. 2014). For example, Black women, particularly
those with a higher education, are more likely to have preterm labors and
births than their white peers. A 2017 study of preterm birth among women
found that “chronic worry over racial discrimination” is significantly re-
lated to the likelihood of preterm births (Braveman et al. 2017). Under these
conditions, the trauma of oppression can be so severe that it is passed down
epigenetically from one generation to the next. For example, “Type 2 diabetes
in adults may be caused by metabolic adaptations of the fetus in response to
maternal malnutrition. The disorder is then propagated throughout subse-
quent generations via hyperglycemic pregnancies” (99).
There is also the damage done by sequelae, which is a medical term refer-
ring to a morbid infection occurring as the result of a previous disease. The
anthropologist Christen A. Smith points out that in addition to the weath-
ering of racism, every incident of state-​sanctioned violence against Black
people causes potentially lethal harm to not only the person who is directly
victimized, but to the whole community of people who depend on and care
for them as well. She writes,

Although state terror often results in the immediate physical death of young
Black men, it is principally, yet tacitly, performed for Black women and
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 97

impacts Black women disproportionately. . . . [T]‌he gendered necropolitics

of trans-​American anti-​Black violence is expansive and includes the direct,
immediate death of Black people and the lingering, slow death caused by
sequelae. (C. Smith 2016, 31)

Movement participants have taken in the reality of generational trauma by

applying it to how they analyze politics and create spaces for movement work.
They know it is impossible to organize people at the margins—​those subject
to oppression and its generational effects—​without considering “the impact
of oppressive trauma [that] creates cultural and individual wounding. . . .
[Such wounding] becomes an impediment to the individual and collective’s
ability to transform and negotiate their conditions” (Akili 2011), unless it
is addressed directly as a part of the normal practice of organizing. Nikita
Mitchell, the former director of organizing for the Black Lives Matter Global
Network Foundation puts the problem this way:

[A]‌lot of the shift in our movement, looking at relationships, power dy-

namics, emotions, is in reactivity to what people perceive as faults of the
civil rights movement, right?. . . . [W]e are doing something magical and
new. We believe that getting to a new world is not just about policy change
but it’s also culture change, so most of our work is in service of building a
new community—​repairing relationships and building a new community
as the basis of our power, then I think tending to the emotions is actually
necessary because of how we want to be in the future. We need to practice
being now the type of community we want in the future. So I think valuing
people’s full selves is extremely important. Therefore, we have to be clear
about our movements . . . [and] put capacity towards our being able to deal
with people’s full selves, which is a constant struggle to think about how do
we do that. (N. Mitchell interview, 2018)

But this hasn’t been easy; Mitchell goes on to express her frustration with
movement work when people and organizations are not able to find a bal-
ance between the acknowledgement of the weight of people’s emotional and
mental loads and the need to do the political work:

I believe that Black Lives Matter is a political home for people, who in their
day-​to-​day lives may not be able to voice trauma at home. May not be able
to voice when there is an issue where they feel harmed, and so they enter
98 Reckoning

the organization as I entered the organization looking for the ideal place,
where they can, like, dump their emotion, and unfortunately, sometimes
that comes at the cost of doing this work in a way that actually wins tangible
things for our people. . . . Sometimes it’s an overcorrection; [it can seem]
we care more about us individually than we do about getting things done
on behalf of our whole community. How do we balance that commitment
between the individual and what we need to do by the collective? It’s been
hard. (N. Mitchell interview, 2018)

Indeed, movement participants often express the difficulty of trying to in-

vent practices that accord with the principles of the politics of care. However,
Ife Williams, a member of BYP100’s Healing and Safety Council, a team of
people within the movement organization tasked with developing practices
for the prevention of conflict and for mediating and adjudicating processes
to address harm, insists that these difficulties are part and parcel of the exper-
imentation that is constitutive of the movement philosophy. She explains that

we’re creating culture. I think that’s what speaks to transformative justice

or that’s what speaks to creating alternative system to the systems that we
know do not care for us and do not serve us, because you can’t just abolish
something and not have a vision for what that something will turn into.
I think that that’s super key.
So, I think part of the work that we’re doing is working through and it’s
very clear, let’s be very clear, this is an experiment. We have never done
this before and I am so humbled every day that first of all, people trust us
enough to be in this work with us and to also understand to be compas-
sionate about the ways that their challenges come up, or hiccups are part of
this experiment. Yeah, so I think we’re shifting culture. We’re also creating
culture. So, we’re speaking to the visioning of alternative systems. (Williams
and Roberts 2018)

Interdependence

Taking interdependence as a reality is not an aspirational but rather a prag-

matic element of the politics of care. As feminist scholars have pointed out
for some time, people simply are related, and the foundation of these rela-
tions are the needs and obligations of various kinds of care. As Bernice Fisher
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 99

and Joan Tronto remind us, “survival establishes the fundamental context of
caring. As a species, we have no choice about engaging in caring activities”
(Fisher and Tronto 1990, 39). Whether these relations are for better or worse,
resulting in oppression and domination or flourishing, is the matter for as-
sessment and action. One of the movement’s key critiques of liberalism is of
the figure of the autonomous agent connected to others primarily though
contract and/​or voluntary association. From the perspective of feminist
theories, including RBFP, this is a distortion of reality that actually harms
us, with particularly pernicious consequences for those situated at the eco-
nomic, political, and social margins.
The political problem that caring presents is that there is no place for this
basic and universally necessary human activity in the picture of public per-
sonhood that modernity has sanctioned as valid. Bernice Fisher and Joan
Tronto write that “caring has virtually no place in the description of ‘the good
life’ that provides a focus for Western philosophy, despite the fact that caring
permeates our experience” (Fisher and Tronto 1990, 35). Not only does
caring permeate our experience, but, as Martha Nussbaum points out, re-
ceiving adequate care and caring for others is a crucial part of any good life.
She explains:

[T]‌he person is a political and social animal, who seeks good that is social
through and through . . . the good of others is not just a constraint on this
person’s pursuit of her own good, it is a part of her good. She leaves the state
of nature not because it is more advantageous in self-​interested terms to
make a deal with others, but because she can’t imagine being whole in an
existence without shared ends and a shared life. (Nussbaum 2004, 503)

Instead of acknowledging this practical truth of human existence, care

has been styled as a private matter, governed by “nature,” “love,” and/​or
“choice,” characteristics that were deemed by liberal political theory to be
improper subjects of collective action and common governance, and have,
in any case, been turned over to the logic of market rationality along with all
other domains in the neoliberal reimagining of the dominant paradigm. In
this way, the activities of care traditionally carried out by women and often
displaced by more affluent women onto working-​class and poor women of
color are continuously imagined to be beyond the realm of politics, and,
even in feminist corrections, care is often described as an ethic rather than a
politics in itself.
100 Reckoning

This imagination of care as private and natural and coming from love, as
opposed to a universally necessary set of skills and knowledges requiring
labor, support, and governance like other forms of work, has been particu-
larly disadvantageous to Black women. As Shatema Threadcraft notes,

Black women have occupied two seemingly ironic positions throughout

American history. First, they were expected to perform exploitative pro-
ductive labor typically reserved for those who possessed masculine embod-
iment. . . . Second, they were considered suitable for a form of marginal,
often backbreaking, and always exploitative women’s work—​work within
the white intimate sphere, and work that served to meet the bodily needs of
white families often at the expense of care for the bodily needs of their own.
(Threadcraft 2016, 8–​9)

The displacement of care from our politics is not only detrimental because it
results in inequality, where care of children and elderly falls disproportion-
ately on women and is further offloaded from middle-​class women to poorer
women of color, but also because the logic that banishes care from the realm
of the political has facilitated the development of a culture in which we barely
have time to care for ourselves. Neoliberalism has exaggerated the homo
economicus of the Enlightenment, who nevertheless had space and time
for “sentiment,” to the point that the activity one is meant to value above all
others is working for a wage—​something we must always be available to do—​
and all else must exist secondarily. The organization of our lives such that
waged work is supposed to supersede and engulf all else became more severe
as the twentieth century turned over to the twenty-​first and has, as a result,
given rise to an enormous industry dictating various ways that we can indi-
vidually self-​help ourselves out of consequences of structural arrangements.
Women, in particular, have been counseled on the ways they can “have it
all”—​or on the reasons why they cannot. And everyone has been encouraged
to find “work-​life balance,” marketed individual programs for “wellness,” and
scolded to be more “mindful”—​all attempts to offload the collective costs of
the dominant political economy and the ideas that undergird it onto indi-
viduals. This creates a reality in which most people spend large amounts of
time trying to ignore or manage their feelings about the displacement and
devaluing of all parts of themselves that don’t serve to help them labor or
make choices about consumption. Ronald Purser argues that “[a]‌n in-
dustry has formed around the ‘stressed subject,’ ” and as such “the dominant
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 101

mindfulness narrative is that stress is all inside your own head,” but “[y]ou
can’t separate the individual from the environment. We’re embodied social
beings” (quoted in O’Brien 2019).
This basic understanding and embrace of human beings as embodied
and social—​that is, experiencing physical needs and limitations and always
in context—​is the basic notion undergirding the politics of care. The litera-
ture that makes these basic understandings most explicit, combining them
with practical knowledge, comes out of the disability justice movement, from
which RBFP takes most of its cues.1 A disability justice perspective adopts
the feminist observations about care as a basic human function and takes
them a step further, by emphasizing that care is not life-​cycle specific (fo-
cused on children and elderly), nor is it predicated on othering those whose
bodies don’t afford them the illusion that they are fully subject to their in-
dividual wills (those with disability or chronic illness). Leah Lakshmi
Piepzna-​Samarasinha writes in her book Care Work that “a Disability Justice
framework understands that all bodies are unique and essential, that all
bodies have strengths and needs that must be met,” and, as such, the po-
litical necessity of care is to create a polity in which people are structurally
enabled to care for themselves and others instead of impeded from meeting
those needs (Piepzna-​Samarasinha 2019, 21). Therefore, the politics of care
asks, How can we create institutions and routines that understand care for all
kinds of bodies, abilities, and levels of health to be a basic, necessary function
of governance?
The answer to this question will not be decided at the level of abstract
philosophy, but will instead be realized through practical imagination and
democratic experimentation that are relevant to concrete contexts. Basing
a politics on the acknowledgement of interdependence requires a commit-
ment to processes that allow us to notice, analyze, and act on the reality of
our contexts and their effects on individuals. Radical Black feminist prag-
matism takes the reality of interdependence to be a fact and does not try to
abstract itself from that reality. However, while one is born into a context

1 Piepzna-​ Samarasinha (2019) writes, “ ‘Disability justice’ is a term coined by Black, brown,
queer, and trans members of the original Disability Justice Collective, founded in 2005 by Patty
Berne, Mia Mingus, Leroy Moore, Eli Clare, and Sebastian Margaret. . . . [T]‌hey dreamed up a
movement-​building framework that would center the lives, needs, and organizing strategies of disa-
bled queer and trans and/​or Black and brown people marginalized from mainstream disability rights
organizing’s white-​dominated, single-​issue focus” (15). She adds, “Disability justice is to the disa-
bility rights movement what environmental justice is to the mainstream environmental movement.
Disability justice centers sick and disabled people of color, queer and trans disabled folk of color, and
everyone who is marginalized in mainstream disability organizing” (22).
102 Reckoning

that preexists and shapes the individual, one’s structural context does not
wholly prescribe community. For community to have meaning, it has to be
the collection of people to whom one chooses to be accountable, not merely a
group to which one is assigned based on ascriptive characteristics. This gives
the colloquial inquiry common at Black social gatherings—​“Who are your
people?”—​philosophical heft. It is not only a question of whom one is related
to (the most literal interpretation), but also who are the people you claim and
how will you represent them in this space and at this time. The abolitionist
political theorist Jasmine Syedullah calls this a “congregational” model of
public commitment:

Congregating in churches, homes, and swamps for the cause of aboli-

tion was a practice in recreating the sociality of the plantation as sites of
marronage within reach of the hold of slavery, but out of sight and be-
yond the view of those who policed the movements of the enslaved.
Congregating breathed space for something new to enter the frame of
antebellum segregation and was a generative way for enslaved people see
each other, feel themselves, and realize opportunities to improvise on the
realities that held them captive to the will of another. To know, in their
bodies, that their purpose, pasts, and priorities were beyond the imagi-
nation of those who drove them, hunted them, “broke” them, and killed
them was, in itself, abolition.

Syedullah is careful to make a distinction between an abolitionist congre-

gation and other kinds of collectivities, arguing that while collectives “with
fixed roles, standard issue protocols, and a pre-​determined endgame” were
and are present in spaces of resistance

congregating was born in the dark, from clandestine spaces. It was an emer-
gent, iterative, co-​created practice of “flocking” to borrow language from
adrianne maree brown. . . . During slavery the relationality of the congrega-
tional space was organized around ceremony rather than mission. It was a
cumulative praxis of “prayer, preaching, song, communal support and es-
pecially feeling the spirit,” which, as Albert J. Raboteau wrote . . . “refreshed
the slaves and consoled them in their time of distress”. By imagining their
lives in the context of a different future they gained hope in the present.
(Syedullah forthcoming 2022)
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 103

As such, the movement cultivates norms of “showing up” and “holding

space,” where such ceremonies for comfort, perspective, and innovation can
be made. Let us examine these practices.

Showing Up

First, when a movement participant remarks about their intention or ability

to “show up,” they mean more than to be in attendance. In the language of
the movement, to “show up” is not only to be in a particular place at a par-
ticular time, but to arrive with a certain comportment or “posture,” as Je Naé
Taylor, a member of BYP100’s Healing and Safety Council, describes it, one
that evinces an “embodied commitment” to “clarifying intentions.” In this
way, showing up is not only about the posture one has upon walking through
the door of a shared space, it also includes the willingness to shift that posture
in order to become intelligible to those one hopes to relate to. This is because
“showing up” in this sense is fundamentally an action expressing commit-
ment. The feminist political theorist Mara Marin writes that commitments
“are taken on voluntarily, yet without knowing at the outset the final form
of [the] obligations, which is subject to continual transformation . . .
commitments take shape, over time, through chains of open-​ended actions
and responses” (Marin 2017, 15–​16). Taylor’s explanation of the reasons for
and process of showing up put flesh on the bones of this definition:

[I]‌t’s about, for me, a commitment. BYP100 is a commitment to loving

Black people. For me, I’m clear about that. And I’m clear that I want to be
in relationship with loving Black people, and that requires that I show up
a particular way. And what I think our big desire in our organization is,
how are we embodying that commitment? Does that mean that if someone
says, “Hey, I feel that you have harmed me in this way,” even if I feel you are
telling a bold-​faced lie. I ain’t never show up that way, my commitment is
saying, “I love Black people enough that imma say, ‘Aight, Tell me what part
of my behaviors brought that to you, that you interpreted my intention in
that way?’ ” That’s my posture. My posture isn’t, “oh, I ain’t do that. I ain’t
never show up like that.” My posture is, “okay, tell me how did you interpret
my intention that way?” And then, “how do I get better at clarifying my
intentions?” Because if that’s not what I meant, I need to make sure I fix my
104 Reckoning

behavior so that I can articulate clearly why I’m doing certain things, why
I’m here, and why I’m in relationship with you.
So, much of our organizing is centered on, “how are we clearing our
intentions? How are we shifting our posture?” My friend says, “gratitude
is our posture toward the things that sustain us.” And loving Black people
sustains me, so that means that our posture has to constantly be in a po-
sition, and in a way that it’s clear that like, “Look, I love you wholeheart-
edly, and I’m here to show up, and I’m here to be accountable.” (Taylor and
Green 2018)

In this way, to “show up” is not only about a person’s internal comportment
and bodily presence, but also encompasses the way they appear to others,
the way their posture and actions are perceived by those to whom they are
accountable. This is an incredibly sophisticated and difficult line to walk in
daily interaction, particularly in the pressure cooker of political activism
and movement organizing. Participants are not always successful and move-
ment spaces are still often characterized by conflict over analysis, priorities,
strategy, and short-​to medium-​term goals. Interpersonal antipathy and
harm also occur. However, the philosophical commitment to a politics of
care along with the formal institutional mechanisms for preventing harm
and mediating conflict create a unique set of practices that have helped to
sustain organizations as well as the overarching goal of the work—​making a
world where Black people can expect to live and thrive.

Holding Space

Another practice that supports healthy interdependence is the activity of

“holding space.” Like “showing up,” “holding space” is more complicated than
it seems. Christina Sharpe (2016) writes that the notion of a “hold” has much
to teach us. A hold is a place of departure and arrival and the container for
the time in-​between. The hold of a ship or aircraft is a place where one waits,
suspended, even as the conveyance moves along its course. For Black people,
“the hold” has often been an awful space of liminal suffering: “the hold of the
slave ship, the hold of the birth canal, the hold of Middle Passage, the hold of
prison, the hold of the migrant ship, the hold of the morgue, the hold of the
state, and so on” (Green et al. 2019, 919). However, a hold can also be another
name for a fortress, a protected place where participants prepare for actions
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 105

that must be taken. Sharpe goes on to suggest that a hold can be a place where
we become “beholden to and beholders of ” one another (Sharpe 2016, 101).
To hold space, then, is to create a protected place that gives space for stillness
and preparation even as the group or organization, and the world outside,
continues to move. Holding space is thus a dynamic practice that is essential
to enabling reflection, accountability, and healing. As BYP100 Healing and
Safety Council member Marshall (Kai M.) Green and their coauthors write,

[W]‌e realized that much of what we have done, and continue to do, in the
[Healing and Safety Council] is hold. In other words, we be-​holdin’. We be-​
holdin’ space. We be-​holdin’ meetings. We be-​holdin’ circles. We be-​holdin’
processes. We be-​holdin’ mediations. We be-​holdin’ trainings. We be-​holdin’
workshops. We be-​holdin’ names. We be-​holdin’ naming. We be-​holdin’ time.
We be-​holdin’ pain. We be-​holdin’ disappointment. We be-​holdin’ failure.
We be-​holdin’ trauma. We be-​holdin’ expectations. We be-​holdin’
grief. We be-​holdin’ anger. We be-​holdin’ sadness. We be-​holdin’ success.
We be-​holdin’ joy. We be-​holdin’ affirmation. We be-​holdin’ love. We be-​
holdin’ those holding on. We be-​holdin’ our ancestors. We be-​holdin’ Black
people. We be-​holdin’ each other. (Green et al. 2019)

Like showing up, holding space is a process-​oriented and practical activity,

an action of care born out of commitment to both a set of ideals and the
people with whom one does the work of political change.

Intergenerational Interdependence

Included in RBFP’s understanding of interdependence is not only a

Durkheimian functionalism, but also a sensitivity to intergenerational
connection and responsibility. Charlene Carruthers notes that one of the
sources of her commitment to political struggle and supporting elements
of her political joy is “celebrating my lineage, the people that I come from.
Me and momma, my grandmama, the 10,000 grandmothers at my back.
And knowing that I’m not at this thing alone and I’m not the first to do it”
(Carruthers and brown 2019). This sentiment is widely shared in the move-
ment. For example, Jewel Cadet, the chapter chair of BYP100 New York,
makes vivid this notion of interdependence when she describes a successful
protest action that took place in the summer of 2017.
106 Reckoning

During 2017 and 2018, activists were demanding that Americans re-
visit the history of figures memorialized in monuments all over the country
whose legacies were steeped in violence against marginalized peoples. The
New York chapter of BYP100 took on the publicization and condemnation
of the legacy of J. Marion Sims, an American physician known as “the fa-
ther of gynecology,” who made his name in medicine by doing surgeries and
experiments on enslaved Black women without anesthesia. Sims was memo-
rialized with a statue that had stood in a position of honor in front of the
New York Academy of Medicine for forty years, which seemed a denial or
disregard of the violence and suffering he perpetuated against Black women
who had no power to refuse. In other words, the Sims statue was a monu-
ment to Black women’s lives not mattering. So movement activists staged a
stunning protest where Black women activists, dressed in hospital gowns
splashed with red paint at the waist, encircled the statue and read from his-
torical documents describing accounts of Sims’s activities, made statements
affirming the humanity of the women who had been used against their con-
sent, and sang and chanted affirmations. This action was widely covered by
New York news outlets and—​added to the ongoing and intensifying advo-
cacy of groups like East Harlem Preservation—​would prompt the statue’s re-
moval by April 2018.
Cadet described the rigorous research and public education components
of the Sims statue action to me in detail during our interview, but what struck
me as especially interesting was the palpable idea, throughout our discus-
sion, that the impetus of the action was not only to remove a present-​day
affront, but also to execute a custodial responsibility to the people who had
come before, both the women who had struggled under Sims’s knife and the
people who had struggled to bring this malevolent legacy to light. Cadet
recounts that she dressed herself on that day with careful attention, listening
to music and wearing her hair in a way that made her feel “close to ancestors.”
She goes on to say,

I feel like the people who came before me, freedom fighters who had come
before me, were embodying me in that moment. And so, when I was doing
it, I didn’t feel like I was doing it by myself. You know, so it’s like everyone
was with me. Everyone from the past who was a freedom fighter was with
me. It’s super heavy you know . . . it was very intense. I started to cry, we
all started to cry, we were there chanting and having this whole experi-
ence because we all felt them in our spirit, right there. You know this isn’t
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 107

something that we’re doing for show. I mean you have the picture that went
viral . . . [but] people don’t know. It was a super heavy action that weighed
on us emotionally. (Cadet interview, 2017)

This notion of acknowledging ancestors, particularly in the form of a liturgy

of spoken names, is large part of movement practice.2 This spiritual practice
was often contained in the activity that participants call “grounding,” a class
of techniques adapted from psychology under the banner of “mindfulness”
that help participants feel anchored in their bodies and in the moment—​
facilitating people’s ability to “show up” in the posture most aligned with
their own intentions and the purpose of the group.

Accountability

An essential component of healthy interdependence is accountability.

Interdependence without accountability quickly devolves into codepend-
ence, a state of relation that is not conducive to imagining or implementing
changes in behavior and action. In order to be in what movement actors
call “right relationship” with others—​that is, exhibiting a commitment to
care that is reciprocal—​all parties must be willing to be accountable. To be
accountable is to be required or expected to justify one’s decisions to some
group to which one owes a duty, obligation, or commitment; that is, to be re-
sponsible to a constituency. However, accountability is not only about giving
reasons for actions; it also requires that those reasons be explicable and un-
derstandable. In other words, those in healthy interdependent relations
with others have to be able to give an account of our decisions and actions.
Charlene Carruthers has written extensively on the importance and difficulty
of accountability to movement actors and organizations. When I interviewed
her, she explained this:

[W]‌e don’t have healthy models for accountability, we have models that rely
on punishment and on shaming people, and in fact, most of our models are
extremely violent and perpetuate the very thing that we say we are against.

2 A practice that is common in many religious traditions, but which is also uniquely characteristic

of Black feminism, according to Brittney Cooper, who calls this phenomena Black feminist “cita-
tional politics” (see Cooper 2017).
108 Reckoning

And so, community accountability and transformative justice becomes

an important skill set. Although many of us don’t actually have that full
skill set, we’re trying. . . . That piece is so new. It’s also exciting but it’s also
deeply . . . it’s a painful process. (Carruthers interview, 2017)

Prentis Hemphill, the former Director of Healing Justice for the BLM
Global Network Foundation, writes, “we realize that care and accountability
are at the root . . . and are some of the most difficult and direct actions we
can take. Care and accountability require us to reveal, to center, and more
than anything, to change” (Hemphill 2017). This kind of change is meant
to be transformational for individuals, but it is also an attempt to change
culture by shifting people’s understanding of what interdependence means
and frames of reference for what relating to each other ought to entail. In
order to achieve relations and build organizations and institutions capable
of acknowledging the fact of independence and centering the necessity of
accountability, it is also necessary to emphasize a regard for people that is
grounded in appreciation for their (and our own) humanity. This kind of
regard demands a rejection of worldviews that dictate that only those who
are properly productive deserve respect and regard for their needs, desires,
and choices. For Black people, this entails a specific rejection of stereotypes
and tropes that blame supposedly pathological individual behaviors for the
structural limitations placed on the group. The politics of care therefore
demands challenging anti-​Blackness and white supremacy with an unapol-
ogetic rejection of “respectability politics,” along with public defense and
private celebration of Black joy.

Unapologetic Blackness and Defense of Black Joy

The Movement for Black Lives attempts to create language, make space, and
build counternarratives that make the case for cultivating and defending
Black joy, thereby holding space to define, celebrate, and embrace the di-
versity of Black peoples and ways of identifying and performing Black cul-
ture unapologetically. To be “unapologetically Black” is not just a statement
of pride. It is also a succinct way to encapsulate the movement’s rejection
of the politics of respectability for the purpose of earning an inclusion that
is supposed to be a matter of right(s). The simple phrase holds a world of
meaning, asserting that M4BL seeks freedom for all Black people, not only
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 109

the “good” or “achieving” ones. This is because the politics of care is an an-
tidote to dehumanization, and humans, in reality, are messy and contradic-
tory and imperfect, so our histories and institutions and governance ought to
take these facts into account. The moral philosopher Emily Townes explains
that “the challenge is to resist measuring Black realities by the ideological
stereotypes, the denigrating myths, of the fantastic hegemonic imagination”
(Townes 2006, 21–​22). She goes on to lament that “so much of Black his-
tory . . . [has] been made a social project—​not the story of flesh and bone and
spirit and emotion” (30). She asks, “How do we grasp hold of our identity
and truly name ourselves instead of constantly looking into some strategi-
cally placed funhouse mirror of distortions and innuendos . . . ? When black
identity is property that can be owned by someone else, defined by someone
else, created by someone else, shaped by someone else, we are chattel dressed
in postmodern silks” (45). One of the most important things that is hap-
pening culturally as a result of the movement is that Black people have been
able to draw their own “unapologetic” images, first on social media, then in
a thriving Black online news ecosystem, and then in pop culture. That is, the
“respectable negro,” the “gansta,” and the “conscious” or neo-​soul-​inspired
Black person are no longer the only easily accessible tropes of Blackness.
There are Black queers, cosplayers, dapper dons and donnas, punkers, nerds,
futurists, and others. Black people have claimed their humanness as authors
of our own experience—​authors who are not trying to prove anything to the
dominant group. The culture of M4BL is the exploration of all that we are—​
our full, diverse, flawed, fragile, and triumphant humanity.
This is the opposite of mid-​twentieth-​century approaches, in which mar-
ginalized groups often attempted to police the behavior and expression of
their own members as a part of their appeal for inclusion, showing that their
values and actions were continuous with, even exemplary of, dominant
ideals. Respectability politics aims to show that those who are oppressed and
dominated do not deserve poor treatment, but instead deserve to be included
in the polity on equal terms and granted rights and respect.
The rejection of respectability politics and embrace of unapologetic
Blackness did not merely arise from the ether. Its emergence as a core part
of movement philosophy was importantly dependent on the movement’s
development during the Obama era. Obama and his loving, attractive, and
accomplished family are the perfect expression of Black respectability. One
could scarcely imagine a better example of middle-​class American values
personified, with what was, for many, an enchanting dash of magical negro
110 Reckoning

and Black girl magic thrown in, elevating this talented bunch from exem-
plary to magnetic. Still, this charismatic excellence was not enough to shield
Obama from a historic backlash of racialized conspiracy and hatred, and his
presidency seems to have sparked the activation of a lethally resentful and
widespread white grievance politics. In addition, the example of the Obamas
in the highest office in the land did nothing at all to curb racial resentment,
mitigate structural inequality, or restrain state violence against Black people
and other people of color. Social psychologists hopefully embarked on
studies aiming to track changes in racial attitudes during Obama’s campaign
and presidency, only to find that the quantitatively measured mean explicit
and implicit anti-​Black attitudes did not change (Sawyer and Gampa 2018).
In short, there could be no greater object lesson for the movement truism
that “respectability will not save you” than the persistent reality of racism and
the defiant resurgence of open racial animus in what was supposed to be the
“post-​racial” Obama era.
In the brilliant documentary Whose Streets? (Folayan and Davis 2017),
which chronicled the uprisings in Ferguson, Missouri, after the murder of
Mike Brown, one participant in the protests comments, “I waited all my life
for a Black president. I still ain’t had me one. Ain’t he a constitutional law pro-
fessor? Well, we ain’t got no constitution in Ferguson. So tell that nigger to
teach a new class. Or bring his ass down to Ferguson Burger Boy and help us
figure out why we ain’t got no constitution.”
Like the simmering anger of Black people after George Zimmerman was
acquitted of stalking and shooting a seventeen-​year-​old Black boy on his way
home, the rage expressed here is closely undergirded by disappointment and
surprise. No matter how common the cynical (and self-​protective) refrain
that America has never been good to or for Black people and nothing better
ought to have been expected in the Obama era, most people did hope for
better. To be confronted with such overwhelming evidence that no way of
being Black—​from the near-​perfect personal comportment of the presiden-
tial family to the perfectly ordinary hoodie-​clad slouch of a teenager walking
through his own neighborhood—​could be viewed without violent suspicion
made it imperative to turn toward a new way of regarding Black people and
reimagining Black politics.
So, unapologetic Blackness emerged as not only a rejection of respect-
ability politics, but also as its overcoming. Regardless of whether one per-
sonally believed in bourgeois standards of individual comportment and
educational and professional achievement, it became clear that as a political
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 111

matter, the standard of respectability was not and could not lead to a world
in which Black people can except to live and thrive. Therefore, unapologetic
Blackness insists on an unashamed embrace of Black peoples and cultures in
all their diversity, whether the dominant standards of comportment would
judge them refined and achieving or deviant and disgraceful. The Blogger
Charlene Haparimwi describes the sentiment thusly,

I am absolutely here for the gum popping, finger snapping, fast talking,
weave wearing Black women. I am here for the basketball playing, rap
loving, fashion forward Black men. I am here for nerdy Black girls and boys,
quiet Black boys and girls, entrepreneurial Black boys and girls. I am here
for every stereotype and every exception to the rule of Blackness the world
sees, imagines, perpetuates or tries to eradicate. There is no me against
them, we are all one voice, one people. (Haparimwi 2016)

Damon Young, cofounder of the popular website Very Smart Brothas, puts
it this way: “[S]‌top crafting your thoughts and actions around what White
People (collectively) might think if you thought or acted a certain way. Step
outside of the White Gaze and stay there” (D. Young 2016).
BLM Global Network Foundation communications strategists Shanelle
Matthews and Miski Noor characterize the organizational commitment to
unapologetic Blackness this way:

We are expansive. We are a collective of liberators who believe in an inclu-

sive and spacious movement. We also believe that in order to win and bring
as many people with us along the way, we must move beyond the narrow
nationalism that is all too prevalent in Black communities. We must ensure
we are building a movement that brings all of us to the front.
We affirm the lives of Black queer and trans folks, disabled folks, undo-
cumented folks, folks with records, women, and all Black lives along the
gender spectrum. Our network centers those who have been marginalized
within Black liberation movements.
We are working for a world where Black lives are no longer systemati-
cally targeted for demise.
We affirm our humanity, our contributions to this society, and our resil-
ience in the face of deadly oppression.
The call for Black lives to matter is a rallying cry for ALL Black lives
striving for liberation.
112 Reckoning

Every day, we recommit to healing ourselves and each other, and to co-​
creating alongside comrades, allies, and family a culture where each person
feels seen, heard, and supported. (Matthews and Noor 2017)

As such, M4BL is a movement that actively attempts to release Black people

from the “veil” of “double consciousness” that Du Bois described at the turn
of the twentieth century (Du Bois [1903] 1994) and rejects the notion that
an elite portion of talented race men and women ought to lead the way to
freedom.
Further, M4BL endeavors to avoid what Cathy Cohen describes as “sec-
ondary marginalization,” which is the practice of defining certain members
of a marginalized group as “innocent and worthy of mobilization, while
others [are] labeled deviant, immoral, and bad” (Cohen 1999, 346). To prac-
tice unapologetic Blackness is to reject the shaming of certain Black people
in an attempt to uphold the moral rightness of others, and to refuse the idea
that the admonishment of individuals to “pull your pants up” or “take off that
hoodie” serves any practical or political purpose beyond perpetuating dom-
ination and oppression.3
In order to ensure that no apologies for any variety of Blackness enter
into their politics by the default process that allows people in marginal-
ized groups with relatively more power and privilege to set the tone and
priority of movement issues, the movement insists on the necessity of
theorizing and practicing politics “from margin to center,” attempting to
foreground the needs of those most reviled and written off in dominant
society. Chris Roberts, a member of the Healing and Safety Council of
BYP100 explains:

We want the people naming their truths, speaking their experiences, who
historically have not been able to speak that and have not been valued,
more importantly. When it’s like, okay, we want this particular perspective,
who are the people that are last referred to? Who are the people who are last
reached? We’re trying to shift that whole dynamic and say, no, that these are
the voices that are most important for us as an organization and as a com-
munity. (Williams and Roberts 2018)

3 Respectability politics and secondary marginalization are a common feature of the way social

movement organizations prioritize issues, frame issues, and distribute resources. It is not a phenom-
enon limited to Black social movements. See Woodly 2015, chap. 3, on the gay respectability politics
that undergirded the turn toward marriage in gay politics during the late 1990s and early 2000s.
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 113

Therefore, M4BL deliberately foregrounds issues such as violence against

trans Black people, support for the incarcerated, and the abolition of police
and prisons.
M4BL seeks to avoid secondary marginalization not only in its public
campaigns, but also in its internal practices. This requires participants and
leaders to make space for and be willing to learn from people whose voices
are not often heard. The way the movement came to foreground the necessity
of trans Black lives provides a telling example. Charlene Carruthers explains
it this way:

[W]‌e’re being told, I’m being told, in this moment in Chicago, that Black
LGBTQ issues—​they don’t even say that—​that Black gay and lesbian is-
sues are not Black issues. . . . In this particular moment where we’re calling
for the resignation of Mayor Rahm Emmanuel, cause he got to go. And
we’re calling for the 40% that CPD takes from our public service budget in
Chicago—​we’re calling for that to change—​we’re being pummeled by ho-
mophobic and transphobic rhetoric. And rhetoric that has turned into ac-
tual physical violence as well. Both coming from the police state itself and
from Black people in movement spaces. But this whole idea of being told to
wait, to get in the background is unacceptable. And we know that we come
from a lineage of Black folks who have said that shit is unacceptable. And
we will not wait. And we cannot wait. . . . We refuse to wait. We don’t have
time to wait, our lives are on the line.

Carruthers goes on to say,

[T]‌he difficult and heart-​wrenching struggle, that when you commit to

Black queer feminist values, that you actually have to struggle with and not
throw things underneath the bus or the carpet and name what you don’t
know and go to people who do know way more than you know and we have
a responsibility to actually put our values into practice and to struggle with
that and not be perfect. Perfection isn’t the goal but integrity and accounta-
bility to our values is. (Smith, Carruthers, and Gossett 2016)

The Movement for Black Lives self-​ consciously understands unapol-

ogetic Blackness to be not only a personal affirmation, but also a political
tool that helps to change dominant frames in public discourse and culture.
Another unique political tool that the movement cultivates in the rejection
114 Reckoning

of anti-​Blackness and the embrace of a politics of care is the explicit and em-
phatic defense of Black joy. To defend Black joy is not only to celebrate one’s
own feelings of happiness and connectedness when they are felt, but, more
profoundly, it is an enactment of what Jacques Lacan calls jouissance, the
feeling of mastery attained by being the author of one’s own experience and
having the authority to explode the taken-​for-​granted. This sense of polit-
ical jouissance is what allows people to dare to imagine and create a polit-
ical program that challenges and changes the terms of the American political
conversation on racism and white supremacy, to have the audacity to collec-
tively author a policy platform that is available online in five different lan-
guages, and to establish initiatives like the Electoral Justice Voter Fund (see
https://​m4bl.org/​electoraljusticevoterfund/​), which seeks to recruit and sup-
port Black candidates who advocate for those policy proposals in running
for political office. The politics of joy and pleasure are regarded as necessities,
because they are the only things that will make the lifelong and multigener-
ational work of pursuing justice sustainable, and are therefore a condition of
the possibility of a radical yet pragmatic politics. adrienne marie brown puts
it this way:

For a few decades of my life I did a pendulum swing of “I’m going to work
hard and it’s going to be miserable and then I’m going to go have my
pleasure. And then I’m going to work hard again.” And part of what I’m
trying to do—​and I don’t know if it’s possible, really, but I’m trying to do
it in more and more spaces—​is to be like “we’re in this meeting, can we,
like, break out into some 90s R&B and celebrate the fact that we made a
decision and enjoy each other?” . . . What are the pleasures we can bring
into the work? I want to get out of the cycle of burning out and recovering,
where recovering is the only place I experience pleasure. (Carruthers and
brown 2019)

In the same vein, Charlene Carruthers states, “I don’t believe that we

have to have perfect people who are at the top of their wellness game in
our movements, that’s just unrealistic. We wouldn’t have a movement”
(Carruthers and brown 2019). Treva B. Lindsey concurs, writing, “[W]‌e
must develop an ethics around the reality that we are often not well and how
we take care of ourselves and one another. We need a co-​extant practice of
self and other care that accounts for our (dis)abilities to show up for our-
selves and one another” (Hearns and Lindsey 2017). This is difficult to do,
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 115

Carruthers says, because “many of the movement spaces that I’m in have
a shape of not celebrating—​big wins, small wins, medium wins—​or cele-
brating when someone is successful,” and that is detrimental to their ability
to do the work long-​term to model the behavior of community healing and
care. She adds,

This past week I was at the Highlander Center [campus]. And for those
who don’t know the Highlander Center’s [main] office was burned down
by . . . some white supremacists. . . . And this was last month. . . . So, we were
there, a group of us [Black women], who are holding big parts of move-
ment across this country. From people who lead organizations for formerly
incarcerated and currently incarcerated women, people who lead organi-
zations fighting against HIV and AIDS, Black trans women-​led organiza-
tions, all kinds of Black women in this room and, every single morning we
were singing. Every single night we were talking shit with each other, we
had a whole community care night, all these things. Because we know that
we live in a world that is set up for us to fail and the way that we’re actually
going to do this thing, transform the world, is that we have to celebrate each
other. (Carruthers and brown 2019)

The joy of connection intermixed with moments of what Durkheim

called “collective effervescence,” or the feeling that one is experiencing a
practice or action in perfect concert with others, along with the satisfaction
of commitment to a cause, has always been an important part of movement
work, but M4BL’s recognition of this joy as a political resource essential for
both shaping the politics of the movement and caring for people involved in
movement is unique.

Abolition, Restoration, and Repair

The final aspect of the politics of care is an abolitionist ethic. For people in
movement, abolition is, at bottom, a politics of care. This is because, though
contemporary abolitionists believe in the ultimate elimination of police and
prisons, that aspiration is predicated on creating the material and social
conditions in which most people do not harm others. This aspiration, like
the rest of the political philosophy of the movement, is pragmatic, not uto-
pian. No abolitionist believes that the American polity is close to shutting
116 Reckoning

down prisons and completely defunding police forces. Instead, they do prac-
tical political work with the aim of (1) changing people’s minds about what
motivates people to cause harm and what constitutes safety; (2) fighting for
the re-​allocation of resources away from policing, arresting, and imprisoning
people and toward adequately feeding, housing, educating, and finding work
for people; and (3) preventing as many people from being locked up and
underwriting the release of as many people as possible from jails and prisons.
The abolitionist position is, in its most basic form, quite simple: policing, jail,
and prison do not actually perform the functions they purport to perform—​
keeping people safe from violence and harm. Instead, these institutions cause
massive economic, political, social, and psychological harms that are quan-
tifiable and grossly disproportionate for Black and brown people. Given this
evidence, abolitionists do not accept that the current punishment-​focused
approach, which is widely acknowledged to be damaging and unfair, is the
best that society can do.
Importantly, abolitionists are able to make the claim that jails and prisons
do not keep us safe, based on a voluminous and robust empirical literature4
documenting, in detail, the fact that the grotesque growth of the punitive
penitentiary apparatus in America since the 1970s has been completely
unlinked to either the rise or fall of crime rates. As Michelle Alexander
writes, “the American penal system has emerged as a system of social con-
trol unparalleled in world history . . . the primary targets of its control can
be defined largely by race.” She goes on to say, “this is an astonishing devel-
opment . . . given that as recently as the mid-​1970, the most well-​respected
criminologists were predicting that the prison system would soon fade away”
(M. Alexander 2011, 8). This conclusion was reached because there was al-
ready ample evidence that “prison did not deter crime significantly” and
that instead, “those who had meaningful economic and social opportunities
were unlikely to commit crimes regardless of the penalty, while those who
went to prison were far more likely to commit crimes again in the future”
(8). According to the National Advisory Commission on Criminal Justice
Standards and Goals report issued in 1973, “the prison, the reformatory
and the jail have achieved only a shocking record of failure. There is over-
whelming evidence that these institutions create crime rather than prevent it”
(8, emphasis added).

4 See Beckett 1997; Cole 1999; Davis 2007; Mauer 2006; Mauer and King 2007; Alexander 2011;

Balko 2014b; Hayes 2017; and Bazelon 2019.

 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 117

It is also important to acknowledge the practical truth that, as the abo-

litionist organizer and founder of Project NIA Mariame Kaba notes, “po-
lice officers don’t do what you think they do. They spend most of their time
responding to noise complaints, issuing parking and traffic citations, and
dealing with other noncriminal issues.” We have been taught the police
“catch the bad guys; they chase the bank robbers; they find the serial killers.”
However, as Kaba notes, quoting Alex Vitale, the coordinator of the Policing
and Social Justice Project at Brooklyn College, this is a “big myth . . . the vast
majority of police officers make one felony arrest per year” (Kaba 2021, 14).
Abolitionists today, like criminologists in the era before the “war on
drugs”—​a project of the federal government that was spearheaded by a vast
public relations and funding apparatus incentivizing racialized policing and
the augmentation of local police forces—​posit that most people cause harm
because they are already living in a context of structural harm. This harm
takes the form of poverty or other material deprivation like lack of access to
healthcare, schooling, adequate transportation, mental health care, housing,
etc., or sociocultural harms like discrimination, neglect, violence, or neg-
ligence. The material and sociocultural structural harms described affect
individuals but characterize whole communities, and their impacts can be
objectively observed. Abolitionists simply point out that these massive, long-​
observed patterns have a consequence: lack of safety. In order to make people
safer in our society, we have to make our society safer for people.5
A large focus of the politics of care is recognizing and rejecting the ten-
dency to ask individuals to take sole responsibility for conditions that are
both beyond their control and systematically aimed at the ascriptive group
of which they are apart. In other words, it is not a legitimate approach to
safety to, for example, ask people in a neighborhood that has been almost
completely divested of legal work not to work in illegal trade and commerce.
The harm that arises from the high-​risk and high-​violence organization and
execution of illegal trades occurs between individuals, but it is caused by al-
ready occurring and state-​sanctioned harm and deprivation. The recogni-
tion of this state of affairs does not absolve the people who have perpetuated
interpersonal harms, because those acts have interpersonal consequences

5 See, for example, the call and response chant at the BY100 2016 National Convening: “We want

living wage jobs. Not cops. We want funding for public education. Not cops. We want access to
mental health services. Not cops. Sustainable food and water sources. Not cops. Affordable housing.
Not cops. Free public transportation. Not cops.” Accessed April 4, 2020, https://​www.youtube.com/​
watch?v=uMTCU0G9y94.
118 Reckoning

that must be attended to, but the full weight of blame for the pattern of ac-
tivity must also include the ideas and institutions that have allowed harmful
structural conditions to arise and persist.
The politics of care asks what kinds of harms are already occurring at the
social level that create the conditions in which harming others, by theft or
violence, comes to make sense. It is the mitigation of those conditions that
must be the first concern of people who wish to ensure the safety of society.
Abolition is a key part of the politics of care because its primary program-
matic goals are about intervention before the moment of offense. As Ruth
Wilson Gilmore often says, abolition is not primarily about absence—​the ab-
sence of police and prisons—​it is fundamentally about presence, the presence
of “jobs, education, housing, health care—​all the elements that are required
for a productive and violence-​free life.” It is about investing in “vital systems
of support that many communities lack” (Kushner 2019).
In this way, abolitionists ask us to consider a radically different root of
safety. Mariame Kaba, explains:

Security and safety aren’t the same thing. Security is a function of the
weaponized state that is using guns, weapons, fear and other things to
“make us secure,” right? All the horrible things are supposed to be kept at
bay by these tools, even though we know that horrible things continue to
happen all the time with these things in place—​and that these very tools
and the corresponding institutions are reproducing the violence and horror
they are supposed to contain. (Kaba and Duda 2017)

The question inevitably arises: But what is society supposed to do with people
who commit serious and irrevocable harms like rape and murder? Kaba has a
two-​pronged answer for this question:

I guess that answer won’t satisfy people who want you to provide them with
[an immediate] solution. . . . This is the question that always gets thrown
at anybody who identifies as abolitionist—​and my question back is “what
are you doing right now about the rapists and the murderers?” That’s the
first thing: Is what’s happening right now working for you? Are you feeling
safer? Has the current approach ended rape and murder? The vast majority
of rapists never see the inside of a courtroom, let alone get convicted and
end up in prison. In fact, they end up becoming President. So the system
you feel so attached to and that you seem invested in preserving is not
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 119

delivering what you say you want, which is presumably safety and an end
to violence. Worse than that it is causing inordinate additional harm. The
logics of policing and prisons are not actually addressing the systemic
causes and roots of violence. [ . . . ]
Number two is that I always say: the answer to the question is a collec-
tive project. Your question is a good one in the sense that you’re thinking
about how we might address harm (which is not the same as crime inci-
dentally)—​and so let’s figure out together, across our communities, what
would be a just system for adjudicating and evaluating harm. That’s a very
different posture to take. It’s a question that invites people in, that invites
people to offer their ideas. It invites us to argue with each other, to say “this
will work better” and “no, this is the best way,” rather than accepting as per-
manent and always necessary the current oppressive institutions that we have
[emphasis added].
Our current punishment apparatus are sites of terrible and incredible vi-
olence. (Kaba and Duda 2017)

Kei Williams, formerly of Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation’s

New York chapter and now an organizer with the Martha P. Johnson Institute,
helps people reflect on the idea of safety by conducting the following exercise:

There’s this exercise I like to do in spaces really capturing the cultural as-
pect . . . there’s a core belief for me that the cultural influences the institu-
tional and then that flows down into the interpersonal, into the everyday
lives. But until there is a culture around certain things, the institutions
won’t change. And we see this, for example, with the cultural belief around
whether women should be able to vote. If you say that women shouldn’t be
able to vote now, you seem completely crazy whereas 100 years ago it was
the norm.
So . . . I would like for everybody to have your feet planted on the
ground. Close your eyes. Take a couple of breaths and realize where you
are . . . [now] think about the safest place you have ever been in your
life. Think about what’s in the room. What’s the environment like? What
does it smell like in the room? For me, it’s my bedroom. I’m a Cancer, it’s
my hub. I’ve got my blues, got my painting, got my essential oils. What
is it like for you? Is there anyone in the room with you? Hold that for a
minute. Who’s in the room with you? Sit in that space. Keep your eyes
closed. [Pause]
120 Reckoning

Now, I want you to raise your hand with your eyes closed if you pictured
a police officer in the room with you. Raise your hand if you pictured a po-
lice officer in your safe space? Open your eyes and look around the room.
[Everyone looks around. No hands are raised]
So there is this misconception that we believe that police keep us safe.
One of the campaigns that we are all a part of which is called Safety Beyond
Policing is about really shifting the ways that we think about police and
the ways we think about safety in our daily lives. (Museum of the City of
New York 2017)

Kaba expands on this idea that one of abolition’s most important tasks is to
change how people think about safety. She writes,

I believe that living in the way we live makes it difficult for most people to
seriously consider the end of policing. The idea of security, the idea that
cops equal security, is difficult to dislodge. To transform this mindset,
where cops equal security, means we have to actually transform our
relationships to each other enough so that we can see that we can keep
each other safe and ourselves safe, right? Safety means something else, be-
cause you cannot have safety without strong, empathic relationships with
others. You can have security without relationships but you cannot have
safety—​actual safety—​without healthy relationships. Without getting to
really know your neighbor, figuring out when you should be intervening
when you hear and see things, feeling safe enough within your commu-
nity that you feel like, yeah my neighbor’s punching [their partner], I’m
going to knock on the door, right? I’m not going to think that that person’s
going to pull a gun on me and shoot me in the head. I don’t believe that be-
cause I know that person. I know them. I built that relationship with them
and even though they’re upset and mad I’m taking the chance of going
over there and being like you need to stop this now, what are you doing?
Part of what this necessitates is that we have to work with members of
our communities to make violence unacceptable. What my friend Andy
Smith has said is that this is a problem of political organizing and not
one of punishment. How can we organize to make interpersonal violence
unthinkable?

Kaba goes on to say, “In that way, a big part of the abolitionist project that
I’ve been involved in now for over a decade and a half at least, is unleashing
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 121

people’s imaginations while getting concrete—​so that we have to imagine

while we build, always both” (Kaba and Duda 2017).
That imagination must include repair. Patrisse Khan-​Cullors writes in
the Harvard Law Review, “Abolition calls on us not only to destabilize, de-
construct, and demolish oppressive systems, institutions, and practices,
but also to repair histories of harm across the board.” We are to do so by not
only abolishing “prisons, policing, and militarization, which are wielded in
the name of ‘public safety’ and ‘national security,’ ” but also by demanding
“reparations” and incorporating “reparative justice into our vision for society
and community building in the twenty-​first century” (Khan-​Cullors 2019
[emphasis added]).
According to an abolitionist perspective, if we repair the context of al-
ready occurring harm, most common conflicts and injuries would simply
have less occasion to arise. However, most does not mean all. Human beings
will sometimes cause harm to each other by accident or design as long as we
live in close proximity. So when harm does occur, abolitionists propose a dif-
ferent rationale and set of methodologies for dealing with its consequences.
Gilmore asks, “[W]‌hy don’t we think about why we solve problems by re-
peating the kind of behavior that brought us the problem in the first place?”
Should we, as a society “model cruelty and vengeance”? Most countries in
Europe, for example, already make very different choices about how to deal
with harm. Gilmore notes that murder is rare in Spain, but if someone is
convicted of murder they are likely to get a prison sentence of about seven
years. She said, “What this policy tells me is that where life is precious, life is
precious.” To her this means that “in Spain people have decided that life has
enough value that they are not going to behave in a punitive and violent and
life-​annihilating way toward people who hurt people.” Gilmore concluded
that “what this demonstrates is that for people trying to solve their everyday
problems, behaving in a violent and life-​annihilating way is not a solution”
(Kushner 2019). Healing justice is the overarching methodology that move-
ment participants use to think through and implement methodologies for
both preventing and addressing harm.

Healing Justice

Healing justice, then, is a collection of commitments and movement practices

promoting the health, healing, and joy of Black people, by acknowledging
122 Reckoning

the trauma that oppression and domination cause and by trying to under-
stand and address both the historical roots and proximate causes of the
structural violence that impacts Black lives. Cara Page and Kindred Southern
Healing Justice Collective cleared a path and told us that “healing justice . . .
identifies how we can holistically respond to and intervene on generational
trauma and violence, and to bring collective practices that can impact and
transform the consequences of oppression on our bodies, hearts and minds”
(Hemphill 2017). As a result, many of the organizations leading the work
in the Movement for Black Lives, such as the Black Lives Matter Global
Network Foundation and BYP100, have official positions for “healing jus-
tice” directors, coordinators, and councils who draw personnel, inspira-
tion, and knowledge from professional therapists, social workers, and other
healers such as members of the Kindred Collective, a group founded in 2007
to provide counseling to victims of Hurricane Katrina.
It should be noted that the healing justice framework is not an inven-
tion of the Movement for Black Lives. Healing justice is a term that origi-
nated in the disability justice movement that emerged in 2005, which was,
in turn, building on thinking that had come out of the fights for environ-
mental and reproductive justice that had begun in the 1980s and 1990s.6 That
these “justice” movements all emerged as offshoots and alternatives to the
mainstream “rights” movements concerned with similar causes is signifi-
cant. “Justice” movements all arise in the late twentieth century and respond
to the same deficiencies of the mainstream organizing, and with similar in-
sistence on the need to reframe the discussion and actions confronting the
problems facing movement constituencies. Justice movements want to step
out of the distributive paradigm that characterizes rights movements. They
know, from lived experience, that one can win the right to abortion or ADA-​
compliant building access without actually being able to access those rights
in any meaningful way. Altering legal and juridical frameworks can be im-
portant for people who are suffering under conditions of domination and
oppression, but the provision of rights is almost never sufficient to guarantee
the ability that those rights can be exercised, particularly by people who are

6 For example, the environmental justice movement, which started in 1982 (Skelton and Miller

2016), the reproductive justice movement, which started in1997 (Sister Song n.d.), the disability
justice movement, which started in 2005 (Wikipedia 2020; Piepzna-​Samarasinha 2019), and the
healing justice movement, which started in 2007 (Piepzna-​Samarasinha 2016). Note that the oldest
two, environmental justice and reproductive justice, are most closely tied. Loretta Ross describes the
reproductive justice framework as addressing “the ability of any woman to determine her own repro-
ductive destiny” and argues this is inextricably “linked directly to the conditions in her community—​
and these conditions are not just a matter of individual choice and access” (Ross 2007).
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 123

not already well-​connected, well-​resourced, and relatively well-​assimilated

with individuals and within institutions that already have power. So justice
movements seek to shift the focus of political fights toward issues of access
and capability and away from the distribution of rights. The disability justice
pioneer Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-​Samarasinha writes,

If a healing justice space is all or mostly white [people], it’s no different from
any “mainstream alternative” white space. Healing justice was created as
a term and a movement in part because a lot of “alternative healing” was
dominated by white middle-​to upper-​middle class people doing culturally
appropriative work with nary an analysis of race and a high fee for service.
(Piepzna-​Samarasinha 2019, 105)

She goes on to say,

If white healers slap “healing justice” on their work but are still using the
healer traditions of some folks’ cultures that aren’t their own, are primarily
working with and treating white middle-​class and upper-​class people, are
unaware or don’t recognize that healing justice was created by Black and
brown femmes, are not working with a critical stance and understanding
of how colonization, racism, and ableism are healing issues, it ain’t healing
justice. (106)

One of the differences between healing justice and other frameworks that
promote wellness is that healing justice practitioners are quick to point out
that their work is not rooted in “self-​care,” but is instead underpinned by
“collective care.” This shift in emphasis is one that is meant to highlight the
importance of interdependence, commitment, and accountability to health.
It is absolutely important that people have the material resources, time, and
space to care for themselves, but they do so as individuals in context. People
care for themselves so that they can be ready to “show up” and “hold space”
in small or large ways, when their talents, knowledge, wisdom, or action are
needed. Piepzna-​Samarasinha writes that “collective care means shifting
our organizations to be ones where people feel fine if they get sick, cry, have
needs, start late because the bus broke down, move slower, ones where there’s
food at meetings, people work from home—​and these aren’t things we apolo-
gize for. It is the way we do the work, which centers disabled-​femme-​of-​color
ways of being in the world . . . where we actually care for each other and don’t
leave each other behind” (108).
124 Reckoning

In 2017, the Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation published a

Healing Action Toolkit that spoke specifically about the ways that Healing
Justice is essential to the political work movement organizations under-
take. The statement of principles opening the manual unfolds as follows:

Black Healing and Wellness Are Essential to Our Liberation—​State vio-

lence and systems of oppression traumatize us and our communities, and
make it simultaneously impossible for us to fully heal. We have the inherent
right to access healing and be free of institutions and systems that explicitly
harm and undermine our capacity to live with our full humanity, connec-
tion and purpose.

Liberation Is in Our Practice—​Loosely defined, liberation is freedom from

limitations. Liberation is not gained by the outcomes of a singular po-
litical event or destination, its roots live deep inside us and in all of our
relationships. We know that our politic is revealed in our practice, in our
intimacy and communication with one another. Through healing, we free
ourselves from the oppression of respectability, and ground our interactions
in love and accountability.

Black Wellness Is Self-​Determination—​We recognize the sacredness, bril-

liance, and inherent worth in every Black body. Healing justice calls us to
be changed in our consciousness and transform the internalized practices
of ableism, heteropatriarchy, classism and all other forms of oppression that
place value and order on our bodies. We see Black self-​determination as
bringing our communities into our whole, varied and vibrant expressions.
(Black Lives Matter 2017)

Je Naé Taylor, a member of the BYP100 Healing and Safety Council (HSC),
explains the centrality and integration of healing justice into movement
work: “We know that healing justice work is not in addition to political orga-
nizing or direct action. All of this work—​direct action, electoral organizing—​
is healing justice work” (Taylor and Green 2018). Marshall (Kai M.) Green
expresses how the development of the Healing and Safety Council is a chal-
lenge of both imagination and implementation, explaining:

It’s a really interesting challenge because it’s basically trying to create a

world and a way of being and rules and regulations for that world—​how
 Politics of Care and the Idea of Healing Justice 125

do we want to treat each other? How do we want to feel? What do we need

to do in order to feel the way we want to feel? What space do we need to
heal? In order to create and produce this world that we want—​and like Je
Naé said this is a practice space for the world that we want so, how do we
do it in our organization? That means really figuring out, what do we do
when harm happens? Do we have a method or mode that we can imple-
ment to deal with that? How do we not fall into things like replicating [the
approach] of the State?

Taylor explains that as the HSC has developed methods of intervention,

they’ve had to be very deliberate about implementing core principles. She
explains:

We’ve had to do that through multiple entry points—​we have cheers and
chants, we have a manual, we have multiple agendas that we’ve created
as an organization and the thing is [you have a lot of diversity] you have
Black folks who don’t read English, Black folks who don’t speak English,
Black folks with disabilities—​how do I make sure the message “I love being
Black”—​how do I make sure the transformative justice message is clear? . . .
I have to think about all Black people. So, that means we are very inten-
tional about creating as many platforms and forums to get our message out
there and we don’t limit ourselves to one form of organizing—​to do that
would be to fail Black people. (Taylor and Green 2018)

Conclusion

Herein I have argued that care, in the Movement for Black Lives, constitutes
the backbone of the political philosophy of radical Black feminist pragma-
tism while at the same time serving as a politics—​that is, a way of orienting
and organizing governance. The politics of care is a radical departure from
enlightenment theories of politics for several reasons.
First, the politics of care begins with the concrete and particular and builds
to the abstract and general, identifying philosophical and political problems
from the evidence of the lived experience of the marginalized in a given so-
ciety. This inductive approach puts the question of what people’s lives are
actually like at the center of conceptualizing and solving political problems.
This fundamental orientation means that the politics of care does not begin
126 Reckoning

in either philosophical or juridical questions of right, but instead starts with

the question, Are the most marginalized able to live and thrive, and if not,
why not? How can we build a politics in which such thriving is possible?
Second, the politics of care suggests a different theory of relation than
exists in the dominant modern theories of politics on both the left and right,
moving away from analyses that turn on the fairness of distribution and the
existence and adequacy of rights, and instead embraces the point of view
that because people matter, they are entitled to care, and, as such, care must
be the main subject of governance. Furthermore, the understanding of care
that operates in this political philosophy is not paternalistic. It is instead
grounded in the notion that people understand what they need in order to
develop and fulfill their capacities and are perfectly capable of coming up
with solutions to the political problems that inhibit the flourishing of their
lives given the proper access to necessary resources.
Third, the resources critical to human life are considered to include mate-
rial things necessary for physical sustenance, like adequate income, housing,
food, and education, but also to exceed these material items and include psy-
chological health and well-​being. This notion of well-​being incorporates the
wisdom of healing justice, a theory of wellness that contends that oppres-
sion causes trauma, which requires both individual and community atten-
tion in order to be addressed, and further that a part of the treatment for
these oppression-​induced traumas must be the dismantling of the structural
conditions that have allowed harms to accrue, compound, and proliferate
across populations.
The political project of breaking down harmful systems and institutions
and rebuilding healthier ones requires an orientation toward justice that
centers the prevention of harm and an emphasis on repair when a person
or group experiences harm. This emphasis on repair requires techniques of
redress that focus on the restoration of relationships rather than on punish-
ment. Such emphases make abolition a necessary aspect of the politics of care.
In sum, the politics of care offers a unique way to engage in politics because
it begins in a different place than either liberalism or socialism—​though it
may borrow aspects of either—​and understands the purpose of politics to be
creating the conditions under which everyone, starting with those who have
been marginalized and subject to oppression and its accompanying traumas,
can have access to the care that they require to develop their capacities, secure
their well-​being, build communities, and determine the course of their lives.
 4
The Art of Organizing

The mandate for Black people in this time!

Is to avenge the suffering of our ancestors!
To earn the respect of future generations!
And be willing to be transformed in the service of the work!
—​Mary Hooks, Southerners on New Ground (SONG)

Radical Black feminist pragmatism and its key tenet, the politics of care, are
illuminatingly expressed in the Movement for Black Lives’ approach to orga-
nizing and organization-​building. As discussed in the foregoing chapters,
radical Black feminist pragmatism (RBFP) is fundamentally anchored by
the notion that democratic politics has been diminished by the dominant
emphasis on rights, procedure, and participation to the exclusion of con-
siderations of capacity, political understanding, pragmatic imagination,
and political change. Organizing is the political activity that brings these
less-​studied and less-​discussed political activities into focus. In this way, the
Movement for Black Lives (M4BL) takes up the concern most closely articu-
lated in philosophical pragmatism that “the conscious adjustment of the new
to the old is imagination” (Dewey [1934] 2005, 283), and that this kind of im-
agination is critical to political organizing. This point is critical because there
can be no practicable solutions to pressing and long-​vexing structural and
political problems without pragmatic, socially intelligent imagination and
the action that it can galvanize.
Political organizing, which is what leaders in social movements do, funds
the capacity for political actors to recognize themselves as political subjects
capable of acting, in the Arendtian sense; that is, by creating something un-
expected and new (Arendt [1958] 1998). In other words, organizing is not
primarily about assembling a mass of people for a political cause (mobiliza-
tion), nor “turning up” in defiance of authorities though protest (activism).
Instead, organizing is fundamentally the process that allows people to be
128 Reckoning

“transformed in the service of the work” as Mary Hooks (2016), a lead or-
ganizer in Southerners on New Ground, puts it. I argue that Hooks’s refrain
gives us a framework to understand the understudied yet unique and polit-
ically powerful phenomenon that is political organizing—​an activity that is
distinct from either mobilization or activism in that its result is not to do a
thing but to become the kind of person who does what is to be done. In this way,
organizing is of critical import to democracy itself, because it is a process
through which people learn what membership in a democratic polity must
entail and reminds them that they have both power and responsibility in the
undertaking that is self-​governance.
The following proceeds in two main parts. The first contains a theory of
political organizing that makes clear how it is distinct from activism and
mobilization. In it, I discuss the American traditions of organizing, then
describe how radical Black feminist pragmatism incorporates and exceeds
these traditions, and finally explain why organizing is a crucial aspect of
democratic change, as such, particularly if we understand the nature and
process of democratic change through John Dewey’s pragmatist lens. The
second part focuses on the organizational structure of the Movement for
Black Lives. In it, I detail the movement’s organizational structure, organ-
izational culture, and the interorganizational environment present in the
movement.

Part 1: A Theory of Political Organizing

Political organizing is a process of meeting, engagement, education, and

preparation for collective action that people undertake in the service of some
public end. There are two main intellectual traditions of political organizing
in America: the community-​based organization (CBO) model first articu-
lated by legendary Chicago organizer Saul Alinsky—​a tradition carried on
today in CBOs like the Industrial Areas Foundation—​and the Folk School
model developed by Myles Horton and his collaborators at the Highlander
Folk School (now Highlander Research and Education Center), most notably
Black organizer Septima Clarke, who served as both the school’s education
director and a leader in the NAACP and the Southern Christian Leadership
Conference (SCLC). Out of these traditions, the Movement for Black Lives
has crafted its own unique approach, steeped in radical Black feminist prag-
matism, recently codified by Charlene Carruthers, the former director of
 The Art of Organizing 129

Black Youth Project 100 (BYP100), in her book Unapologetic: A Black, Queer,
and Feminist Mandate for Radical Movements.
It is important to clarify what organizing is by being clear about what it is
not. Organizing is distinct from both activism and mobilization. Activism
is chiefly characterized by the activity of protest; it need not include the
analysis of power, cultivation of leadership, or plans for further future ac-
tion. Mobilization, on the other hand, is the assembly of people who already
have the requisite understanding and skill for the completion of a public
task. People are mobilized when they have previous education, experience,
or training for the task at hand. One mobilizes soldiers to be deployed or
registered voters to show up at the polls. Political mobilization has often
been explored as though it is synonymous with organizing (Rosenstone and
Hansen 1993; Green and Schwam-​Baird 2016), but individuals who have
not been either socialized (in early life) or organized into politics cannot be
mobilized; they must first undergo a process of engagement and education
that shifts their understanding of a public problem or cause and their ability
to effect it.
Regardless of the tradition they come out of, organizers prepare people
to relate, understand, and act. Therefore, the first activity of organizing
is to develop “interpersonal and sound relationships” that can serve as
the basis for social engagement, political education, and collective action
(Carruthers 2018, 91). The way those relationships are constructed will
vary, but most organizers agree that there can be no engagement, edu-
cation, and activation of people toward public action without finding
ways to relate under reciprocal conditions of trust and support. The kinds
of relationships that organizers aim to establish resemble the political
friendship Aristotle detailed in the Politics, which consists of goodwill an-
imated and directed by common purpose. In addition to cultivating polit-
ical friendship, organizers seek to develop into leaders some of the people
they meet and establish political friendship with. Leaders are organizers
who are responsible for helping to bring more people into the particular
understanding of the world and events subscribed to by the organization
and/​or movement. They are also tasked with action, with initiating new
relationships of political friendship, gathering resources, and executing
public plans. Charlene Carruthers indicates that one of the key respon-
sibilities of leaders is to tell “complete stories” that help people hold the
contradictions of our histories together “in order to make more informed
and strategic decisions as a movement” (Carruthers 2018, 45). Michael
130 Reckoning

Gecan, a noted organizer in the CBO school, describes leaders as people

who are able to use “a combination of power, pressure, and patience to
create the conditions that make it possible” to take action (Gecan 2004,
15). These activities of cultivating broad understanding and planning and
executing public actions are key tasks of leadership in the context of polit-
ical friendship.
The question remains: What does it mean to take action, to act and act
effectively? Organizers take a broadly Arendtian view of action. That is to
say that action, for an organizer, is not just the activity of protest, but is also
the process by which those who are in a relation of political friendship work
together to make claims, develop their means, and secure their ends. For
Arendt, activity is judged to be action when “it disclose[s]‌the identity of
the agent, affirm[s] the reality of the world, and actualize[s] our capacity
for freedom” (d’Entreves 2019). The action we take shows who we are,
what we understand, and what we are willing to do, to author (imagine),
to change, in order to bring those things into alignment in the world we
share. We exhibit our capacity for freedom not by making choices between
given alternatives, nor merely through the exercise of our will, but instead
by utilizing our natal ability to begin. Arendt writes, “[I]t is in the nature of
beginning that something new is started which cannot be expected from
whatever may have happened before. This character of startling unexpect-
edness is inherent in all beginnings. . . . The fact that man is capable of action
means that the unexpected can be expected from him, that he is able to per-
form what is infinitely improbable” (Arendt [1958] 1998, 171). Action, then,
is what Lorella Praelli, president of Community Change Action, calls “the
art of the possible.” She explains:

I came into this work because I was undocumented and I was afraid and
I was ashamed and I lived with a tremendous amount of fear. And be-
fore I understood that there was a policy fight that needed to be had and
needed to be won, I needed to go through my own liberation and my
own transformation. And that’s why policy alone is not possible, that’s
why policy fights alone are not enough because doing the movement
building, the deep organizing work on the ground, and having that be felt
in D.C. and driving and shaping our national politics is [about] what re-
ally moves someone from a state of hopelessness into a state of hope and
power and fearlessness and possibility. And so, I believe that organizing is
the art of the possible. (Praelli 2019)
 The Art of Organizing 131

When one says organizing is the art of the possible, it means that it is the
method by which people relate action (new and unexpected) and conse-
quence (outcome). This is not a plainly causal relationship but is instead a
pragmatically imaginative one. What becomes possible when I see myself
differently, when I hear my name differently, when I cannot be hailed in the
old way? What becomes possible when I see the context of my community
differently, when I see my fellows differently, when I perceive the world dif-
ferently? What is possible is certainly constrained by material and structural
realities, but possibilities are only foreclosed by our inability to perceive how
to get from here to there. This perception is not only about apprehending,
but also about acting (and acting in concert) to create the conditions that
will allow new possibilities. Organizing is meant to induce an experience of
the kind of socially intelligent “reconstruction” of the self in the world that
can make possible today things that were not possible yesterday and that can
push the horizon of political possibilities farther than we are accustomed to
perceiving.
It is important to note that while all organizers do the work of cultivating
political friendship with and between people as well as developing and pre-
paring leaders (who are members of the communities effected by some
common problem) to act, and most organizers agree that building power is at
the center of their work, the notions of what counts as right relationships of
political friendship, power building, and action can and do differ.

The CBO Style and the Folk School Way

Those who organize in the Alinsky tradition exhibit a hyper-​localism and

an allergy to ideology that is quite distinctive. In this tradition, relationships
conducive to organizing are “public relationships”; power-​building is pur-
posely devoid of historiography, ideology, or expansive vision; and action is
strictly about demanding concrete results from decision-​makers who can
deliver them. Public relationships are those that are genuine and interper-
sonal, but are aimed at orienting people to “to step out, not to be consumers
or props or spectators but to be players in the unfolding drama of public
life” (Gecan 2004, 22). For Gecan, the organizer’s main tool is meeting (not
meetings, he’s careful to note). Organizers “take the time to meet one to one
with others, to hear their interests and dreams and fears, to understand why
people do what they do or don’t do what they don’t do” (21).
132 Reckoning

This approach to organizing is widespread and practiced by CBOs all

over the country, constituting a wide field of civic and political activism.
However, the organizations that make up this sector are often invisible
to the general public (Swarts 2008). This inconspicuousness is not acci-
dental: CBOs often remain locally focused with decentralized decision-​
making apparatuses on purpose. Even long-​established CBOs with dozens
of small affiliates in cities and towns all over America, many with impressive
accomplishments under their belts, such as Gecan’s own Industrial Areas
Foundation, PICO National Network, and Gamaliel Foundation, do not
publicize themselves and have no agendas outside their local communi-
ties. Those who organize in this tradition believe that political organizing
must be unrelentingly local in its focus in order to be effective: addressing
practical local problems rather than larger structural issues and “building
power” block by block (Alinsky [1971] 1989).
Along with this localism, Alinsky promulgated a deep suspicion of the
usefulness of ideology to achieve concrete objectives, refusing to define his
goals in abstract, normative terms. This aversion to ideology as a basis for
organizing often translates, in Alinsky-​inspired groups, to an organizational
culture characterized by distaste for the abstract notion of social move-
ment and the expressive protest tactics that sometimes accompany them.
Michael Gecan vividly illustrates what he takes to be the pitfalls of expressive
demonstrations by describing an anti-​globalization protest he witnessed in
2001 this way:

Five people stood at the corner of Broadway and Rector Street. Two had
splashed black paint on their clothing and smeared black paint on their
faces. They writhed on the sidewalk while a graying demonstrator pounded
a drum and a young woman harangued the passing crowd. Twenty-​five
cops eyed the scene, casually leaning against the building and stairs, their
nightsticks in their belts, their riot helmets perched on their nightsticks. . . .
[W]‌ hat was their cause? The demonstrators held a hastily painted
sign: “Save the U’Wa Tribe. . . .” There was a reference to Fidelity Capital.
The woman with the megaphone couldn’t be easily understood. . . . For all
their choreographed movement, the demonstrators seemed remarkably
static. Still life: Activists on a Manhattan Street. . . . What crystalized for me
that day in Manhattan was this: what I was observing was not an action at
all, but a reenactment. (Gecan 2004, 50–​51).
 The Art of Organizing 133

Gecan thinks activists are ridiculous—​that they are mere “high minded”
critics with “rational analysis, supporting data, and six enlightened
recommendations” who refuse to really “enter the arena” and “be held ac-
countable, not just hold others accountable” (9). Activists, for Gecan, don’t
build power or take action, they “reenact” protest to feel morally virtuous,
not with the intention of “acting effectively,” which must involve getting a
reaction or response from decision-​makers authorized to deliver what organ-
ized people demand. In an Arendtian vein, in order to count as action, the
activity has to produce or provoke something new. Action must declare the
identity of the organized group in such a way that they cannot be ignored
because they are bringing the reality of the world into focus and underlining
their human capacity for performing and producing the unexpected and “in-
finitely improbable” (Arendt [1958] 1998, 178). Or, in Dewey’s terms, action
is different than re-​enactment because it is something that people experience
in that it involves a reconstruction of the perceived relationship between
thought/​speech/​action and consequence, rather than something people can
recognize as fitting a category they already understand and can compartmen-
talize and ignore. Re-​enactments don’t make observers think, because they
feel they’ve seen it before and already have a heuristic that allows them to
set it aside. “To have an experience,” on the other hand, “[t]‌he action and its
consequence must be joined in perception. This relationship is what gives
meaning” (Dewey [1934] 2005, 46).
Gecan, unlike Dewey, is not convinced of the significance of meaning, but
values action because it has the potential to build power by inducing the re-
spect required for reciprocity. Outside these conditions, “[t]‌hey don’t even
see you. They never learn your name. . . . there’s not even a ‘you’ to respond
to. . . . Without power, you can only be a supplicant, a serf, a victim, or a
wishful thinker who soon begins to whine.” He goes on to say, “Power in the
new millennium is the same as power when Thucydides was writing about
the Melians and the Athenians. It is still the ability to act. And it still comes in
two basic forms—​organized people and organized money” (Gecan 2004, 36).
The Alinsky school views ideology as suspicious in the same way it
disdains activism. According to this thinking, ideology does not engage “the
world as it is,” but instead gets unproductively hung up on what ought to be.
Gecan writes, “[Y]‌ou can’t get near what should be, not even close, unless
you build and use power, unless you manipulate that power so that you can
slog through the mud of the world as it is, unless you’re willing to push and
134 Reckoning

tug the teachers and mayors and pols and cops and yourself and your own
institutions in the direction of what ought to be” (Gecan 2004, 36). He adds,
“It’s not a question of right or wrong. It’s a question of what is, what reality is,
and what happens to you when you meet this reality. . . . You’re going to have
to have enough organized people and enough organized money, enough dis-
cipline and enough luck, to make it happen. That’s the way it works in the
world as it is” (36, 37).
Gecan and others who organize in the CBO tradition can afford this dis-
tance from ideology partly because of the scale at which they are committed
to engaging: discrete, local, practical. Employing transcendent principles,
imagination, and vision are not important because it is assumed that ordi-
nary people’s “real interests” are commonsensical and their goals are mod-
erate. What organized power is for, in this view, is to signal “dissatisfaction
with the way the two other major sectors in society—​the private and public—​
are handling certain matters. And . . . present an implicit challenge: you are
ready and willing to show other sectors how to tackle those matters more
effectively” (Gecan 2004, 8). To that end, organizers are to use their skill sets
to “create the conditions that make it possible for people to move from the
margins into the social and economic mainstream” (15). This kind of orga-
nizing utilizes no particular political philosophy, discounts vision, and does
not hold imagination in very high esteem.
Myles Horton, a contemporary and friend of Saul Alinsky, saw this ap-
proach as short-​sighted. Horton scholar Mie Inouye writes,

Horton thought that movements thrived when they were directed to-
ward ends that transcended concrete objectives and could never be fully
achieved. Setting an impossibly ambitious goal enabled participants to
transform beyond what they could currently imagine. This was one key
difference between Horton and his friend Saul Alinsky, who thought that
participants in social movements were motivated by the experience of
attaining concrete goals. Horton argued that it was dangerous to motivate
people with the prospect of winning because this allowed narrow self-​
interest to creep in and take the movement in undemocratic directions.
He thought this tendency accounted for the fate of Alinsky’s Back of the
Yards community organization, which began discriminating against black
residents after Alinsky left Chicago. By contrast, if people were motivated
by unreachable goals, like democracy and brotherhood, they would be-
come committed to the unending work of transforming themselves, which
 The Art of Organizing 135

would guide them away from narrow self-​interest and toward increasingly
inclusive social ends. (Inouye 2019, 19)

So Horton’s organization, the Highlander Folk School, took a different

tack than Alinsky. He believed society had to be transformed economically
(abolish capitalism), politically (decentralize participatory government),
and socially (forge a culture of brotherhood/​solidarity), but that this could
only be done “if those who were most oppressed by existing institutions
sought to transform them” (Inouye 2019, 12). They would only do so if they
received a kind of education that could make them less dependent on es-
tablished authorities and more confident that their own experiences could
generate knowledge worth acting upon. Horton had a specific conception of
what characterizes experience as a source of knowledge that was influenced
by John Dewey. Horton knew Dewey only slightly but was deeply familiar
with his scholarship, and the two men admired each other’s work.1 So it
stands to reason that Horton developed his notion of liberatory education
taking into account Dewey’s idea of growth through experience (Dewey
[1934] 2005). Dewey defines experience as the meaning people make from
their active encounters with the world. Experience that leads to growth must,
in Dewey’s estimation, involve “an element of undergoing, of suffering in its
large sense . . . otherwise, there would be no taking in of what preceded. For
‘taking in’ in any vital experience is something more than placing something
at the top of consciousness over what was previously known. It involves re-
construction which may be painful.” He goes on to distinguish experience
from what he calls “recognition,” which is a more frequent process in which
we “fall back, as upon a stereotype, upon some previously formed scheme”
(54). Experiences that lead to liberatory learning involve the active recon-
ciliation between what one thought they knew and what they have newly
discovered through an encounter with the world. This process is essential
for liberation for two reasons. First, and most obviously, it allows people
to learn new things, but second, and more importantly, this kind of expe-
rience teaches people how to become intelligent. Intelligence is the factor
that allows people to vary their actions in response to new situations and
requirements or past experience. The kind of education that encourages in-
telligence helps people learn how to navigate the tensions between what they

1 This is evidenced by their correspondence in the 1930s. Mie Inouye unearthed a letter dated

September 27, 1933, in which Dewey refers to the Highlander Folk School as “one of the most hopeful
social-​education programs I know of ” (quoted in Inouye 2019).
136 Reckoning

thought they knew, what they have undergone in order to learn, and how
they should act given new knowledge or circumstances. The role of teachers
in this tradition is not that of an expert but instead that of chaperone. They
are to hold the space, ask questions, and affirm the participants/​students’ ex-
periential expertise.
With the background understanding informed by Dewey, Horton came to
believe that showing people how to engage in this kind of liberatory learning
was the best way to help them regard themselves as efficacious political ac-
tors, and that such education would help people learn to be self-​governing
in the way that democracy requires. It is in this way that education is
transformative—​not in the sense of a single metamorphosis from passive in-
dividual into democratic citizen, but in the sense of an inculcation into an ac-
tive way of being in the world that opens and attunes people to how knowledge
should be derived from experience. This provides them with a continual
source of education that they can draw from to analyze their circumstances,
solve problems, and invent solutions as needed.
Having experienced what Horton called “yeasty education” (Inouye 2019,
14), people would also be able to share their way of learning and experiencing
with others, seeding a dynamic capacity to learn from experience and act
on that knowledge rather than encouraging them to rely on a set of edicts
derived from doctrine. This kind of education became the basis of the Folk
School way of organizing. Its aim was to empower people to trust their own
experience-​based learning as the basis for action that could address the needs
and affect the conditions that impacted their lives.

Organizing in the Tradition of Radical Black Feminism

Organizing in the Movement for Black Lives shares more with the Folk
School way than the CBO style, but traces of both traditions can be found in
the contemporary movement. This is in no small part because Highlander
still exists as an active education center that trains organizers across sev-
eral different movements, including the Movement for Black Lives, to en-
gage people in liberatory education. This infusion of ideas is evident in the
thinking of members of M4BL. For example, Charlene Carruthers writes that
“being in movement work taught me how to take information, put it into
context, and produce my own knowledge to understand current conditions
and to create a vision for the future.” She goes on to say, “[O]‌ur movement
 The Art of Organizing 137

taught me the value of study, rigorous thinking, and discipline to take ac-
tion. . . . My journey has been mentally, physically, emotionally, and spirit-
ually challenging,” and “[m]y beliefs today have evolved because I made a
conscious choice, often as the result of direct agitation, to see through dif-
ferent lenses,” a process that “continues today” (Carruthers 2018, 8, 11).
Nevertheless, M4BL infuses the values of radical Black feminist pragmatism
into the twenty-​first-​century approach it has developed. The key elements of
RBFP that give organizing in the movement a distinct flavor are the centrality
of imagination and the necessity of proceeding according to a politics of care.
Liberatory projects require both concrete campaigns to win better
conditions in the world as it is and the employment of pragmatic imag-
ination, which is the ambition and vision to “dream a world,” as Langston
Hughes put it, in which the most marginalized can live and thrive. Pragmatic
imagination is imagination toward action: it is the activity of imagining what
a world that ensures the safety and supports the flourishing of those who
have been systematically oppressed would look like, and imagining the pos-
sible practical pathways from the world as it is to the just world that is imag-
ined. The sharing of this imagination and the possible pathways to make it
manifest is what constitutes vision. Carruthers writes that “[i]‌t is within the
spaces of imagination, the dream spaces, that liberatory practices are born
and grow, leading to the space to act and to transform” (Carruthers 2018,
25). Organizing toward liberation is necessarily an imaginative process that
is shared with the goal of inducing a collective commitment to a common
vision. The place of imagination in organizing in the movement tradition
should not be understated; this is because both those who are doing the orga-
nizing and those being organized are understood to be systematically margin-
alized by white supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism, not merely improperly
left out of the procedures and privileges guaranteed to those who are cen-
tered as proper rights-​bearers. This is because marginalization is understood
to be purposeful, not accidental, with the many marked by non-​normative
race, gender, class, and/​or sexuality made to bear the cost of relative pros-
perity for the few white, cis male, upper-​class individuals who are uncondi-
tionally regarded as unmarked universal humans. Under such conditions, it
is necessary but insufficient to target discrete policies and practices. Instead,
what is required is the rethinking of how we ought to understand ourselves
in the world and, correspondingly, how we ought to remake the world for the
selves that we are not yet. For Carruthers, “the Black imagination lives . . . in
our ability to create alternatives,” and “those organizing political education
138 Reckoning

programs [need to] reimagine what is essential and foundational” because to

do otherwise would be to “stop believing in a world where we live with dig-
nity” and instead content ourselves with the lethally damaging notion that
“the social order will not change” and “it is okay to just keep holding on to the
bottom rung” (Carruthers 2018, 39, 51, and 38).
Therefore, in the Black feminist tradition, pragmatic imagination and the
vision(s) it gives rise to are critical to the practices of meeting, sharing stories,
mutual education, and ongoing agitation that constitute the activity of orga-
nizing. It is important here to distinguish vision from ideology. Ideology is
a system of ideas and ideals that make up a coherent whole that constitutes
a canonical set of beliefs that is resistant to change. Movement organizers
avoid indoctrinating people into any one particular ideology, just as those
in the Alinksy tradition do, but for different reasons. Gecan and those in the
CBO tradition believe ideology is inauthentic and that the things ordinary
people want to fight for are material and will always be self-​evident.
M4BL organizers, on the other hand, know that the value of the lives of
Black people are not self-​evident or universally legible in the hegemonic
culture of anti-​Blackness that has characterized modernity. It is not even
always legible to Black people themselves, hence the deep culture of move-
ment promoting unapologetic (rather than “respectable”) Blackness. Rather,
organizers in the movement and in the tradition of Black feminism have a
philosophy that is both radical and pragmatic; that is, a way of thinking to-
gether that is based on the principles of care and questioning, but that also
assumes that the understanding, ideas, and goals of those participating will
and should change over time.
Building relationships in the M4BL tradition of organizing includes the
cultivation of public relationships but is also characterized by what I have
discussed in this book as a politics of care. Let us briefly review the character-
istics of the politics of care as they relate to organizing. First, those practicing
a politics of care commit to centering the most marginalized. A common re-
frain in the movement is that those who are closest to pain should be closest
to power. That means that the people that are most impacted by deprivation
due to their position at the intersection of multiple social and economic
hierarchies that ignore, discipline, criminalize, discriminate against, dom-
inate, and/​or oppress them ought also to be the people whose diagnoses,
critiques, and imagined solutions should be given priority. Second, the pol-
itics of care is based upon an understanding that our selves are always situ-
ated, which means that to account for one’s self is also to account for one’s
 The Art of Organizing 139

social condition, location, and connectedness. Structural conditions and in-

terpersonal interdependence are thus taken as always relevant to problems
and their solutions. Further, the ways those facts influence our experience of
the world and our motivation and ability to organize and become mobilized
are considered indispensable information for the political project. Third,
the politics of care acknowledges that oppression is not only unjust, it is also
traumatizing. So attention to healing—​personal and collective—​is a requi-
site for effective political organizing. This view is often referred to as “healing
justice.” Healing justice is an acknowledgement that oppression causes harm
that is more than distributional, instrumental, or infrastructural. Instead,
healing justice acknowledges that “our movements must invest time and
money” in identifying how “we can holistically respond to and intervene in
generational trauma and violence, and . . . bring collective practices that can
impact and transform the consequences of oppression on our bodies, hearts,
and minds” (Carruthers 2018, 75). A fourth characteristic of the politics of
care is a conception of justice that is reparative and restorative rather than
punitive or carceral. Fifth, and finally, this politics is characterized by a com-
mitment to the defense of joy as a personal and collective necessity as well as
a political resource.
The formation of interpersonal relationships under the rubric of a poli-
tics of care takes place in a register that is explicitly both emotional and po-
litical. Deborah Gould has referred to this kind of relationship-​building as
“emotion work,” which comprises the practices of “authorization” and “in-
citement” that create the “emotional habitus” of a movement (Gould 2012,
109). Gould explains that, “in a world where impersonal, abstract forces”
of oppression “shape daily lives and can generate sentiments of being out of
control, of inefficacy, of helplessness and hopelessness, social movements are
often a space that engenders rich and textured counterfeelings” (210). One
of the ways that organizers do this is by telling stories. Carruthers writes that
“the crux of grassroots organizing” is sharing stories about our “challenge,
choice, and outcome,” because “our stories are the mediums for us to un-
derstand ourselves and understand other people” (Carruthers 2018, 94).
Organizing is “rooted in relationships between individuals working toward
the same goal, often with various tactics” (89).
The work of organizing is political, but it should also be noted that
organizers can work within any domain—​ cultural spaces, issue-​ based
campaigns, civic clubs, etc.—​and they can also work from left or right.
Indeed, “some people organize to restrict access to human dignity for others”;
140 Reckoning

however, organizers in M4BL explicitly work to “dismantle systems of op-

pression and replace them with systems designed to allow collective dignity
and power” (Carruthers 2018, 89). This focus on systems is important be-
cause it marks an important divergence from the CBO model of hyper-​local
focus on discrete and concrete problems that can be addressed by individual
decision-​makers. For the movement, the goal of organizing is liberation, not
just building power. Carruthers writes that there is a “distinction between
freedom and liberation” because individual freedom does not necessarily
correspond to “collective access to our full humanity” (25). Further, liber-
ation is an ongoing project and cannot be fully secured by the granting of
rights or winning a particular policy fight. Liberation is, therefore, “a per-
petual project of creating and maintaining right relationships between
people and the land we inhabit. And our articulation of how we get there—​
how we liberate ourselves—​matters” (102).
In sum, bringing people together to act is not merely a matter of con-
vincing them that their interests are in accord. Interests are a matter of per-
spective. One of the major downfalls of the political Left has been the belief
that material interests are somehow self-​evident. This is empirically not the
case. Not only do people interpret material reality differently, especially when
causes are complex, but people also use motivated reasoning and prioritize
decision-​rules differently based on how they are used to making sense of the
world (Jones 1994; Taber and Lodge 2006; Nyhan and Reifler 2010; Jones and
Baumgartner 2005). In addition, the current political economy has caused
the pace of life to be increasingly incompatible with civic pursuits, and the
expectation that everyone should be working or available to work at all times
leaves precious little time for civic engagement (Temin 2018). As a result,
acting together is something that often goes not only undone, but unthought.
That is why organizers insist on the importance of meeting people where
they are. This is the only way to build relationships and develop the capacity
to act. The capacity to act involves several things: basic knowledge, ability to
analyze, confidence in assessment, and assurance in the group authorization
to act. The process of cultivating these capacities is what Charlene Carruthers
means when she insists that organizers must be in the business of developing
leaders. I argue that developing this capacity for public political leadership is
not only a matter of giving people the right information, but is also and more
fundamentally about socializing people into a new kind of subjectivity—​one
in which they think of themselves as efficacious political actors who are both
capable of acting and responsible to act in concert for political change. That
 The Art of Organizing 141

is, organizers are not only charged with convincing people to act, in the vein
of those who mobilize, but are also charged with the incredible task of con-
vincing people to become the kinds of subjects who think to act politically and,
further, think to act together in solidarity.
The question is, how do organizers accomplish such lofty goals? The answer
is complicated. Organizers’ chief function is to prepare: to prepare people to
relate, and especially to relate across difference; to prepare people to develop
and trust in their own power analysis; to prepare people to imagine, plan, and
execute collective actions that will have political impact. All these activities
of preparation require a variety of distinct aptitudes and skills. These skill
sets are not static but adaptive, because the organizer must “meet the people
where they are.” That is, prefab scripts and predetermined goals will only get
the organizer so far, because their true goal should be to develop a relation-
ship with those being organized—​such that they learn through listening and
providing guidance that is responsive to the concerns expressed, while at the
same time adding the value of experience, further analysis, challenge, and
expertise. Put differently, the organizer cannot fathom at the outset what will
be required to organize people as they enter a particular setting, even when
they are native to that setting. Therefore, organizing requires a talent for deep
listening, patience, flexibility, toughness, persistence, and finesse. Done well,
it is an art.

Organizing 101: Sound Relationships, Structural Analysis,

Building Power, Public Action

The first activity of organizing is to seek “interpersonal and sound

relationships” with both other organizers and those being organized
(Carruthers 2018, 91). The way those relationships are constructed will vary
based on the group, but most organizers agree that there can be no engage-
ment, education, and activation of people toward public action without
finding ways to relate under reciprocal conditions of trust and support.
Organizers most effectively build relationships through one-​ on-​one
meetings—​the essential building block of developing civic relationships that
can become politically potent. During one-​on-​one meetings, organizers aim
to make initial connections by learning what the participants care about. The
professional organizer is trained to ask questions and listen in an attempt
to understand the interests, values, and motivation of their conversation
142 Reckoning

partner. These one-​on-​ones are not task-​based—​they are not about con-
vincing people to join an organization or advocate for a cause—​but rather are
meant to probe what folks’ public interests and troubles are, and to share the
story, motivations, and values of the organizer.
Paraphrasing Aristotle, Michael Gecan calls these kinds of relationships
“public friendship.” Friendship of this sort is not based on interpersonal in-
timacy, but is instead a relationship of utility, based on mutual respect and
recognition, good faith interactions, and the implicit intention to come
to concordant understanding so that the friends can act together or for
one another as circumstances require. Those who are not formally trained
organizers may establish these kinds of relationships as a part of their normal
disposition and mode of interaction with people. These sorts of people are
what organizers call “organic leaders,” and they are invaluable for the strength
and scale of organizing activity and the actions that may result. Indeed, the
cultivation of leaders is central to organizing.
Leaders are key people in the population being organized who are able
to take responsibility for helping to bring more people into the particular
understanding of the world and events that are subscribed to by the orga-
nization and/​or movement. They are also tasked with action; that is, with
initiating new relationships of political friendship, gathering resources, and
executing public plans.
Michael Gecan describes leaders as people who are able to use “a combi-
nation of power, pressure, and patience to create the conditions that make
it possible” to take action (Gecan 2004, 15). It is part of the organizer’s job
to identify and cultivate such leaders, because they exponentially increase
the depth, scope, and scale of the relationships that can be built in the com-
munity, group, or organization that will attempt collective action. The vet-
eran union organizer and sociologist Jane McAlevey (2016, 39) underscores
this point, arguing that the quality and capacity of leaders in the organized
group is the decisive factor in whether the organized will be able to win,
not the magnitude of material resources available to the group. This is be-
cause leaders give the group the deepest access to what the social movements
scholar Doug McAdam calls “indigenous resources,” the interpersonal and
institutional connections, interest, physical space to meet, and time for cu-
rious and considered conversation. McAlevey points out that “systematically
structuring their many strong connections—​family, religious groups, sports
teams, [social] clubs . . . into their campaigns” is the best method for ordinary
people to challenge the powerful (McAlevey 2016, 29). It is through these
 The Art of Organizing 143

multilayered connections that people develop a sense of solidarity, which is

simply the political friendship of an avowed group committed to struggling
together for a collective good or common cause.
Although political friendships are not private, interpersonal affairs, they
are (and must be for their utility) emotional. The formation of political
friendships takes place in a register that explicitly refuses the dichotomy be-
tween cognition and emotion. Instead, there is acknowledgement of the fact
that our understanding of the world and our judgments about our place, pur-
pose, and possibility are the result of the interaction between emotional and
analytic information.
Developing relationships of political friendship is not only an end in itself
but is also the basis for the activities of preparation that the organizer seeks to
undertake; namely, cultivating the capacity for power analysis and “building
power.” As Charlene Carruthers notes, “not everybody comes into the orga-
nization . . . [a]‌radical and revolutionary. Through engaging in the work that
we do people become more politicized and they get clearer reads on the sit-
uation at hand and the role that we have in transforming it” (Carruthers and
Denvir 2017). That is, people develop an analysis of the conditions that led to
the grievances that they have come to recognize as attributable.
However, this is a complicated process because structural oppression does
not have easy, linear causal stories with clear individual masterminds. The
villains that M4BL is confronting are police who murder and prosecutors who
turn a blind eye, yes, but these villains cannot be eradicated without taking
on the hegemonic logics of white supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism as
it exists today. This is because the perpetrators of these wrongs are not the
originators of the practices that lead to and reproduce oppression (Armacost
2020). Devising ways to combat an opponent that cannot be vanquished by
removing a single player or institution from public life requires a theory of
power rooted in an understanding of the concept of structural relation.
A structural relation is the connection between the individual and all
those elements in society—​including other individuals, institutions, law,
social norms, and cultural practices—​that provide the context for the ar-
rangement of the individual’s life in ways that are both independent of and
affected by the individual’s actions (Woodly 2015b). Power analysis, then, is
the ability to perceive and understand structural relations in general, and to
develop a theory (or set of theories) about the way the group being organ-
ized is related and separated—​to each other and to the rest of the world—​by
those relations.
144 Reckoning

In order to develop these analyses, participants study together. One of

the things that is underappreciated about organizing in social movements is
that it creates spaces of constant study. “Political education” is not a stand-​in
for ideological indoctrination or public relations. Political education in the
organizing traditions arising from the civil rights movement is very literal: it
means to research, to read (alone and together), to hold seminars and reading
groups where ideas are discussed and debated. Movement organizing is an
intellectual endeavor. In my interviews with M4BL participants, they would
often cite works they had read and speakers they had seen or conversed with
who had expanded and illuminated their thinking. Mary Hooks recounts,

I grew up under the impact of the war on drugs—​we didn’t know that lan-
guage, but grew up under that, saw what was happening. And I always grew
up thinking it was our fault—​that we did something wrong. Like, why is my
mama running down the street in her addiction like this? So anyway, . . . all
of these different watershed moments happened. One of them happened to
me during college. Elaine Brown came to speak at my school. She was the
first woman to head up the Black Panther Party. . . . She came to speak in
fucking Kenosha, Wisconsin, at Carthage . . . College where the population
of Black students was like 4 or 6 percent. And I remember her talking about
her book The Condemnation of Little B. And she just begun unraveling
my mind! And I remember the political climate on this Lutheran campus
shifted completely for weeks. White folks was mad, writing shit on the
walls, you know, vandalizing, putting “nigger” everywhere. Alumni calling.
Parents calling. “Why you got this woman coming?” It was a whole thing.
I remember, she crewed up the Black students there and told us, “every gen-
eration has their work,” and I didn’t quite get everything, but I did more
studying [after that] and really learned about . . . the war on drugs. And
I was like, “Oh, Reagan had something to do with all this shit? These were
the laws that were being passed? It ain’t our fucking fault?” And, I didn’t
have the language of systemic racism [at the time] but I just began to under-
stand the political moves. (Hooks interview, 2018)

From its inception, the movement has been deeply intellectual, relying
on a vast array of thinkers to help activists make sense of the world as it
is. Organizers have sought to learn from the literatures amassed by Black
scholars at the same time that they seek to exceed common expectations
about what is politically possible. Barbara Ransby, a historian and movement
 The Art of Organizing 145

elder, reports, “In 2017, members of M4BL participated in workshops/​

think tanks in Chicago with presentations by Black scholars and writers, in-
cluding Donna Murch, Lester Spence, Leith Mullings, Cornel West, Beverly
Guy-​Sheftall, Robin D.G. Kelley, Michael Dawson” in addition to “Ruth
Wilson Gilmore, Cathy Cohen, Beth Richie, [and] Brittney Cooper” (Ransby
2018, 118).
In addition, public syllabi related to Black and other POC freedom
struggles were a very prevalent movement tool between 2014 and 2018 (see
appendix E). Reading groups on classic texts of Black radicalism like W. E.
B. Du Bois’s Black Reconstruction or Audre Lorde’s collected essays and re-
cent releases like Charlene Carruthers’ Unapologetic, Darnell Moore’s No
Ashes in the Fire, Alicia Garza’s The Purpose of Power, and Patrisse Khan-​
Cullors and asha bandele’s When They Call You a Terrorist, hosted in online
meeting forums like Zoom, remain common.
Another important aspect of organizing is the imperative to “build power.”
It is the element of organizing that sounds the toughest and most concrete,
but while building power is high impact, it is a complicated, multistep, and
often delicate process. To build power means to create a base of organized
people and resources from which they can act in concert, and effectively, to-
ward a mutually recognized goal. This requires people coming together and
gathering their resources and skills in service of a common cause. Strong
political friendships and thoughtful and ongoing power analysis are the
practices that enable such a muscular coming together in associations and
organizations that can be relied upon to facilitate action in public and polit-
ical circumstances. That’s what it means to get organized.
Power, here, can be understood to be three-​faced, in the tradition of
Steven Lukes and John Gaventa, which is to say that it includes (1) deci-
sive bargaining and decision-​making power; (2) “mobilization of bias,” or
agenda-​setting power; and (3) ideological power, or the power to shape
common sense by influencing language, deploying myths, and controlling
information (Lukes [1974)] 2005; Gaventa 1980). But envisaging power in
this way is only an analytical convenience. These three observable areas help
us to operationalize power, which is a beneficial practice for assessment, both
by people in movement and scholars studying movement. However, power
is a relation, not an object, and as we learned from Michel Foucault, it can be
wielded, whatever its visage, by people anywhere in the social hierarchy.
Still, the way people create, access, and utilize power relations is asym-
metrical, so it will look different depending on their structural positioning
146 Reckoning

and the resources, respect, official authority, and reputation that accompany
that set of positions (Woodly 2015a). Those whose social positions afford
them less advantage must “build power” before they can wield it to challenge
status quo structural arrangements. They will know they have built power
when they can “reward or punish . . . targets, control what gets talked about
in public debate” (Speer and Hughey 1995, 732), and shape “conceptions of
the necessities, possibilities, and strategies of challenge in situations of latent
conflict” (Gaventa 1980, 15).
It is important to note that power in a movement does not derive from
charismatic individuals or the prestige and resources of any one influential
organization (even when it appears so to outsiders). Instead, movements
must construct what Paul Speer and Joseph Hughey call an “ecology of
power” (Speer and Hughey 1995). M4BL uses a similar analogy to refer to
the consortium of individuals and organizations involved as an “ecosystem.”
In an ecosystem, power can be assessed by noticing whether interconnected
organisms can effect desired change in and on their environment.
A style of organizing pioneered in the Movement for Black Lives favors
organizing for depth rather than breadth; the proliferation of leadership
nodes; and the reliance on flocking together like birds in a migratory pattern,
rather than hierarchal management, for the diffusion of analysis and tac-
tics. Movement theorist adrienne maree brown talks about this framework
as “emergent strategy” in her book of the same name. This kind of strategy
is based on a concept of emergence borrowed from the natural sciences in
which “complex systems and patterns arise out of a multiplicity of relatively
simple interactions” (brown 2017, 3). She writes,

[W]‌e have lived through . . . half a century of individualistic linear organizing

(led by charismatic individuals or budget-​building institutions), which
intends to reform or revolutionize society, but falls back into modeling the
oppressive tendencies against which we claim to be pushing. . . . Many of us
have been socialized to understand that constant growth, violent competi-
tion, and critical mass are the ways to create change. But emergence shows
us that adaptation and evolution depend more on critical, deep, and au-
thentic connections, a thread that can be tugged for support and resilience.
(brown 2017, 14)

This view of organizing aligns with Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari’s use
and elaboration of the idea of rhizomic organization as a way to both analyze
 The Art of Organizing 147

extant complexity and model social relations. A rhizomic perspective allows

for multiple, nonhierarchical entry and exit points in data representation
and interpretation. In the model they advance in their work A Thousand
Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, they point out that the natural for-
mation of the rhizome, a unique root structure found in certain plants, defies
the linear path of causality that comes to mind in a root-​tree system, instead
carrying nutrients and other stuff of life through “ceaselessly established
connections between semiotic chains, organizations of power, and [relevant]
circumstances” (Deleuze and Guattari [1980] 2004).
To lead, under a rhizomic model, is all about creating and proliferating
connections that themselves can yield new, fruitful connections independent
of the direction of a central decision-​maker. Brown writes, “So many of our
organizations working for social change are structured in ways that reflect
the status quo. We have singular charismatic leaders, top down structures,
money-​driven programs, destructive methods of engaging conflict, unsus-
tainable work cultures, and little to no impact on the issues at hand” (brown
2017, 52). As an alternative, she believes movements must strive be like “flocks
of birds” and cultivate “underground power like whispering mushrooms”
(23). In this vein, “organizing is a multilayered and institution-​proliferating
activity, not an expression of popular power that tends inevitably toward un-
mediated popular voice.” Organizing is not merely a precursor to activism
and mobilization; it is instead “a means for building relations and bridging
institutions across lines of difference, rather than reinforcing them with a vi-
sion of a homogenous and unified people” (Pineda 2019, 17).
The last tenet of organizing is to take action. Action is not just the activity of
protest, but is also the process by which those who are in a relation of political
friendship work together to make claims, develop their means, and secure
their ends. As discussed above, an Arendtian view of action also understands
action to be an identity-​disclosing activity. That means that people not only
reveal but also shape who they are in the world by what they do in the world.
When an individual or group takes action, they are bringing the reality of the
world into focus by delineating their place in it and underlining their human
capacity to change it by beginning something new.
It is in this way that organizers work to undo what I have called else-
where the “neoliberal common sense” that characterizes the modern under-
standing of the subject in society (Woodly 2015b). Neoliberal common sense
is the widespread reification of the individual such that it is nearly impossible
to conceptualize or acknowledge that social forces beyond any one person’s
148 Reckoning

intention or control can be decisive in shaping the choices and life chances
of individuals. Because this belief is a part of the American doxa or back-
ground understanding of the way things are, or, as Clifford Geertz put it, “the
doctrine of the self-​evident,” organizing is a critical first step to developing
any kind of political action in which people participate together, particularly
when that action is outside the boundaries of activities we acknowledge as
matters of individual right, such as voting.2

Part 2: Organizational Structure, Organizational Culture,

and Interorganizational Environment
Organizational Structure and Interorganizational
Environment

The Movement for Black Lives has developed a new organizational form.
From that form, a unique organizational culture and interorganizational
environment also arise. In terms of structure, M4BL operates as a semi-​
federated network of independent individual organizations that come to-
gether at “tables” to share information, deliberate about movement-​wide
policy objectives, administer collaborative campaigns, distribute resources,
and arbitrate disputes. Among these tables are those focused on organizing,
resource distribution, policy development, media and communications,
healing justice, and more. New tables can be convened based on new issues
that movement participants wish to address, combined as areas of work con-
verge, or disbanded when the scope of work within the movement changes.
It is an ingenious and highly flexible structure for movement work in that it
combines the need for a decision-​making infrastructure with the recognition
that local knowledge and autonomy are key to developing effective and reso-
nant campaigns.
While the networked organizational form shares a great deal with those of
the “new social movements” of the late twentieth century in that it eschews
centralization, it improves upon those models by exhibiting an agreed-​
upon founding mythology, a shared set of foundational principles, unity of

2 Even voters need to be organized, particularly people who have never voted or seen a reason to

vote before. Black women organizers are at the forefront of this kind of voter organizing, which is
distinct from the more common, though also necessary, voter mobilization that consists in targeted
contact, reminders, and advertisements reminding people who regularly vote about when to vote and
who to vote for depending on their party identification. For a summary of studies, particularly exper-
imental data, see Green and Gerber (2019).
 THE ART OF ORGANIZING 149

Black Lives Matter

Assata's Daughters Global Network
Oakland, CA Southerners on
Chicago, IL New Ground
Atlanta,GA

Organizing Table Policy Table

Three Points '- Harriet's

Strategies ~ Apothecary
Washington, D.C. Electoral Justlce Healing Justice
New York, NY
Table Table

,)

Resources Table Media& Channel Black

Communications Oakland,CA
Table

Black Youth Project Radical

Dream Defenders Communicators
100
Stanford, FL Network
Chicago, 11

Figure 1. M4BL table structure (example). The table structure is flexible and
may contain more or fewer tables depending what participants determine
is required to coordinate activity and meet movement-wide goals. Affiliated
organizations in this example figure show only a small fraction of the dozens of
organizations that make up M4Brs network.

purpose (though with ample diversity of method and the conflict that can
engender), robust and routine communication practices, and a fruitful mix
of professional movement actors and grassroots organizations.
This unique form, which I call a table structure (see Figure 1), serves as a
container for an organizational culture that seeks, but does not always attain,
ways to facilitate people "showing up" as their "whole selves" in organizing
and political work. In addition, the interorganizational environment (See
Figure 2) is preoccupied with questions of how to mediate and resolve con-
flict. It is important to emphasize that mediation and resolution are explic-
itly opposed to conflict avoidance. The view in the movement is that conflict
is not only inevitable, but also generative, because it is the normal result of
150 RECKONING

Electoral Recruitment, Support,

e.g; Higher Heights for America

Political Organizing,
Protest & Direct
Action

Media&
Communications

Figure 2. M4BL ecosystem ( example). This is only an example ecosystem,

showing how the relationships work. The actual organizations in the M4BL
ecosystem may change over time as affiliated organizations spring up or fade
away. Alternatively, organizations may remain affiliated while frequency of
contact changes over time.

people relating to one another across their individual and group differences.
It is in this way that the principles of healing justice are taken up in both the
structure and culture of the racial justice social movement sector that M4BL
exemplifies.
At its best, the movement functions as a set of autonomous, networked or-
ganizations practicing cooperative solidarity. However, the many organiza-
tions are resourced differently, and that can lead to conflict. All organizations
have their own distinct sources of funding, but there are also several com-
bined pools of funding both under the banner of the Movement for Black
Lives and from the various coalitions of subsets of those organizations that
form for specific purposes and are housed in the movement's interorganiza-
tional environment. This means that individual groups like the Black Lives
Matter Global Network Foundation or Southerners on New Ground have
their own legal and financial organizational structures while also being a part
of the Movement for Black Lives, the broadest-based umbrella organization
in the movement, and additionally each is involved in the Rising Majority,
a coalition of allied organizations that include both M4BL-affiliated groups
 The Art of Organizing 151

and groups from outside the movement who are interested in promoting
“radical democracy.”
The organizations involved are largely nonprofits with 501c3, 501C4, and
sometimes L3C (social impact, or “low profit” LLC) legal structures. These
organizations often win grants from traditional foundations like the Open
Society Foundation and the Ford and MacArthur Foundations, but money
from these sources can be slow to come in and often comes with strings at-
tached. For this reason, movement organizations have also tried to cultivate
a robust direct appeal fundraising operation, particularly through sub-
scription services that allow donors to contribute small amounts at regular
intervals. This method of funding has been especially popular with the var-
ious bail funds associated with movement, like the Chicago Community
Bond Fund or the Minnesota Freedom Fund. This model allows flexibility at
moments when there is a need for extra monies or when there are efforts to
fundraise for discrete campaigns.
There is quite a range of funding resources between organizations
in the movement. Some organizations, like the Ella Baker Center for
Human Rights, BLM Global Network Foundation, Black Alliance for Just
Immigration (BAJI), and Southerners on New Ground (SONG), have
budgets in the millions. In 2016, the Ella Baker Center for Human Rights
had a budget of $4 million, according to tax filings. In 2019, the BLM Global
Network Foundation had $3.3 million in donor-​restricted assets. BAJI had a
budget of $3.1 million in 2017. Southerners on New Ground (SONG) had a
budget of $2.4 million in 2017. This puts these organizations in the top third
of nonprofits by budget size.3 By contrast, most organizations have more
modest budgets. For example, BYP100 had an operating budget of $219,111
in 2016, the latest year for which filings are available.
Regardless of size, all organizations in the movement have a chance to
access resources through politically progressive funding consortiums that
sprang up in the 2010s, especially Funders for Justice, which is a group of
philanthropists and foundations that seek to move resources to groups
with causes aiming toward equity for those living under conditions of op-
pression due to the intersection of race, class, gender and LGBTQ status.
Funding groups include Solidaire, established in 2012 to support the efforts

3 See the Influence Watch website, https://​www.influencewatch.org/​non-​profit/​, for data on the

Ella Baker Center for Human Rights, BAJI, and SONG. See also https://​zipsprout.com/​how-​big-​are-​
most-​non-​profits/​.
152 Reckoning

of the Occupy movement; Resource Generation, a group of wealthy young

people who “utilize their resources for transformative and equitable shifts in
power” (Cordery 2016); the Women Donors Network, which contributes to
causes for “progressive change”; and the North Star Fund, which supports
“grassroots organizing by communities of color” (North Star Fund, n.d.)
and its subsidiary, the Let Us Breathe Fund, which specifically supports
Black-​led organizations. These groups, among others, gave the organiza-
tions in the Movement for Black Lives access to resources that allowed new
organizations to be founded, existing organizations to continue and some-
times expand, and some ability to weather the abeyance after the Trump
election, when the cry of Black Lives Matter receded somewhat from the
top of the public’s mind. It also laid the groundwork for the movement to
begin learning about managing resources—​a skill that they would need in
the summer of 2020 when millions of Americans took to the streets with the
movement slogan on their lips and millions more opened their wallets to do-
nate more than $90 million to organizations in the movement (Goldmacher
2020). The deluge of donations in May and June of 2020 was so massive and
unexpected that many organizations were overwhelmed despite having
some experience with large dollar donations. The New York Times reported
that “the outpouring has been organic, viral, and immense” (Goldmacher
2020). The rush to support the movement was so intense that an organiza-
tion grifting off the movement’s name took in $4.35 million in donations
before it was found out and the monies frozen (Albrecht 2020). Understand
also that these numbers are not just of money, but, as importantly, lists of
supporters—​people who can be mobilized and asked for donations at other
critical moments.
The huge influx of money led some people to become confused and suspi-
cious about where the millions of dollars supporters donated were going as
protests again waned by late summer. Activists who had broken with M4BL
organizations and had long been critical of the way money moved in the
movement aired their concerns. On June 18, the Ferguson activist Ashley
Yates tweeted, “26.1 million dollars to WHO and for WHAT? whew [sic] we
need to have a conversation on non-​transparent brand-​building and the sus-
ceptibility of Black movements’ toward empowering them.”
In response, organizers in M4BL took to social media to plead for pa-
tience. On June 16, Charlene Carruthers wrote on Twitter, “I implore anyone
here to say with great confidence that you’d know how to handle several mil-
lion dollars in a situation like this . . . in a few weeks—​with principle.” The
 The Art of Organizing 153

same day, Mervyn Marcano a cofounder of movement capacity-​building

firm Blackbird, in a series of tweets, argued,

If you see some sort of “gotcha” story that all of a sudden pops up, consider
for a moment what it hopes to achieve. Narratives about shadowy figures
“behind” movements are made to make you feel powerless & that change
is impossible. They imply we can’t do it ourselves. There’s no question
there’s a flood of resources moving in right now. Give your movements
the GRACE and benefit of the doubt to get it right. The money started
flowing last week. And it’s, across the board, magnitudes higher than folks
were prepared for. We can handle it. But it will take a second to figure it
out. And this is especially true for local orgs who were operating on shoe-
string budgets before. Are there conversations to be had about money and
movements? Absolutely. Just be mindful of who benefits from painting a
false narrative of Black led movements as shady in a time of crisis. When
we are winning together.

However, by September, movement organizations had figured out what

to do with all that money. Bail funds, which had received a large proportion
of donations, figured out both their priorities in funding people’s release
and the possibilities of getting people released and on what timetables as
well as what legal latitude they had in contributing to post-​bail and family
support (Toussaint 2020). And the best-​resourced organizations in M4BL
established funds of their own. The BLM Global Network Foundation
announced $6.5 million in unrestricted operational funds for its chapters
(Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation 2020) and an additional
$12 million fund to support other organizations that fight institutional
racism (CBS News Staff 2020). Even with these developments, conversa-
tion and conflicts about how resources are distributed are ongoing and are
often a source of tension.

Organizational Culture and Interorganizational Environment

The organizational culture of M4BL is heavily shaped by the politics of care

and ideas grounded in healing justice. That means there’s a lot of atten-
tion both to the postures, or attitudes, with which people approach conflict
and to procedures that allow people to deal with conflict in ways that are
154 Reckoning

not destructive. This means that organizations try to develop norms and
rules both internally and intergroup that prevent doing harm as much as
possible while also making sure there are processes of accountability when
harm is done.
However, that is easier said than done. Sometimes hurt feelings can be
presented as trauma, and the work of movement can be repeatedly set aside
to process emotions. Nikita Mitchell, a former director of organizing for the
BLM Global Network Foundation, reflects the delicacy and friction of the
movement’s approach:

How do we balance that commitment between the individual and what we

need to do by the collective? It’s been hard. In our organization what that
meant was we spent two years reacting to our members’ emotions. . . of all
things from “I don’t want [paid] staff in this organization, because of my
experience in the nonprofit world” to “I don’t like [the tone of] how you
presented this idea, therefore I’m going to block it.” Or “I feel hurt because
you didn’t bring me in at the beginning.” Or I think about how private situ-
ations between members that have nothing to do with our organization can
start to take up a lot of space. People begin to act as if all of their emotions,
hopes, dreams, insecurities, trauma should give them access to that private
conversation, which just stops us from talking about what we actually have a
role in. Sometimes there’s an overcorrection that comes at the cost of actually
doing this work in a way that wins tangible things for our people. So what
I think I’m saying is that people are trying to find home in this movement
and sometimes have a hard time delineating between what our movement
is actually accountable to for the individual and the collective. It gets in the
work sometimes. It stops us from thinking about all of our people. But if we
believe that getting to a new world is not just about policy change but is also
about culture change, then it makes sense that most of our work is in service
to building a new community, and that repairing relationships and building
community must be the basis of our power. So tending to the emotions is
actually necessary. We have not yet figured it out. What capacity does it take
to experiment together about what it means to be a better community? We’re
in constant experimentation. We’re constantly trying to interrogate how our
guiding principles live in our work. Do our values show up in how we ac-
tually move? I think we’ve made a commitment, both staff and in the coali-
tion networks, to not striving to be a perfect organization, but when conflict
happens, to build our toolset to deal with it. (Mitchell interview, 2018)
 The Art of Organizing 155

When activists and organizers are taught and expected to bring their whole
selves to movement spaces rather than a professional self that is supposed to
be stripped of feelings unrelated to work, people will sometimes bring petti-
ness, ego, selfishness, and narcissism with them. Or they can expect all move-
ment spaces to be appropriate for every kind of self-​work they need to do.
It is for this reason that “self-​care” is often recast as community care—​or, as
Melissa Harris-​Perry (2017) put it, “squad care”—​within movement spaces.
Community care differs from self-​care in that its central idea is that the indi-
vidual is always in context. We must take care of ourselves, of course, but that
care is not and cannot be isolated from our relationships, our obligations,
the need to be accountable to our people, and the imperative to try to be in
healthy relation to those around us. Harris-​Perry writes,

Ultimately, self-​care encourages women to rely solely on themselves rather

than to make demands on anyone or anything else. Self-​care validates as
good and noble all of those women with sufficient resources to “take a
break” from the hustle and bustle while it censures those who seek relief
from the collective care of the state—​through child care subsidies, food as-
sistance, low-​income or subsidized housing, or health care. In so much of
our political language, the black, brown, and poor women who seek care in
these ways are still represented as bad, fraudulent, lazy, and wasteful.
And so instead, we turn to squad care, a way of understanding our needs
as humans that acknowledges how we lean on one another, that we are not
alone in the world, but rather enmeshed in webs of mutual and symbiotic
relationships. Sometimes our squads are small, intimate, and bonded by af-
fection. . . . Squad care reminds us there is no shame in reaching for each
other and insists the imperative rests not with the individual, but with the
community. Our job is to have each other’s back. (Harris-​Perry 2017)

Commenting on Harris-​Perry’s intervention, Charlene Carruthers explains

that the concept of squad care “presented a dilemma for many activists. On the
one hand, we are taught and encouraged to sacrifice to no end. Our ancestors
and living comrades have made sacrifices beyond what most of us today have
made. Who are we not to give our lives to the movement? On the other hand,
we are human” (Carruthers 2018, 73). Carruthers acknowledges that there is
no easy formula to resolve the conflict that may arise from trying to sort out the
contours of the care that is necessary for the work of social and political trans-
formation. She argues instead, “Our movement should live with the tension
156 Reckoning

between self-​care and community care. Individual activists should commit to

self-​care on whatever level they are able to, and communities should commit to
creating a culture of care . . . the movement should allow and create spaces for
healing, with the recognition that we can not do it all” (73–​74, 75).
In addition to the genuine complication of bringing whole selves to
movement spaces, there are also the maladies that affect all kinds of asso-
ciation: rumors, information asymmetry, jumping to conclusions, and bad
faith. All these things are exacerbated by the fact that so much movement-​
related communication happens via social media. Carruthers laments that
“we live in an age . . . where simply expressing disagreement can lead to a
public dragging” (81). “Dragging” is a kind of public shaming that can be
used either separate from or in conjunction with “canceling,” or the shun-
ning, disassociation, or delegitimating of an individual or group. These
unhealthy tendencies are present in the movement alongside the genuine
commitment to try to enact and move toward a culture where these coun-
terproductive impulses are less prevalent because people have learned good
habits around harm prevention and reparative conflict resolution.
Another positive way that the movement culture prevents and mitigates
inevitable conflict is by building relational bonds through joyful practices. In
this way, the movement uses joy as a political resource, because it shores up
the relations of good will that are necessary for people to give one another the
benefit of the doubt and to remind them, when the pressures of political work
make it easy to forget, that they are a part of the same community. One that
is united not only by struggle, but also by celebration. As Christopher Paul
Harris, an academic and organizer in BYP100, writes, Black joy is “one of the
movement’s most salient and consequential features.” He goes on to say,

Black joy: celebrating blackness and each other as Black. Over time, as I be-
came more deeply engaged in the work of BYP100, this was what stood
out above the rest. . . . The chants, the songs and rituals. The adlibs and im-
provised movements. The culture.4 These communal practices enliven our

4 Here we ought to consider culture both in terms of behaviors, beliefs, and aesthetics in a broad

sense, as well as the ways in which “the” as an article denotes a specific “Black” culture. At least in the
United States, if not elsewhere, notions of “the culture” have become popular among Black youth,
evidenced in phrases like “do it for the culture.” In my reading, this is both an etic and emic position,
insofar as it simultaneously articulates a shared, even if contested, understanding of what Black cul-
ture is, while also naming an action that would affirm and therefore constitute this culture. In the
main, statements like this tend to represent the ways in which understandings of Blackness among
Black people have expanded and become more flexible.
 The Art of Organizing 157

meetings, convenings, and workshops, be they within BYP100 or the larger

M4BL ecosystem. They also facilitate—​along with singing, dancing, and
other forms of “turning-​up”—​an embodied sense of ourselves as catalysts
of transformation; a sense of ourselves as capable of (un)making worlds.
(Harris 2019, 109)

Conclusion

In this chapter, I have argued that political organizing is an understudied

yet crucial component of democratic politics, one that we see most readily
illustrated in the activity of social movements. The key feature of political
organizing is that its aim is the transformation of political subjectivity rather
than the engagement of interests and capacities that are already developed.
The Movement for Black Lives has apprehended the American traditions
of organizing emerging from both the Alinsky school and the approach
Horton assembled with colleagues at the Highlander Folk School. From
these knowledges, the movement has developed an approach to organizing
that is avowedly rooted in the notion that in order to change politics, they
have to be willing to not only imagine the world as it might be, but also to
imagine themselves as they must be in order to bring the new world into
existence. This transformation in the service of the work of bringing forth a
new politics is not understood to be miraculous—​at least not in the sense of
bringing about something out of nothing in an instant—​but is instead under-
stood to be an undergoing or struggle that one commits to with other people.
Importantly, this struggle is envisaged not as a substitute for life, but as a part
of it. And, as such, attention to care, health, and joy is woven into every as-
pect. This kind of politics is not easy and is certainly not always successful,
but it guides the building of intra-​movement practices and organizations
that are built with both longevity and flexibility in mind. In the next chapter,
we will see the changes that this approach, and the organizations that have
been built under its auspices, is already changing the public understandings
and political possibilities that exist in the world we share.
 PART THREE
DE MO C R AT IC P OS SI BI LI T Y

“If what we need to dream, to move our spirits most deeply and directly
toward and through promise, is discounted as luxury, then we give up the
core—​the fountain—​of our power . . .; we give up the future of our worlds.”
—Audre Lorde,
“Poetry is not a Luxury,” in Sister Outsider
 5
Movement Means Changing Politics
Discourse, Tactics, Policy, and a New Political Ecosystem

The broad movement in defense of Black lives has contributed to a

repoliticization of the public sphere and has been successful at gaining polit-
ical acceptance. Through its efforts, the movement has changed the common
ways we talk about race, inequality, policing, and well-​being, and inserted
a commonplace understanding of structural racism and anti-​Blackness into
mainstream American discourse. This incorporation of new concepts into
the political lexicon has opened possibilities for redress that did not exist
prior to the movement’s work. The movement has done this crucial work
by revealing the connection between political concepts like systemic racism
and governmental functions that systematically disadvantage Black people
and other people of color, thereby revealing what Suzanne Mettler calls the
submerged state. It has been able to do so because participants in the move-
ment have always taken seriously the need to communicate with multiple
audiences and understand that social movements can be radical, challenging,
and contentious, while remaining legible in public discourse.
In the following, I show the multifaceted impact of the Movement for Black
Lives’ work. The movement has changed American politics in multiple ways,
shaping the contemporary conceptual terrain regarding race and racism. It
has also catalyzed large, measurable shifts in political attitudes regarding the
importance of systemic racism in governing institutions and American life,
motivated broad decarceral trends, directly impacted the incidence of police
killings in areas where protests took place, and developed tactics, policy, and
a political ecosystem that has already achieved notable and concrete wins.

Changing the Conceptual Terrain of American Politics

In less than a decade, the Movement for Black Lives (M4BL) has catalyzed
a public opinion realignment that has reshaped the American political
162 Reckoning

landscape and the electorate itself. Although it can be hard to fathom amid
the continued suffering of Black people and the backlash of white grievance
politics, this shift has taken place with astonishing speed. Note here that the
movement is doing what many have begged the Left to do for years, mirroring
the build-​up of ideas, policy proposals, and political infrastructure that the
right wing built in the mid-​twentieth century, while they were in a wilder-
ness of political defeat at the national level. Victoria Hattam and Joe Lowndes
offer an account of how right-​wing intellectuals seized “the ground of poli-
tics, the site of change in which otherwise disparate elements are recombined
into apparently coherent political positions” (Hattam and Lowndes 2007,
204). They write:

Scholars and popular writers have generally located the origins of the
rise of the modern Right in the late 1960s. These accounts rest on a story
of backlash against the excesses of liberalism endemic in that decade,
excesses that naturally played into the hands of conservatives generally and
the Republican Party in particular. But the major themes of the national
Republican message in 1968 and thereafter, including law and order, oppo-
sition to civil rights advances, federalism, and a commitment to economic
conservatism, did not come together naturally, reflexively, or organically.
They had to be combined into a coherent discourse and form of political
subjectivity. Such combining was a long-​term, contingent process that had
to be worked out by political actors on the ground.” (205)

In fact, the alliances that were made among conservative white evangelicals,
segregationists, and economic conservatives during the mid-​twentieth cen-
tury were not natural; they were contingent and constructed, and the process
began as early as 1948, thirty-​two years before the alignment bore national
electoral fruit in 1980, with the election of Ronald Reagan.
The reconstitution of the Republican Party and the idea of conserv-
atism was anchored by the ideas of Charles Collins, a prominent attorney
and intellectual from Alabama. He proposed that it was possible to unify
southern Democrats, who were committed to racial segregation but also
loved the benefits of economic liberalism of the New Deal, with the northern
Republicans, who were not very concerned with preserving Jim Crow–​style
legal segregation (de facto segregation worked fine in the North) but hated
the expectation of governmental largess that Franklin Roosevelt had ushered
in during his years as president. It was not a self-​evident proposition, and the
 Movement Means Changing Politics 163

project of constructing a shared subjectivity under the banner of “conserv-

atism” demanded ideological foresight, social intelligence, and persistent
practical politics. All of these capacities were anchored by what turned out to
be the correct belief that racism could be the fulcrum on which this realign-
ment turned. Under the auspices of reclaiming America’s traditional values,
Collins argued that the central importance of the individuals’ rights and
states’ rights were the only things that could preserve both the sacredness of
private property and the white-​supremacist racial order. The degradation of
either, he argued, would lead to the obliteration of both.
As the Black civil rights movement became more visible in the late 1940s
and early 1950s, with some indications of sympathy and gestures toward
further exploration from Presidents Truman and Eisenhower, these new
conservatives began to coalesce and formed a third party called the States’
Rights Democratic Party, nicknamed the Dixiecrats. But they didn’t win.
Strom Thurmond, who ran for president in 1948 on the Dixiecrat ticket, was
resoundingly defeated, and the Democratic Party punished politicians who
had participated in promoting the new party.
Nevertheless, the Dixiecrat ideas lived on, and Collins argued that the
way to change the politics of the South would be through culture, language,
and opinion first, with the ballot box following after. “Building such a polit-
ical alliance . . . would necessitate not just a sense of political expediency on
behalf of northern conservatives, but a deeper identification with the white
South—​its perspectives on race and state sovereignty, but also its heritage
and cultural values” (Hattam and Lowndes 2007, 208). To this end, Dixiecrat
thinkers began building a political infrastructure meant to not only sup-
port candidates, but also, and more importantly, to clearly articulate and
spread ideas. This necessitated the establishment of nonprofit think tanks in
Washington, DC, along with grass-​roots organizations, first in the South, but
later wherever the notions of white racial superiority and irritation with fed-
eral government policies found willing audiences. Thus, the creation of what
is now mainstream conservatism was a long-​fought battle of ideas that had
deep roots in civic life and culture before it became a dominant force in elec-
toral politics.
In the early decades of the twenty-​first century, we are again at a turning
point in which people’s understandings of political identification and alli-
ance are shifting, and again, as is American tradition, the fulcrum is race.
However, the story of this moment’s realignment is not a straightforward
one about support or aversion to M4BL marking a dividing line in American
164 Reckoning

public opinion. Rather, it is a longer-​running story, the telling of which might

properly begin after the election of the nation’s first Black president.
Perhaps because of America’s ethnic diversity combined with the history
of chattel slavery marking the nearly uncrossable racial divide between Black
and white, the nation’s politics have always been organized around lines of
racial and ethnic identity above those of class (Katznelson 1981; Dawson
1994). However, racial identity and/​or one’s opinions about racial equality
are only intermittently determinative of people’s party identification. From
the 1970s through the 1990s, only African Americans’ party affiliation and
views on issues that had been racialized could be reliably predicted based
on racial identity, and even that predictor was thought for a time to be an ar-
tifact of class politics. The political scientist Michael Dawson, an expert on
race and public opinion, hypothesized when he set out to write his first book,
Behind the Mule, that he would find that apparent racial divides in public
opinion were the result of not properly disaggregating the data and control-
ling for the class background of Black respondents. What he found instead,
despite his skepticism, is that Black Americans, regardless of socioeconomic
status, believe themselves to have a “linked fate,” the idea that regardless of
individual accomplishments, the status of the group will have a great impact
on one’s life chances (Dawson 1994). As an empirical matter, this is simply
true. Structural racism acts as a constraint (though it is not fully determi-
native) on the life chances of Black people. Of course, this is and has always
also been true of those Americans considered white. The difference is that
most white Americans, even during the height of de jure segregation, did not
believe this to be true. And after the revolution of common sense wrought
by the civil rights movement, most white Americans began to condemn
overt expressions of white identity politics, welcoming racial appeals only
when “coded,” usually in language quite similar to the rhetoric of “traditional
American values” invented by Collins and his political allies in the late 1940s
(Bonilla-​Silva 2003; Haney Lopez 2015).
However, during the Obama presidency, these truisms of late twentieth-​
century American politics began to change. The first thing that began to
happen was that white people, especially those without a college educa-
tion, began fleeing the Democratic Party. For those white people who left
the Democratic Party during this period, it was not their income, job status,
or feelings about their own economic position that predicted whether they
would exit stage right. Instead, it was their views about race. Specifically, it
was whether they perceived white Americans to be discriminated against and
 Movement Means Changing Politics 165

whether they believed Black people and immigrants to be getting more than
their fair share of resources. This “racialization of partisanship was underway
even before Obama became a national figure. . . . But eight years of an African
American president accelerated and intensified” this trend (Sides, Tesler,
and Vavreck 2018, 25). By the end of Obama’s two terms, white Americans
were much more likely to identify as Republicans than Democrats. In 2008,
46 percent of white registered voters identified as Republican and 44 percent
as Democrats. By 2016, 54 percent identified as Republican and 39 percent
as Democrats (Pew Research Center 2016b). By contrast, Black, Latino, and
Asian voters have exhibited party affinities that have been stable over this pe-
riod, with 87 percent of Black people, 63 percent of Latinos, and 66 percent of
Asians identifying as Democrats or Democratic leaners.
In this context, we can better understand the significance of the Pew
Research Center finding, in an August 2016 survey, that 43 percent of
respondents viewed the Black Lives Matter movement favorably, a per-
centage that slightly exceeded the favorability ratings of either of the presi-
dential candidates at that time (Horowitz and Livingstone 2016). By 2017,
support for the movement had risen, with 55 percent of Americans reporting
that they strongly or somewhat support the movement and only 34 percent
opposing it (Neal 2017). It should be noted that majority approval of a so-
cial movement is extremely rare, and #BLM enjoys more support than the
twentieth-​century civil rights movement did during its height. As many have
noted, the nostalgic hagiography of certain aspects of the twentieth-​century
movement is a social construction of the 1980s and 1990s and not a view that
obtained while political challengers were making demands for change in the
1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. Though the Movement for Black Lives is careful to
correct whitewashed recitations of the mid-​century civil rights movement
that deny its radical ambitions, it has nevertheless been able to use the ret-
rospective positive evaluation of that movement to its advantage, even as it
updates and changes some of the earlier movement’s core political claims
(Edwards-​Levy 2018).
Since the Ferguson uprising after the police killing of Michael Brown, the
movement has influenced opinion about the significance of race and racism
in American life, changed policy, contributed to the reduction of police vi-
olence in major cities, and reshaped the politics of social justice. And in the
summer of 2020, amid the first global pandemic in one hundred years, the
Movement for Black Lives reshaped the political terrain. The 2014 uprisings
had received surprising support from the public, but the massive wave
166 Reckoning

of protests taking place in 2020 achieved a startling consensus of support.

A Quinnipiac University poll (released June 17, 2020) found that 67 per-
cent of registered voters supported the protests that had coalesced all over
the country, and a Pew Research Center poll (released June 12, 2020) found
that the same percentage of people supported the movement (Sparks 2020).
A New York Times/​Siena College poll (released June 27, 2020) found 59 per-
cent of voters, including 52 percent of white voters, believed that George
Floyd’s murder is “part of a broader pattern of excessive police violence to-
ward African Americans.” The same poll found that 54 percent of voters
said the way the criminal justice system treats Black Americans was a bigger
problem than the incidents of rioting seen during some demonstrations
(Herndon and Searcey 2020).
Stunningly, in the two weeks between May 26 and June 10, support for the
Movement for Black Lives, which was already historically high for a social
movement, increased by 28 points (Cohn and Quealy 2020). A Monmouth
University poll (released July 8, 2020) found that 76 percent of Americans
consider racism and discrimination a “big problem,” up 26 points from 2015,
and 78 percent of respondents to that poll declared the anger behind the
demonstrations either fully or somewhat justified (Monmouth University
2020). Overall, polls show that “a majority of Americans believe that the po-
lice are more likely to use deadly force against African Americans, and that
there’s a lot of discrimination against black Americans in society.” Back in
2013, when Black Lives Matter began, a majority of voters disagreed with
all of these statements” (Cohn and Quealy 2020). However, here is the most
astonishing part: in a political culture in which nearly every institution is
mistrusted by the American people, a 55 percent majority expect that this
movement will create positive, long-​term political and institutional change
(Monmouth University 2020).
The potential for political realignment lies in these shifts in political
attitudes and understandings. The share of Americans who say race is a big
problem almost doubled between 2011 (28 percent) and 2015 (50 percent),
and the percentage of people worrying more about race and racism has con-
tinued on an upward trend, as seen in a Monmouth University poll released
July 8, 2020, which showed that more than 65 percent of Americans declared
that racial and ethnic discrimination is a big problem in the United States
(Pew Research Center 2017; Arenge, Perry, and Clark 2018; Monmouth
University 2020). That 2020 survey appears to mirror other recent reports on
 Movement Means Changing Politics 167

the topic. According to a July 10, 2020, report in the Washington Post, “Nearly
60 percent of those surveyed recently told Gallup that they were somewhat
dissatisfied or very dissatisfied with the state of race relations in America.
And more than 60 percent of Americans say race relations in the United
States are ‘generally bad,’ according to a recent CBS news poll” (Scott 2020).
In 2014, 46 percent of Americans believed that we need to keep making
changes to achieve racial equality; by 2017, that number had increased to
61 percent (Pew Research Center 2017). The most dramatic change has been
among white Americans, particularly white liberals and/​or those who iden-
tify as Democrats. The journalist Matthew Yglesias dubbed the marked shifts
in opinion in this group “the great awokening.” Between 2009 and 2015, the
year when protests in defense of Black lives were most frequent, the share of
white Democrats declaring racism a “major problem” increased from 32 per-
cent to 58 percent, and it climbed to 76 percent by 2017, almost matching the
concern of Black Americans (81 percent) for the first time. In another first,
the majority of white people surveyed in 2020 were persuaded that Black
people are treated less fairly by police and the judicial system (Horowitz,
Brown, and Cox 2019).
At the same time, and somewhat counterintuitively, reported racial re-
sentment toward Black people decreased among white people during the
­period of M4BL’s activity. Data from a panel study conducted between 2007
and 2018 showed that while anti-​Black prejudice is high, there has been a
measurable overall decline since 2014, with a sharp decline in reported belief
in anti-​Black stereotypes among whites, from an average score of 8.1 to an av-
erage of 5.4 (out of 10), regardless of party, between 2016 and 2018 (Hopkins
and Washington 2019). More provocatively, whites in counties where move-
ment groups held protests have average scores on racial resentment measures
that decreased significantly more than those of whites in counties where no
protests took place. In addition, in counties where protests took place, the
Democratic Party’s share of the vote increased on average 4 to 6 percentage
points (Mazumder 2019). The small pile of studies documenting these effects
is a critical body of evidence showing that contrary to the assumptions of
many traditional political professionals, bringing attention to racial ine-
quality through protest has important and measurable positive impacts on
political attitudes regarding racial equity. These kinds of shifts in attitudes
make space for new ways to address existing problems, making more expan-
sive policy change possible.
168 Reckoning

Unearthing the Submerged State

One of the most effective ways social movements disrupt things is by re-
vealing the workings of institutions that were not generally known before and
then helping us connect the dots from those newly visible occurrences to our
values, attitudes, and lives (Mettler 2011). M4BL has been able to show how
state power is used to shape, reinforce, and then naturalize patterns of racial
inequality. This ability to render the submerged state visible and traceable
to governing institutions has been a critical element of the movement’s suc-
cess. After all, patterns that are invisible are difficult to contest. In revealing
how structural racism constrains the lives of Black people and other people
of color, as well as how the intersecting ideological systems of patriarchy and
neoliberalism constrain and order people’s lives in a way that perpetuates and
maintains ascriptive hierarchy, M4BL has found a way to repoliticize public
life. The first step toward reconnecting with the idea of ourselves as dem-
ocratic citizens is to be able to see the impact of the workings of social and
political forces on the public. The “neoliberal common sense” that underlies
our institutions and social practices often prevents us from perceiving these
effects, because it is a doctrine that refuses to admit that social forces beyond
luck might thwart the individual’s will or constrain voluntary association in
significant and systematic ways (Woodly 2015b).
The political scientist Chloe Thurston points out previous social
movements have also exercised this democratic function: “[C]‌ivil rights or-
ganizations and social movements have long labored to lay bare the uses of
state power against racial minorities, as a way of contesting it.” M4BL’s “activ-
ities have illustrated this form of politics, and not only in areas involving po-
lice violence” (Thurston 2018, 163). For example, the Vision for Black Lives,
the movement’s 2016 and 2020 policy platforms, points to specific, concrete
ways to address the ways that federal policies advantage white households
while leaving Black households without access to publicly funded benefits
and opportunities. These differentially advantageous policies include tax
breaks for homeowners, healthcare linked to certain kinds of employment,
and taxing capital gains at a dramatically lower rate than wage-​based in-
come. In these platforms and other policy statements, the movement con-
sistently makes the case that institutional and legal advantages “allowed
white households to gain economic stability, amass wealth, and then to
transfer it across generations,” which is why the average white household has
nearly eight times the wealth of the average Black household. In addition to
 Movement Means Changing Politics 169

being excluded from benefits that skew aid to those who are more likely to
be white, Black Americans have also been denied opportunity through di-
rect, government-​sponsored systematic discrimination, most devastatingly
through the practice of redlining. Thurston concludes that, “[b]y pointing
out such disparities, [M4BL] offers an alternative perspective on material in-
equality that was tied not to individual merit in a fair capitalist system, but to
the state’s role in creating what Ira Katznelson has referred to as affirmative
action for white Americans” (Thurston 2018, 167). The carceral apparatus
is only one of the systems that has a long and brutal history of destroying
both individual lives and entire communities, changing the way that people
perceive and enact citizenship (Lerman and Weaver 2014). It is important
to understand “political mobilization as an effort by marginalized groups to
render the state’s role in their lives visible and legible” (Thurston 2018, 163).
In other words, for Black and brown people, the state has never been
submerged. Communities of color have long been aware that the “federal
government has used its coercive powers to control the settlement, move-
ment, and life chances of marginalized groups within its borders” (Thurston
2018, 166). The blatant, malicious interference of the state has been espe-
cially apparent to marginalized people involved in protest politics—​from
COINTELPRO in the mid-​twentieth century to the FBI declaration of a to-
tally made-​up category, “Black Identity Extremists,” in 2017 (Speri 2019).
There was also state-​level interference from law enforcement groups such as
the NYPD, which admitted to infiltrating and surveilling M4BL movement
participants’ phones and organization meetings (Morales and Ly 2019).
In my interviews, movement participants expressed concern about being
surveilled by state agencies, and some people who declined to be interviewed
did so because they had become extremely cautious, even paranoid, con-
cerning new people. They were aware that they could be charged with very
severe crimes, up to and including terrorism, for civil disobedience. This
made recruitment and integration of new people into activist roles and pla-
nning large actions difficult and dangerous. The FBI was using the “Black
Identity Extremist” guidance for months before the memo establishing the
fictional category was leaked to the press. Immediately there was an outcry
from activists, civil libertarians, and civil rights organizations; even the
National Organization of Black Law Enforcement Executives put out a state-
ment condemning the designation, warning, “This assessment resurrects
the historically negative legacy of African American civil rights leaders who
were unconstitutionally targeted and attacked by federal, state, and local
170 Reckoning

law enforcement agencies for seeking full U.S. citizenship under the law”
(NOBLE 2017). Even so, this “threat guidance” continued to be used and a
memo leaked from the Justice Department in 2019 revealed that despite co-
pious conflicting evidence, the Trump administration considered this fictive
group to be a bigger threat than white supremacists or al-​Qaeda (Winter,
Francis, and Naylor 2020).
Social movements in general, and M4BL in particular, make a critical
democratic intervention into public understandings of state power while at
the same time enduring repression in the form of surveillance, threats, in-
terference, and retributive punishment by state actors. This state repression
is part of the reason for the decline in street and other disruptive protests in
the years immediately following the 2016 election, and yet another reason
to be astonished at the size and scope of the massive demonstrations that
reemerged in American cities throughout the summer of 2020.

Shifting Political Attitudes by Changing Public Meanings

One reason for the ability of the movement to weather state repression
after 2016 may be the fact that media coverage of events associated with
#BlackLivesMatter in 2014 and 2015 was relatively sympathetic by histor-
ical standards (Elmasry and el-​Nawawy 2017). That means that people who
learned about movement activity from non-​right-​wing news sources were
more likely to hear the voices and perspectives of activists and organizers
than is usual in protest coverage, and that coverage was more likely to be
positive in tone. There is not one definitive answer as to why media coverage
of the Black Lives Matter movement evinced these tendencies, but there are
several contributing factors to consider.
First, by 2014 the world was amid a global pro-​democracy cycle of con-
tention that was being self-​reported and mobilized online. In 2009, the
“Green Movement,” a pro-​democracy movement in Iran exploded into the
social media sphere, gaining worldwide attention. In 2010, what came to
be known as the “Arab Spring” was in full bloom, with peoples across the
region contesting the legitimacy and authority of their governing bodies,
demanding more responsive governance, and, in some cases, ousting long-​
standing regimes. In 2011, the United States joined the fray with Occupy
Wall Street. By that time, media had developed a narrative habit of treating
protests demanding representation as credible.
 Movement Means Changing Politics 171

Second, coverage of these twenty-​first-​century uprisings began on Twitter

and proliferated across social media. This means there was a wealth of first-
hand accounts framing the political problems and narrating the protest ac-
tion authored from the point of view of people who were involved, so that
journalists’ views were first shaped by activists and ordinary observers rather
than by authorities. This way of learning about what is significant about pol-
itics is an inversion of the usual path reporting takes, which starts with the
word of officials and then explores contrasting opinions afterward, creating a
bias toward official accounts and against political challengers.
As a result of both the standing narrative sympathetic to twenty-​first-​
century pro-​democracy movements and social media’s impact on reporting
routines, news stories used dramatically more quotes from protestors than
from law enforcement or government officials during the Ferguson uprising.
Mohammed Elmasry and Mohamad el-​Nawawy analyzed coverage of the
2014 protests in the New York Times and the St. Louis Post-​Dispatch. They
noted that in contradiction to expectations based on previous findings of
media coverage of protest, “both newspapers directly quoted protesters more
than they quoted police officers and government officials combined, and po-
lice officers were directly quoted the least” (Elmasry and el-​Nawawy 2017,
869). Specifically, they found that in the New York Times, protestors were
quoted on average 4.38 times per article, while government officials were
quoted 1.8 times and police only 1.3 times. In the St. Louis Post-​Dispatch, the
pattern held, with protestors directly quoted 4.76 times, on average, com-
pared with government officials (2.1 times) and police (1.16 times). Elmasry
and Mohamad el-​Nawawy concluded, “The fact that protesters were sourced
so regularly and so prominently may offer the best clue as to why articles ul-
timately tended to frame protests as ‘peaceful’ (rather than as ‘riots’)” (869).
The regular use of protestors as sources for news stories was not mere hap-
penstance, nor was it only a product of the social media zeitgeist. Three fur-
ther circumstances contributed to the inversion of authority-​bias that usually
characterizes news coverage: (1) Ferguson police abused reporters along
with protestors during the uprisings, and the images—​both those taken on
cell phones and those captured by professional photo journalists—​showed
a shockingly militarized police presence, with law enforcement officers re-
peatedly caught pointing guns at or threatening to kill the people who had
assembled to call attention to their mistreatment; (2) the cascade of widely
circulated and highly publicized videos of police murdering Black people
continued to stream unceasingly and highlighted the discontinuity between
172 Reckoning

the reality that Black people and many other marginalized groups experi-
ence at the hands of police and the discordant narrative that these forces were
made to “protect and serve”; and finally, (3) trained communication and
visual media staff within the movement often had experience connecting to
and building credibility with journalists.
The fact that there were trained people vested with the task of communi-
cating movement stories to media has made a difference in the perception of
the movement from its inception. One instance early in the life of the move-
ment illustrates the decisive importance of the movement’s respect for public
discourse.
On July 7, 2016, dozens of contemporaneous protests were organ-
ized to call attention to the fact that police had murdered Alton Sterling
in Louisiana on July 5 and Philando Castile in Minnesota on July 6. One
of those protests was organized by Next Generation Action Network in
Dallas, Texas. The demonstration was one of the largest taking place across
the nation and, like the overwhelming majority of mass actions associated
with the movement, had been wholly peaceful (Chenoweth and Pressman
2020) when the night suddenly erupted with the sound of rapid gunshots.
Micah Xavier Johnson, a Black army veteran, had climbed to the top of a
parking garage, armed with an assault weapon and a handgun, and opened
fire. Johnson was unaffiliated with any organization associated with the
Movement for Black Lives, but he was nevertheless a Black man who
expressed animus toward white police and killed four officers during a pro-
test. The Pew Research Center found that news coverage changed in the
wake of the sniper’s actions in Dallas, with news stories becoming more
likely to portray the movement as a source of dangerous division. However,
BLM was able to win back positive coverage in a relatively short span—​not
by chance, but because of the efforts of a dedicated and skilled communica-
tions apparatus.
M4BL condemned the ambush and killing of police while emphasizing
that the shooter had no affiliation with the movement and, utilizing their
brilliant ability to connect specific instances to larger political and social
patterns, insisted that the gunman ought to be just as eligible for the “lone
gunman” trope as he would have been if he were white. An article in the
Guardian noted, “It was a type of angst familiar to many people of color,
and perhaps best encapsulated in a tweet by the writer Ijeoma Oluo: ‘We
are all awake, waiting for news, because we know: if the shooter is white, he
pays. If the shooter is black, our entire movement pays.’ ” The article further
 Movement Means Changing Politics 173

reported that “[t]‌he BLM organization responded . . . head-​on, calling the

attack ‘the result of the actions of a lone gunman’ and calling it ‘dangerous
and irresponsible’ to ‘assign the actions of one person to an entire move-
ment’ ” (Lartey and Felton 2016). The same article quoted the Washington,
DC–​based activist Lauren Allen as she explained that the movement would
not be cowed by baseless accusations. She pointed out that “Black Lives
Matter [is] the simplest affirmation out there. Anyone against affirming
that Black Lives Matter simply thinks they don’t. The events in Dallas don’t
change that” (quoted in Lartey and Felton 2016). In this instance, one that
could have easily been the undoing of the movement’s largely positive public
image, those affiliated remained undeterred from this simple, profound
anchor—​Black lives, all Black lives, matter, and the movement would not
curtail this demand even in the face of attempts to blame the group for one
unaffiliated individual’s actions.

Displacing the Colorblind Narrative

This foundational belief is the place from which all discursive battles in the
movement are waged. Through sustained effort, M4BL has ushered in a new
understanding of why frank acknowledgement of anti-​Blackness must be
at the center of efforts toward social, political, and economic equity in the
United States. It is a stunning accomplishment, and it was gained through
persistent and persuasive arguments that reframed the nature of the problem
as one of combatting white supremacy rather than combatting instances
of discrimination. It is perhaps no surprise then that the movement fought
so hard to prevent the phrase Black Lives Matter from being co-​opted or
changed to All Lives Matter in the early days of the hashtag’s popularity. In
so doing, the movement convinced people who consider themselves allied
not to deploy that phrase and, further, exhorted them to educate others about
why that lingual substitution is unacceptable. A Pew Research Center report
quotes one respondent, who explained:

Black lives matter vs. All lives matter: I’m white. Initially, I saw nothing
wrong with saying “All lives matter”—​because all lives do matter. Through
social media I’ve seen many explanations of why that statement is actually
dismissive of the current problem of black lives seeming to matter less than
others and my views have changed. (Anderson 2016)
174 Reckoning

The movement worked to displace the dominant colorblind narrative that

had reigned as the standard of liberal fairness in the late twentieth century
with one that used systemic racism as its main lens. Using this method of
confronting the dominant mythologies of race neutrality or blindness as
standards for justice, the movement has been successful at changing the po-
litical conversations as well as some people’s attitudes.
For example, one study by the social psychologists Jeremy Sawyer and
Anup Gampa, which examined the racial attitudes of 1,369,204 respondents
between 2009 and 2016, found that the social movement had a significant
impact on reducing “pro-​white” racist attitudes in the population at large.
Indeed, the authors posit that social movements are the only phenomenon
that has been successful at changing society-​wide attitudes. Lab experiments
and prominent non-​stereotypical exemplars (like Barack Obama) appear to
have either no effect or short-​term effects on public attitudes that revert to
the mean after a matter of days (Sawyer and Gampa 2018).
By contrast, social movements create new associations with the group
making claims, and this repeated exposure can change people’s implicit
evaluations of the group because it changes the underlying associations that
shape their impression of the group. Further, exposure to social movements
not only changes the concepts that people associate (consciously or uncon-
sciously) with the group protesting, but can also cause them to alter their own
identity. In the case of M4BL, this means that people who support the move-
ment come to think of their moral and political duty as one characterized
by an active anti-​racism rather than by the passive non-​racism indicated in
the fictive ideology of colorblindness. Though there are valid critiques of the
limits of certain kinds of “anti-​racist” approaches to politics and social life,
the fact remains that this change in self-​perception leads to changes in both
political attitudes and behaviors.
In addition, movement rallies, interviews, and media coverage have given
Black people the opportunity to directly voice their experiences and analyses
of racism and its effects. This is potentially significant because listening to
opinions expressed through speech seems to increase the likelihood that indi-
viduals will attribute nuanced, human qualities (rather than dehumanizing
stereotypical ones) to those expressing the opinion—​even if they do not cur-
rently share that opinion (Schroeder, Kardas, and Epley 2017). Furthermore,
the millions of non-​Black individuals who attend demonstrations in de-
fense of Black lives or who come to politically identify with the movement
may create new associations between themselves and Black people; such
 Movement Means Changing Politics 175

associations with the self are thought to produce more positive evaluations
of the attitude object (Walther and Trasselli 2003). Furthermore, through
participation in or identification with the social movement, there is the pos-
sibility of creating a common in-​group identity (e.g., as anti-​racists) that
includes a multiracial coalition, which evidence suggests can reduce racial
bias (Gaertner and Dovidio 2005).
It is crucial to underline this point: exposure to social movements can
change people’s attitudes in a way that exposure to individuals in the group
who are deemed exceptional do not. For example, Barack Obama may ac-
tivate specific preexisting associations with him, in particular (e.g., pow-
erful, accomplished), which do not translate to the group. In contrast, a
social movement that repeatedly pairs Black people in general with posi-
tive concepts and words (“joy,” “magic,” “unapologetic,” “care”), images, and
traits (honest, courageous, determined) can change the underlying valence
of associations that observers have with Black people in general, thus causing
more fundamental and lasting change in people’s perceptions at the aggre-
gate, societal level. This means social movements can change the common
public associations about what membership in a group means. This is a pro-
found effect of social movements. Admittedly, such changes in attitudes do
not guarantee immediate changes in the actions of the powerful or the adop-
tion of policies favored by the group, but it does reshape the field of polit-
ical possibilities available to political challengers, giving them space to make
their case in the public sphere and increasing the possibility that they may
persuade majorities and decision-​makers to their side (Woodly 2015a).
Finally, although systemic racism is a seemingly intractable problem, a
mass movement like M4BL can stimulate the political imagination, raising
hopes that there are things that can be done to solve long-​standing problems.
This increases the sense of political efficacy in the polity, combatting the poli-
tics of despair. Such an increased sense of efficacy has been found to not only
increase whites’ engagement in anti-​discriminatory action but also to be as-
sociated with an increase in explicitly positive attitudes toward Black people
(Stewart et al. 2010). Further, Sawyer and Gampa’s (2018) study shows that
since the emergence of the Movement for Black Lives, the trend among white
people toward increasing anti-​Black attitudes, which accelerated during the
Obama administration, has begun to reverse. And unlike public opinion
data, which shows this shift away from anti-​Blackness only among liberals,
this measure of implicit and explicit bias shows that liberals and conserva-
tive whites were all affected—​with the highest-​magnitude changes among
176 Reckoning

liberals, and less dramatic, but still statistically significant, changes among
conservative whites.
Interestingly, among Black respondents the changes were different: Black
people’s explicit attitudes have become more race neutral since 2014, but
their implicit attitudes have not changed, remaining neutral to slightly pro-​
Black. At first glance, these appear to be opposing trends in Blacks’ and
whites’ explicit attitudes, but they can also be viewed as a mutual shift toward
an egalitarian, no preference position. Such a shift in explicit attitudes could
be considered consistent with the movement’s egalitarian underpinning
(Sawyer and Gampa 2018, 1056). This is a noteworthy finding. Apparently,
the implied “also” in Black Lives Matter was readily apparent to Black people,
who experienced all the movement’s pro-​Blackness as egalitarianism in the
face of what Edward Bonilla-​Silva has called colorblind racism.

Communicating the Movement

Remember, this push toward awareness of both Black humanity and the white
supremacist ideology that denies it did not happen because of a natural po-
litical evolution; instead, it has been the result of public discourse and polit-
ical action initiated by people involved in the movement. This kind of public
education through discussion and participation is, in part, what movements
do simply by taking to the streets and articulating their positions, but M4BL
has been very deliberate about embarking on the communicative and educa-
tional aspect of movement work, making an effort to deploy consistent and
resonant framing in a variety of different modalities and mediums.
Professional communications people in movement spaces, like Shanelle
Matthews and Fresco Steez, understand their jobs in very expansive terms.
Movement communicators must not only be prepared for rapid response in
the face of crisis, but must also understand their ultimate purpose to be the
facilitation of widespread changes in general attitudes. In a 2017 interview,
Matthews explained her job as the

eradication of existing harmful narratives that are deeply insidious and

rooted oftentimes in our subconscious, so it requires a particular kind of
approach . . ., to eradicate those and to create new narratives but it's also
think[ing] about how people in America understand Blackness, Black
people, and so it's redefining for ourselves in this current iteration of the
 Movement Means Changing Politics 177

Black Liberation Movement what Blackness looks like and in creating

narratives that [are] not about just hearts and heads, and not just Black
people but [about] people of all races and ethnicities [and] about how Black
people exist in the world, who we are, how we construct our families, how
we identify—​you know, on our very real humanness. There is a pervasive
dehumanization around Blackness and it leads to both implicit and explicit
prejudicial policing, vigilante violence, death, deportation, and interper-
sonal violence between everyday people which makes even the most simple
of interactions undignified. The work from where I come from is about
changing people’s behavior so that Black people can live free full lives in this
democracy.

It is important to understand that not only is the Movement for Black Lives
a consortium of individuals and organizations whose concerns are much
broader than police violence, but likewise that the hashtag #BlackLivesMatter
became the anchor for a wide-​ranging online conversation that spawned ad-
ditional hashtags, and attendant attention, information-​gathering, reporting,
and frame development for topics from Black women’s often overlooked
deaths at the hands of police (#SayHerName) to Black men’s mental health
(#YouGoodMan) and celebrations of Black culture (#ThanksgivingWithBl
ackFamilies). These nested arguments created an expansive frame relating
the idea that Black Lives Matter to many aspects of life in a way that was
both plural and coherent, giving the discussions that took place under the
banner of the hashtag texture and gravitas. People could find many spaces
in movement discourse where they could locate themselves. Because there
was so much space for people to see themselves and their various lived expe-
rience, there was a multitudinous proliferation of conversations on themes,
problems, and solutions inspired but not controlled by movement organiza-
tions. Indeed, one study of social media accounts that self-​identified as (and
produced content) supportive of the Black Lives Matter Movement found
that 44 percent of such accounts had no explicit organizational links (Mundt,
Ross, and Burnett 2018).
For example, the hashtag #IfTheyGunnedMeDown served as a contem-
poraneous critique of media coverage perpetuating anti-​Black troupes about
victims of police violence. The hashtag was not initiated by a movement or-
ganization; instead, it was authored by ordinary Black people who flooded
their social media timelines with two dichotomous pictures of themselves
under the hashtag—​one that, through the lens of white supremacy, could
178 Reckoning

be considered “respectable,” such as a graduation photo, and another that,

through the same lens, could be considered “thuggish,” with the subject in
hip-​hop fashions with a red Solo cup in hand. These side-​by-​side images cre-
ated a powerful space for highlighting how white-​supremacist stereotypes
function to deny Black people’s humanity and negatively impact their life
chances even when no one individual is acting the part of the racist villain.
Social media hashtags like this one created a space where people could express
their personal fears—​in this case, the fear of being murdered by police—​in a
broader context that illuminated the systemic practices and structural rela-
tions that render Black life expendable. Importantly, this hashtag and others
like it created a context in which Black people could share the personal fear
and pain that results from simply existing in a Black body in the world as it is.
This way of sharing personal experiences—​while explicitly connecting those
experiences to a cultural and structural context—​created a sense of commu-
nity, reframed debates about the impact of race on daily life in America, and
launched a trenchant critique that was immediately legible to both sympa-
thetic non-​Black people observing the conversation and to decision-​makers
in media who were being called out.
When I say that these hashtagged conversations create a sense of commu-
nity, I mean they foster a sense of “membership, influence, integration and
fulfill [the] need [for] shared emotional connection” (Schuschke and Tynes
2016, 27). Communities are often created and nurtured in private, but social
media communities manage to create a sense of intimacy while existing en-
tirely in public view. It is a peculiar and marvelous phenomenon. It not only
allows people to build connections, cultivate group identities, and signify (a
term describing the display cultural competence through wordplay), but it
also allows those outside the group to witness this process, following along,
adapting, and, sometimes, appropriating (and being criticized for appropri-
ating) as their own inclination and context warrants. This, of course, is the
normal process of colloquial language, but social media makes the genesis
vivid and increases the speed of linguistic and idea-​formation and diffusion
exponentially. For example, “Black Twitter” is such a community. It is the col-
loquial name for Black users of the social media platform who are frequent
participants in discussing various topics through a Black cultural lens (Brock
2012; Florini 2014; Sharma 2013). The denizens of Black Twitter frequently
discuss both politics and pop culture, celebrating and critiquing mainstream
phenomena (like the HBO fantasy epic Game of Thrones, discussed under
the hashtag #DemThrones) and works created by Black artists (lush debates
 Movement Means Changing Politics 179

about the relevance of Beyoncé’s #Lemonade). This combination creates

an intimate atmosphere that is full of challenge, amusement, and analysis,
which can be witnessed by anyone, and has therefore become influential in
shaping American cultural understandings and public meanings, particu-
larly on topics that are understood (or come to be understood) as racialized.
In interviews conducted with the managers of social media pages asso-
ciated with M4BL, Marcia Mundt and her coauthors found that M4BL
organizers explicitly identified three main uses for social media engagement.
First, social media helps to mobilize resources, including both human and
material capital. Second, these platforms are useful for building coalition
between different movement organizations and potential allies outside the
movement. Finally, social media is key for shaping and controlling the narra-
tive of the movement (Mundt, Ross, and Burnett 2018; Yang 2016).
Another important aspect of the massive yet discursively coherent social
media presence of the movement is that a lot of different kinds of people en-
gage with it. The Movement for Black Lives is first and foremost for Black
people, but it occupies an influential place in a multiracial social justice space
peopled with both organizations whose focus is complimentary but distinct,
such as #MeToo and the Environmental Justice Movement, and individuals
who simply consider themselves and/​or aspire to be anti-​racist. Estimates of
BLM-​branded email lists and Facebook groups often include up to 40 percent
non-​Black members unless they are explicitly restricted to participants who
identify as Black (Olteanu, Weber, and Gatica-​Perez 2016).Though no move-
ment is fully able to direct the ways its message is taken up, the social media
environment adds a level of complexity, since parties outside the movement
may use hashtags to index thoughts and link ideas according to their own in-
terpretation, in a way that amounts to what Jelani Ince and his coauthors call
“distributed framing” (Ince, Rojas, and Davis 2017).
Distributed framing has advantages and detriments. On the one hand, it
allows a wide swath of people who are learning about or supportive of move-
ment goals to participate in and shape the conversation about the ideas,
problems, and issues that might be fruitfully discussed under the banner of
movement-​originating hashtags. This is a positive element of social media
discourse because it increases the number of arguments nested under one
narrative frame. As I showed in the Politics of Common Sense, movements that
are able to sustain broad and nuanced public conversations that are neverthe-
less coherent are more likely to change public meanings about their struggle.
M4BL has been remarkably successful in this regard. Disparate users deploy
180 Reckoning

multiple related hashtags to describe different experiences and observations

while all are still able to connect their analysis to #BlackLivesMatter.
On the other hand, distributive framing allows people who wish to chal-
lenge the motivations and veracity of the movement to argue, mischar-
acterize, or co-​opt hashtags for contradictory or malicious interventions.
However, counternarratives to movement framings have been less successful.
For example, the detracting hashtags #AllLivesMatter, #BlueLivesMatter,
and #TCOT (top conservatives on Twitter) were less tightly correlated in
co-​occurrence, making counterarguments less coherent than the movement
frames that were anchored by #blm and #Ferguson, and, in any case, were
dwarfed in the overall frequency of Twitter discourse and fell in circulation
more quickly (Ince, Rojas, and Davis 2017; Ray et al. 2017).
The broad movement in defense of Black lives has had such success com-
municating its message because it has focused not only on changing policy,
but also, and more fundamentally, on changing how we think about what jus-
tice requires. The movement has done this by taking anti-​Blackness straight
on, not only refusing to use colorblind frameworks but also challenging
would-​be allies not to either. This challenge is accompanied by an explana-
tion that is repeated via multiple mediums and across venues from social
media to conventional news and in creative projects. Those involved in the
movement understand that what needs to change is not only policy but also
public meanings.
Jennifer Hochschild writes that “changing meaning is changing the
measure of value” (Hochschild 1996, 67). If you change the measure of
value, outcomes can be different even when the formula or underlying prin-
ciple remains the same. This is what we have to learn about the significance
of public meaning (the commonplace assessment/​measure of value) and
political understanding (the formula or principle that the value ought to be
plugged into: results norm, ascriptive norm, etc.). Speech is the action that
changes the relationship between these terms: it is through speech that we
come to understand and communicate the relevant measure of value of cer-
tain things (e.g., regarding the death penalty, is it more important to kill the
guilty or refrain from killing the innocent?). And it is through speech that
we plug these value measures into existing principles (e.g., justice as repair
not retribution).
 Movement Means Changing Politics 181

Decarceral Trends and Decreases in Police Killings

During the time that the Movement for Black Lives has been making claims
in the public sphere, there have been several notable decarceral trends. Since
2014, the movement has added urgency and gravitas to the ongoing prison
reform and abolitionist work that has been taking place in the country since
the late twentieth century. There is no evidence that M4BL’s activities directly
caused the beginning of a larger-​scale decarceral tendency, but the wide cir-
culation of decarceral arguments in mainstream public discourse, which
is attributable to the movement, created a common-​sense justification for
attempting to shrink the incarcerated population.
In the year after the uprising in Ferguson and the formation of the
movement, the number of incarcerated people dropped dramatically, con-
tinuing a trend that goes back to 2009. From 2014 to 2015, the US prison
population shrank by 2.3 percent, or 35,716 people. Each year thereafter,
the prison population has shrunk by about 1.2 percent, or around 18,000
people. This rate of decarceration, while painfully slow, represents a re-
versal of the trend of greater incarceration that occurred every year from
1980 to 2009, when the first small drop (0.1 percent or 1,684 people) was
followed by fluctuating increases and decreases until 2014, when protesters
took over the streets in support of preserving Black lives in cities and towns
across the nation. While police violence has not decreased overall nation-
ally, police killing of Black people, particularly in cities, has decreased sig-
nificantly (see Figure 3).
In addition, a 2021 study by Travis Campbell found that between 2014 and
2019, cities and towns where BLM protests had been held had as much as a
20 percent decline in police killings. This means that protestors may have
saved an estimated three hundred lives during the period (Daley 2021).
While these findings are stunning, it is important to note that the mechanisms
causing the decarceral trend and the decline in police homicides remain un-
clear. And while police killings decreased across the nation, police killings in
four cities—​Minneapolis, Portland, San Francisco, and St. Louis—​actually
increased. What is clear is that there is a significant correlation between the
emergence of the Black Lives Matter movement, less incarceration, and fewer
homicides of Black people by police.
182 Reckoning

200

146
150
132
117

119 122
100 109
103

50

0
2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019
Killings by Police per Year

Figure 3. Number of Black people killed by police in the United States,

2013–​2019.
Source: Mapping Police Violence: National Trends (data science project of Campaign Zero),
https://​mappingpoliceviolence.org/​nationaltrends.

Tactical Diffusion

Another effect of the movement has been the diffusion of tactics that aim to
decrease civilian contact with police and the resultant violence and incarcer-
ation. There are two main tactics that have been popularized by M4BL: the
electoral removal of corrupt or regressive district attorneys and sheriffs, and
the promotion of bail-​out funds and actions. The former tactic has been
the most widespread, bringing attention to the astonishing latitude and al-
most unchecked power of prosecutors in the juridical process. Early on, the
movement and affiliated organizations began targeting elected prosecutors
with records of overzealous criminalization of Black and brown youth com-
bined with histories of never holding police accountable for violence against
civilians and, in some cases, helping them cover up particularly troubling
incidents. The first of two high-​profile prosecutors removed by movement
campaigns were Florida’s notorious Angela Corey, who was the State’s
Attorney during the George Zimmerman trial, and Illinois’s Anita Alvarez,
who presided over the police cover-​up of the murder of a mentally ill teen-
ager, Laquan McDonald. Both prosecutors were handed crushing defeats in
 Movement Means Changing Politics 183

2016, the first elections held after the notorious incidents and the formation
of M4BL.
In Florida, a progressive coalition, including members of Dream
Defenders, worked to oust Corey, dubbed “the cruelest prosecutor in
America” (Pishko 2016a) due to her penchant for charging preteen children
as adults, her eagerness to seek the death penalty, and her pattern of pros-
ecuting victims of abuse for offenses committed during the course of that
abuse. Her reluctance to charge George Zimmerman for the stalking murder
of Trayvon Martin, and her eagerness to shut Marissa Alexander behind bars
for firing warning shots at her abusive husband, are only two examples of
a history of seemingly malicious prosecution. Before those cases, she made
herself infamous because she charged twelve-​year-​old Christian Fernandez
as an adult after the boy pushed his two-​year-​old brother into a bookshelf,
causing the toddler to sustain a fatal skull fracture. She moved forward with
murder charges even though medical experts testified that the toddler would
not have died had the children’s mother taken him to the hospital after the
injury. The mother, Biannela Susana, was not home at the time of the inci-
dent and did not take the younger boy to the hospital until nine hours later
because she hoped the boy would wake on his own and was afraid that child
protective services would take her children from her.
This tragic series of events does much to not only illuminate Corey’s pat-
tern of cruelty, but also to highlight the recurrence of the themes I have
emphasized regarding the politics of care. Think about the facts of this case
and observe what could be gained by a politics of care. Imagine a child wel-
fare system in which poor and working mothers could be supported instead
of threatened when they find their children injured or endangered. Imagine a
politics in which we recognized that living wages and affordable childcare for
parents go a much longer way in providing for the safety of all children than
the separation of families and punishment of the neglected after the fact.
While the tactic of removing regressive DA’s is widespread, it is not al-
ways a straightforward fight of good versus evil. The way that prosecutors
are structurally positioned, their job is to punish, even when they intend to
wield that power in a less harmful way. In addition, the electoral conditions
surrounding races for district attorney are not always favorable to move-
ment demands or preferences. For example, the fight to oust Corey was not
straightforward. Not only did organizers have to make certain that people
understood that prosecutors are elected and could therefore be voted out;
they also had to grapple with the fact that Corey’s only credible opponent,
184 Reckoning

Melissa Nelson, was a conservative Republican endorsed by the NRA.

However, she was also one of the attorneys who defended 12-​year-​old
Christian Fernandez. Those in coalition to oust Corey could not in good
conscience campaign for Nelson. Instead, they could only campaign against
Corey, a polarizing figure who had earned enemies on all sides of the po-
litical spectrum. As such, their victory could only be partial. Nevertheless,
organizers understood that removing Corey would be an important first step
for both forwarding an argument about rampant and cruel overprosecution
and significantly reducing harm to people subject to the authority of the dis-
trict attorney’s office.
In addition to the ethical complexities organizers faced, they also had
to wrestle with practical challenges associated with the laws surrounding
DA elections. Those working to remove Corey from office had to deal with
deviously creative election chicanery that had echoes of the Jim Crow era,
which were perpetrated by Corey’s campaign. This is because, in Florida,
party primaries are open to all voters if there is no one running from an-
other party. Republicans dominate the northeastern part of the state, and
Corey’s opponent was also a Republican. However, Corey directed her
campaign manager to file paperwork for her to run as a third-​party can-
didate, thus technically making the election a competition between two
parties and therefore artificially creating a closed primary. This cynical
ploy (which was deemed legal) meant that only registered Republicans
would be able to vote, and nearly all the Black folks who organized to have
her removed had been expecting to vote in an open primary, but would
now be locked out of the election unless they changed their party affiliation
(Piskho 2016). Nevertheless, working in coalition, those who had stood up
for Trayvon Martin stood against Angela Corey. When Election Day came,
Melissa Nelson, won the primary, beating Corey by 38 percentage points.
This was a remarkable achievement, as no incumbent prosecutor in this
district had ever lost a contested election before.
In the same year, a coalition of groups under the banner of the move-
ment, led by BYP100, unseated Chicago District Attorney Anita Alvarez.
Alvarez had presided over both the police cover-​up of the murder of
Laquan McDonald and the maintenance of an off-​the-​books interroga-
tion center in Homan Square, where seven thousand African American
arrestees were abducted and held in secret detention facilities for months or
years (Ackerman 2015). Black youth in Chicago organized the #ByeAnita
 Movement Means Changing Politics 185

campaign that would not only unseat the two-​term incumbent prosecutor,
but also handed her a bruising defeat in which she lost every majority Black
ward in Chicago and won less than 30 percent of the vote in a three-​person
race for the office (Grimm 2016). In her place, movement organizations
supported the successful bid of a progressive young African American lawyer,
Kim Foxx, who campaigned on the need for a special prosecutor to examine
all police-​involved shootings, sentencing reform, and transparent and ac-
curate data collection by the Chicago Police Department (Uetricht 2016).
However, the #ByeAnita campaign had even further-​reaching consequences.
The movement’s work to expose the deep corruption of the Chicago Police
Department and the district attorney’s office in covering up the murder of
McDonald had also implicated the city’s mayor, Rahm Emmanuel, who
announced shortly after Alvarez’s resounding defeat that he would not seek a
third term in office.
In Houston, the movement helped unseat another district attorney, Devon
Anderson, who had a history of mysteriously losing evidence and turning
a blind eye to the abuse or death of arrestees in jail. Movement organiza-
tions and their collaborators and allies have fought and won similar victo-
ries in St. Louis, Missouri; rural Mississippi; Henry County, Georgia; several
counties in Florida; and numerous locales in California, New York, and more
(Alcindor 2016; Smith 2016). As Figures 4–​8 show, except for the Rocky
Mountain states (excluding Colorado), there is no region of the country un-
touched by this movement tactic. Since 2014, a wave of progressive or re-
form prosecutors have been elected all over the nation. While the definition
of “progressive” prosecutor is hotly debated, and many public defenders
will argue with you about whether such a designation can ever be accurate,
seventy-​three prosecutors who claim the mantle “progressive” have unseated
more conservative incumbents since the events in Ferguson.
The second major tactic that has diffused more widely since the movement
popularized their use is the creation of bail-​out programs. These programs
are aimed at bringing attention to the injustice of the cash bail system, in
which defendants who are charged with crimes but have not been convicted
are held in jail rather than being allowed to go home to await trial simply be-
cause they do not have the ability to pay. The most common use of bail funds
previous to being taken up by the movement was to get people out of immi-
gration detention. Although bail funds were occasionally used to free people
charged with domestic criminal offenses, especially in large coastal cities like
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Stage total of Reform/Progressive DAs

□ o □ 1-2 □ 3- 4 □ s-6 ■ 1-s ■ 9-10

Figure 4. Number of reform and/or progressive prosecutors in each US state.

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Figure 5. Western regional map of progressive and reform prosecutors.

 John Choi [2010] J Hanley[2020] Christian Gossett [2006]
Ramsey County Attorney Winnebago County District Attorney
Winnebago County State’s Attorney
Pete Orput [2010]
Washington County Attorney John Chisholm [2006]
Milwaukee County District Attorney

Kimberly Foxx [2016]

Cook County State’s Attorney

North Dakota Karen McDonald [2020]

Oakland County Prosecuting Attorney
0
Bismarck
Minnesota Eli Savit [2020]
Washtenaw County Prosecuting Attorney

South Dakota St. Paul 0 Carol A. Siemon [2016]

0 Pierre Wisconsin ' '
Ingham County Prosecuting Attorney
Michigan

Nebraska
Iowa
0
Des Moines
Madison

Chicago
Lansing
·-~
Detroit

Ohio
Michael O’Malley [2016]
Cuyahoga County Prosecuting Attorney

Lincoln Indiana Columbus

0
Illinois
0
0 Indianapolis
Springfield Gary Tyack [2020]
Topeka
St. Louis Franklin County Prosecuting Attorney

Kansas 0
Jefferson City Zachary Klein [2017]
Columbus City Attorney
Missouri Ryan Mears [2019]
Marion County Prosecutor

Wesley Bell [2018]

St Louis County Prosecuting Attorney
Mark Dupree, Sr. [2016]
Wyandotte County District Attorney Kimberly Gardner [2016]
Todd Thompson [2008] City of St Louis Circuit Attorney
Leavenworth County District Attorney
Locke Thompson [2018]
Cole County Prosecuting Attorney

Figure 6. Midwest regional map of progressive and reform prosecutors.

Buta Biberaj [2019]

Joseph Platania [2017] Loudoun County Commonwealth Attorney
Rachel Romano [2015] Charlottesv lle C ty Commonwealth Attorney
Harrison Coun y Prosecuting Attorney
Jim Hingeley [2019] Parisa Dehghani Tafti [2019]
-Commonwealth
Albemarle County - ' Arl ngton County Commonweal h Attorney
Amy Weirich [2011] Attorney
She by County District Attorney Bryan Porter [2013]
Alexandria City Commonwealth Attorney

Scott Colon [2015]

Lowndes/Oktibbeha/Clay/Noxubee County District Attorney Mike O’Connell [2018]
\\ Steve T. Descano [2019]
Fairfax County Commonweal h Attorney

Amy Ashworth [2019]

\t
Prince William County Commonwea th Attorney
Jefferson County Attorney

Jody Owens [2019] Colette McEachin [2019]

H nds County District Attorney W.V. Richmond Richmond C ty Commonwealth Attorney

Shameca Collins [2019] Stephanie N. Morales [2015]

Adams/Amite/ Frankl n/Wilkinson County District Attorney
Frankfort Virginia Portsmouth C ty Commonwealth Attorney

Kentucky Raleigh
-~~ •.
North Carolina ,, Faris Dixon [2018]
John Creuzot [2018]
Da las County Distr ct Attorney
Oklahoma
Arkansas
Nashville
Tennessee ·-- --- --- --
P tt County Distr ct Attorney
--
Satana Deberry [2018]

-!\.
Ok ahoma City
South Durham County District Attorney
Jose Garza [2020] Carolina
Trav s County District Attorney Little Rock

Mississippi
Alabama t.:.-.·.:··-...
Atlanta

Georgia
Fani Willis [2020]
:
:Montgomery
®
Fu ton County Distr ct Attorney
Sherry Boston [2016]
Louisiana : Jackson I DeKalb County Distr ct Attorney

Texas George Hartwig [2010]

Houston County D strict A torney
Baton Rouge Tallahassee
-.•Austin
.: '. / Darius Pattillo [2016]
Hendry County District Attorney
Houston .-~ ~ -1

. /11 _i'f/\ l
Florida
Joe Gonzales [2018] Melissa Nelson [2016]
Bexar County District Attorney Lynneice O. Washington [2016] Clay/Duval/Nassau County State Attorney
Jefferson County D strict Attorney
Bessemer Division Monique Worrell [2020]
Phillip Terrell [2014] Danny Carr [2018] Miami Orange/Osceola County State Attorney
Rapides Parish Distr ct Attorney Jefferson County D strict A torney B rmingham Division
Mark A. Gonzalex [2016]
Nueces County D strict A torney
.,, James Stewart Sr. [2014]
Hillar Moore III [2008]
~ -
East Baton Rouge Parish D strict Attorney
Kim Ogg [2016] Caddo Parish District Attorney
Harris County D strict A torney Paul D. Connick, Jr. [1996]
Jefferson Par sh D strict A torney Dave Aronberg [2012]
Palm Beach State Attorney
Brian M. Middleton [2018]
Jason R. Williams [2020]
Fort Bend County D strict A torney Katherine Fernandez Rundle [1993]
Orleans Parish District Attorney
Miama Dade State Attorney
Andrew H. Warrren [2016]
Hillsborough State A torney

Figure 7. Southern regional map of progressive and reform prosecutors.

188 Reckoning
Partricia G. Conway [2014]
Rock ngham County Attorney

Natasha Irving [2018]

Knox/Lincoln/Sagadahoc/Waldo County District Attorney

Maine
Sarah George [2017]
Chittendon County State s Attorney •' ()
Mary Pat Donnelly [2018]
Rensselaer County District Attorney David Sullivan [2010]
Franklin & Hampshire County District Attorney
David Soares [2004] Rachel Rollins [2018]
Albany County State s Attorney
Vt N.H. Suffolk County District Attorney

Marian Ryan [2013]

Middlesex County District Attorney

New York Boston Andrea Harrington [2018]

Mass Berkshire County District Attorney
Providence
Mimi Rocah [2020]
Conn. R.I. Westchester County District Attorney
Lary Krasner [2017]
Philadelphia City District Attorney
Timothy D. Sini [2017]
Suffolk County District Attorney
NYC Eric Gonzalez [2016]
Pennsylvania N.J. Kings County District Attorney
Jack Stollsteimer [2019] Darcel Clark [2015]
De aware County District Attorney Philadelphia Trenton Bronx County District Attorney

Melinda Katz [2019]

Queens County D strict Attorney
Baltimore
Del. Cyrus R. Vance Jr. [2009]
Washington D.C. New York County District Attorney
Maryland

Karl Racine [2014]

District of Columbia Attorney General

Marilyn Mosby [2014]

Baltimore City State s Attorney
Aisha Braveboy [2018]
Prince George s County State s Attorney

Figure 8. Northeast regional map of progressive and reform prosecutors.

New York and San Francisco, such programs were small and disappearing
before the movement-​driven revival of interest in criminal justice reform in
2014 (Pinto 2020).
The largest bail-​out action taken by M4BL, the Black Mama’s Day Bail Out,
was the brainchild of Mary Hooks. Explaining her reasoning for launching
the national action (which first took place the week of Mother’s Day in 2017
and has continued annually), Hooks says, “Black people have a tradition of
using our collective resources to buy each other’s freedom. We have an op-
portunity to do that when we understand how the cash bail system works.
The sooner we can get folks out, the ability for them to mitigate their cases
increases and the less collateral damage they are likely to incur” (quoted in
Patterson 2017). That first year, the Black Mama’s Day Bail Out Action grew
to involve dozens of organizations in eight cities and raised over $500,000,
which it used to bail out over fifty women. By 2019, it had become a cor-
nerstone action of the new organization National Bail Out, a consortium of
community, city, and faith-​based bail funds, which raised well over 1.5 mil-
lion dollars and freed three hundred women (Evans 2019).
 Movement Means Changing Politics 189

New Policy Initiatives

The movement’s policy achievements (beyond the election of new DA’s that
set new criminal justice policy in their jurisdictions) have been won largely
at the state and municipal levels, and they are numerous. Since M4BL intro-
duced its demand to “defund the police” in 2020, nine states and dozens
of localities have attempted to answer that call by developing programs
that divert resources from armed law enforcement to unarmed support
professionals (O’Connor 2021b). These programs are a patchwork and aim
to reduce the resources of police departments as well as their contact with
ordinary citizens. As of March 2021, Washington, Indiana, Oregon, Utah,
and Maryland have moved to implement programs that divert 911 calls re-
garding mental health and substance use issues to civilian support staff
rather than police. Illinois and Oregon have legislation that would keep po-
lice out of schools, and Hawaii and Maryland have legislation pending to
disentangle police from traffic enforcement. Additionally, New York, New
Jersey, and Maryland have legislation pending that would discourage or ban
traffic-​ticket quotas, which some police departments use as measures of of-
ficer performance, leading to excessive contact between police and citizens.
If taken up nationwide, the removal of police from traffic enforcement would
dramatically reduce civilian contact with police, as traffic stops are by far the
most common way people encounter police.
Reducing contact between police and civilians by cutting departmental
budgets and reducing the number of police is, as Mariame Kaba reminds us,
the only proven way to reduce police violence (Kaba 2021). Measures that
have sought to make police less violent through retraining have consistently
failed. In point of fact, in Minneapolis, where George Floyd was suffocated
to death by police in 2020, had adopted many reforms in its policing poli-
cies after police murdered Philando Castile in front of his family in 2016.
These included instituting a new automated tracking system that flagged po-
lice officers with too many use of force complaints, instituting “coaching ses-
sions” to serve as retraining for such officers, narrowing the circumstances
under which officer killings would be considered justified under department
policy, and rewriting their use of force policy to include the requirement that
police must intervene when their fellow officers became abusive (Lartey and
Weichselbaum 2020). However, none of those policies prevented four police
officers from either participating in or standing by while George Floyd was
brutalized and killed.
190 Reckoning

Cities have also shown an interest in reducing police budgets, shrinking

police forces, and decreasing contact between citizens and armed law en-
forcement. The most complete step toward removing police from civilian
encounters is taking place in Ithaca, New York, where Mayor Svante Myrick
has proposed abolishing the police force. The proposed new configura-
tion would “replac[e]‌the city’s current 63-​officer, $12.5 million a year de-
partment with a ‘Department of Community Solutions and Public Safety,’ ”
which would include mostly unarmed “community solution workers,” along
with a smaller force of armed “public safety workers,” “all of whom [would]
report to a civilian director of public safety instead of a police chief ” (Lowery
2021). Myrick reports that he came to the conclusion that such a large-​scale
reimagining was necessary because after conducting focus groups with com-
munity members and police officers, he found that

the officers are stressed and need a new model and the community is fed up
with the current situation . . . it became clear we need to build something
from scratch. They say that systems give the results that they’re designed to
give. And we built police departments and have been nibbling around the
edges ever since. It’s like trying to turn a refrigerator into an air conditioner
and you can do it, but it won’t work great. . . . You need to build from the
ground up. (Favreau 2021)

Elsewhere, in 2019 and 2020, Denver, San Francisco, and Oakland devel-
oped mental health responder programs to eliminate the role of police in an-
swering 911 calls for those experiencing a mental health challenges. This is
a critical intervention given that since 2015, police have killed at least 1,400
people in the midst of mental health crises. A 2021 study by Mapping Police
Violence found that removing police from mental health calls and traffic en-
forcement could prevent nearly one in five police killings. Further, if police
were removed from calls where no one involved had a gun, police killings
could decrease by 55–​60 percent (Sinyangwe 2021).
In Denver, the city’s Support Team Assistance Response (STAR) program
is designed to provide a “person-​centric mobile crisis response” to commu-
nity members who are experiencing problems related to mental health, de-
pression, poverty, homelessness, or substance abuse issues (Hauck 2021).
Early data shows that these programs are phenomenally successful, compe-
tently addressing the needs of those in difficult circumstances without the
threat of arrest or other violence. Additionally, San Francisco has revoked a
law passed in 1994, at the height of the “tough-​on-​crime” era, that arbitrarily
 Movement Means Changing Politics 191

designated a mandatory level of full-​time staffing for the city’s police depart-
ment. Now, the police department will be subject to the same rules as other
city departments and will have to submit requests and rationales for annual
funding (Weill-​Greenberg 2020).
Berkeley, California, has pending legislation to remove police from traffic
enforcement. Seattle cut $30 million from its police budget and will now
enter a participatory budgeting process to allocate the savings to other social
support services (Kaur 2021). In Austin, Texas, the city council cut $6.5 mil-
lion from the police budget and plans to use that money to supplement the
budget of the locality’s Housing and Planning Department to create perma-
nent housing for the city’s unhoused (O’Connor 2021a).
This assortment of policies springing up like mushrooms all over the
country may seem small in their impact, but they are the signs of initial ac-
ceptance of the fundamental logic that animates modern abolitionism; that
is, if we, as a society, want to make individuals and communities safer, we
need to directly invest in them and the provision of basic needs rather than
in the apparatus of punishment. Christy Lopez, a Georgetown Law School
professor, puts the matter succinctly: investing in social support rather than
law enforcement is not “taking anything away from public safety . . . it’s
more directly addressing the root causes of a lack of public safety” (quoted
in O’Connor 2021a). Likewise, Melina Abdullah, cofounder of Black Lives
Matter Los Angeles, expresses this sentiment clearly, characterizing these
shifts in policy and priorities as “a commonsense response,” to the lethal
failures of policing as it currently exists, pointing out that “you should have
the appropriate professionals respond to the appropriate issues” (quoted
in O’Connor 2021a).These efforts to divest from policing and punishment
and invest in social support also indicate the first measurable diminishment
of what had been an unassailable police power. They are the first, concrete,
democratic experiments with what it means, in practice, to “defund the po-
lice” and begin implementing what Kaba has called “non-​reformist reforms”
as intermediate steps toward abolition (Kaba 2021).
Additionally, movement organizations around the country have fought for
and won the creation and/​or granting of new powers to 131 police oversight
boards in forty-​two states. The most powerful of these was created in Los
Angeles County, where Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation co-
founder Patrisse Khan-​Cullors has run the organization Dignity and Power
Now since 2012. This organization was developed for the express purpose of
supporting the incarcerated and their families, as well as pushing to curtail
police power and decrease the criminalization of Black and brown peoples,
192 Reckoning

especially the mentally ill. Though the creation of the civilian review board
was a big win, as it creates a place where reports of abuse can be lodged and
evaluated with mandatory public reporting, Dignity and Power Now was not
able to secure subpoena or disciplinary power for the citizen panel, nor was
it able to secure spots on the board for formerly incarcerated people. Dignity
and Power Now is still organizing for these further victories under their cam-
paign End Sheriff Violence.
The fact that this variety of policy experimentation is widespread, popular,
and, in cases where changes have been implemented, are working well, bodes
well for political challengers seeking to decrease and eventually abolish the
role of police and prisons in American life, and also speaks to the astonishing
influence that the Movement for Black Lives has had on our political sensi-
bilities in a startling short amount of time.

Electoral Wins and New Political Ecosystem

As impressive as the movement’s policy wins to date are, more important

over the long term is the fact that M4BL has seeded and is supporting a vast
ecosystem of new political infrastructure where progressive Black young
people are being organized, trained, and mobilized for a variety of different
political functions. Much (though not nearly all) of this work has taken place
in the realms of political communication and electoral politics. This is some-
what surprising given that these aspects of the movement, while always pre-
sent, were seen between 2014 and 2016 as the least pressing and important
parts of movement work. During the run-​up to the 2016 election, when the
Democratic Party tried to claim allyship with the movement, M4BL posted
(on August 30, 2015) the following statement on their Facebook page:

A resolution signaling the Democratic National Committee’s endorse-

ment that Black lives matter, in no way implies an endorsement of the
DNC by the Black Lives Matter Network, nor was it done in consulta-
tion with us. We do not now, nor have we ever, endorsed or affiliated with
the Democratic Party, or with any party. The Democratic Party, like the
Republican and all political parties, have historically attempted to control
or contain Black people’s efforts to liberate ourselves. True change requires
real struggle, and that struggle will be in the streets and led by the people,
not by a political party. . . .
 Movement Means Changing Politics 193

While the Black Lives Matter Network applauds political change towards
making the world safer for Black life, our only endorsement goes to the pro-
test movement we’ve built together with Black people nationwide—​not the
self-​interested candidates, parties, or political machine seeking our vote.

Radical movements often deride electoral politics, and M4BL was no dif-
ferent. While no one prohibited electoral work and its value was deeply
appreciated on the local level, particularly regarding DAs, sheriffs, and
judges, some participants report being dismissed in meetings when they
tried to put electoral work on organizational agendas. That was especially
common before the election of Donald Trump.
When I asked people in the movement about the effect of Trump’s elec-
tion, many were quick to point out that the core problems that M4BL seeks
to address are bigger than one occupant of the White House and are instead
rooted in the fundament of white supremacy augmented, as it ever has been,
by patriarchy and capitalism. BYP100 organizer Jewel Cadet’s comments are
typical:

I don’t like talking about Donald Trump. I don’t. I think that what has
happened is a lot of people who were blind to the messed-​up stuff in the
world because it doesn’t impact them—​like the people who were like
“racism doesn’t exist” are now like “Oh. This is now impacting me and now
I must speak up.” But the impact of that is twofold for me. Part of me is really
excited because we have so many people on chapter emails saying “I want
to be a member, I want to do something.” That’s great, but then I go to rallies
and I feel a greater sense of this microwave activism—​people who feel like
they can just pop in and pop out. Like, I went to this one rally and now
I did my duty. And, that’s disturbing to me as an organizer, and really, just
as a Black person because—​listen—​ever since I was a little girl my mother
told me, “You are going to have it hard in this world.” And I was like, whoa,
I just started! So, it didn’t take a [new] president for me to feel marginalized.
And it didn’t take a [new] president for me to stand up and fight for the
most marginalized. . . . That has been the foundation of my organizing. And
so I wonder, for the people who are like “Oh, this person is in office, now
let me be an activist.” Does that mean when Trump leaves, you’re going to
leave the work? . . . I feel a little bit critical, because I think too many people
are really driven by this person and not the issues of marginalization we’ve
been dealing with from the beginning. (Museum of the City of NY 2017)
194 Reckoning

The criminal justice journalist Donovan Ramsey, while on a panel with NYC-​
based movement activists, put things even more bluntly:

Donald Trump has not changed the landscape of this country at all. Many
of the things that we have seen brought to the fore with the Trump pres-
idency were things that were always there under the surface, and certain
segments of our population—​Black people, Latino people, queer people,
vulnerable people—​have always been right up against. It just wasn’t main-
stream. (Museum of the City of NY 2017)

Even so, there is no doubt that the organizing environment changed with the
election of Donald Trump. Movement participants were as surprised as an-
yone when they discovered they would be organizing not to agitate against
and reveal the hypocrisy of a centrist Clinton administration but instead
would be fighting for the lives of more people who were suddenly in greater
danger. Importantly, these threats were personal—​with the FBI designation
of Black activists as Black Identity Extremists, who could be charged with
terrorism—​as well as shocks to the conscience. The frank, white suprem-
acist logic of the “Muslim ban” and the separation of immigrant children
from their parents at the southern border were not being perpetrated in se-
cret, but brazenly, in full public view, with no justification beyond violent
xenophobia and few checks from the federal legal apparatus. And that legal
apparatus was being quickly populated by judges who seemed to condone
atrocity. There was little recourse in federal oversight agencies because the
Trump administration preferred to leave those posts vacant or people them
with individuals who held loyalty to the forty-​fifth president’s regime above
any other duty.
For these reasons, Trump’s election made at least three things come front
and center that had been lurking in the background of movement work.
First, mass protest and direct action became more dangerous and more dif-
ficult. Not only had some fatigue set in among organizers and activists after
three years of almost constant street protests, but now the risk of state re-
pression for protest actions had increased exponentially. While the Obama
administration’s police oversight under the leadership of Attorney General
Eric Holder was slow, bureaucratically complicated, and too easily thwarted,
it was also not overtly hostile to protestors and did not give local departments
carte blanche. While the decommissioning of police departments under
the Civil Rights Act was extremely rare, civil rights investigations were
 Movement Means Changing Politics 195

forthcoming, and the hassle for police departments that came with such scru-
tiny may have restrained some of their worst instincts. Under the forty-​fifth
president’s administration, Attorney General Jeff Sessions and later William
Barr ceased “pattern or practice” oversight of police departments and rein-
stated broad powers for civil asset forfeiture, a controversial and possibly un-
constitutional practice that allows police to take the property of individuals
they deem persons of interest, even when no one is charged with a crime.
Second, coalitional work with non-​Black people, particularly non-​Black
immigrants, became more important. The movement’s ties to Latino or-
ganizations like Mijente became stronger and more direct. In 2017, the
Movement for Black Lives, with Mijente, cofounded the organization Rising
Majority, which describes itself as “a coalition that seeks to develop a col-
lective strategy and shared practice that involves labor, youth, abolition, im-
migrant rights, climate change, feminist, anti-​war/​imperialist, and economic
justice forces in order to amplify our collective power and build alignment
across our movements” (Rising Majority, n.d.).
Third, electoral politics emerged as a key arena for movement work. The
inclusion of electoral work as a key aspect of movement work was neither
easy nor inevitable. Even after Trump’s election, some activists and organizers
continued to chafe at the thought of spending resources and time on parties
and candidates whom they felt had never delivered for their communities.
In March 2018, the Cincinnati, Ohio, chapter of Black Lives Matter Global
Network Foundation broke with the national organization, changing their
name to Mass Action for Black Liberation and leveling a scathing critique
of BLM, emphasizing their dissatisfaction with a “shift towards electoral
and liberal Democratic Party politics and away from revolutionary ideas”
(Jackson 2018). Shanelle Matthews, who was communications director of
BLM Global Network Foundation at the time, responds to criticism like this
by acknowledging the diversity of ideas within the movement, saying, “Atop
many others, one undue burden for Black organizers is to repeat again and
again, we are not all the same. We are not the same . . . but we each bring
unique contributions that are necessary and critical to realizing a world
where Black people live free of state violence and police terror” (quoted in
Morrison 2016).
Despite these consequential disputes, there was a critical mass of
organizers in the movement who had come to believe that even though elec-
toral politics could not be the only path toward social transformation, it had
to be among the tools in the movement’s repertoire. Shanelle Matthews put
196 Reckoning

it this way: “M4BL came to articulate its unique perspective on the place of
electoral work in social movements through the development of a frame-
work called ‘electoral justice,’ pioneered by Jessica Byrd, a movement organ-
izer and director of Three Point Strategies, a firm specializing in running
Black women’s campaigns for elected office” (Matthews, n.d.).
In a 2018 interview, Jessica Byrd explained how she first came to under-
stand both the tension and the possibility of electoral work in a social move-
ment framework. It was a realization brought on by the contradiction she
felt in her own professional life. In 2014, when the protests in Ferguson
began, she was an Obama administration alum working for Emily’s List. She
recalls that when Michael Brown was murdered, she got really involved with
Black activists in Washington, DC, where she was living at the time. Byrd
recounts: “I would literally walk into my office and take my activist hat off, try
to figure out how to recruit more women to run for office, and then walk out
into the streets putting my activist hat back on and organizing protest and
risking arrest. It started to be this double life that was very confusing to me.”
She goes on:

Yeah, it was jarring. I mean it really changed everything for me because I’ve
always been this person who felt like I was contributing in a meaningful
way. I was working on campaigns, and it was just . . . I was watching all the
activists around me be really unapologetic and draw very clear lines about
what justice was and what it wasn’t. Then I’m sitting in meetings [at my
job] where they’re like, “Well, aren’t we lucky that Claire McCaskill leads
Missouri” and I’m like, “Not really.” If she was going to eradicate racism,
then sure. But she’s not. And then to have white women in the organization
really look at me quizzically like, “Wait, what do you mean?” So that just re-
ally fucked me up. It shifted everything. So yeah, I decided to leave. . . .
I started interviewing for positions and really thinking OK, what would
it look like? How can I do racial justice movement work in electoral pol-
itics? And what I was finding was that nothing existed. And what I was
learning was that I could either do racial justice work with no electoral pol-
itics or electoral politics work with no racial justice. And there were people
who were like, “Yeah! Let’s elect Black people,” but still without the meat of
the values. . . . All I wanted to do was to feel better about what I was con-
tributing, so I just decided to take on a few projects for the movement that
involved electoral aspects. I decided to train some folks to be campaign
managers. Then I worked with a few activist organizations to conduct get
 Movement Means Changing Politics 197

out the vote programs and the next thing you know, people were coming
out of the woodwork saying, We want this! . . .
. . . that first year when I was, like, hustling for my rent, saying no to
hundred-​thousand-​dollar contracts, saying no to even Black people who
wanted me to work with them, who I liked but who weren’t on board with
the values of the movement. . . . It was really a lot of discipline. Like, I liter-
ally spent a lot of time saying to people, you gotta get your politics together,
and this is what I mean by that: . . . you said you want to up the police budget
in the face of, like, a shooting—​let's talk about why that doesn’t make sense
for what movement wants to achieve. So, we ask the candidates we work
with about fighting mass incarceration, demilitarizing the police . . . and
ending cash bail. We talk to them about what decriminalizing Black people
means—​including thinking through the physical and mental barriers to
health and well-​being that exist in many of our neighborhoods. . . . We talk
about fighting for access to equal education and reimagining benchmarks
for students as well as workers’ rights to a living wage and to form a
union. . . . We want our candidates to go the boldest route. And so, we have
really clear boundaries. And what was helpful was that at the end of 2015
the Movement for Black Lives put out the Vision for Black Lives [policy
platform]. So I started to really get clear on what this ecosystem’s vision
was and at Three Point Strategies we have taken the Vision for Black Lives
[platform] and have really underlined and underscored some public policy
possibilities and we don’t work with people outside of those. That, for me,
is what movement electoral politics is. What it isn’t is just representation
without any sort of values. I think that we do that at our own peril. (Byrd
interview, 2018)

In October 2017, Jessica Byrd and her friends Rukia Lumumba, an experi-
enced campaign manager, and Kayla Reid, a talented organizer in St. Louis,
launched the Electoral Justice Project as the official electoral arm of the
Movement for Black Lives. The Electoral Justice Project describes itself as a
coalition that “seeks to continue a long legacy of social movements fighting
for the advancement of the rights of Black folks through electoral strategy.”
However, they are careful to note that electoral politics is one of many po-
litical pressure points that must be used to achieve movement goals, saying,
“We recognize that voting alone will not change conditions plaguing Black
communities, but we understand that with strategic political actions we
can make immediate interventions as we move toward full, safe and healthy
198 Reckoning

lives” (Three Point Strategies, n.d.). In the video announcing the launch of
the project, Byrd explains:

Just when we’ve wrapped our minds around one harmful decision from
our government, there’s another right around the corner. Much has been
said about the white nationalists with taxpayer-​funded salaries in the
White House, but there are other big boulders in our road. . . structural
barriers like access to voting, redistricting and gerrymandering, political
gatekeepers, and skyrocketing campaign costs keep us from building the
power we need to transform our communities and to fight back. . . . Our
state and local policy makers are passing legislation that’s harming our fam-
ilies and its criminalizing us for the color of our skin. It’s going unchecked
because people are intentionally being blocked from voting. . . . But im-
agine what’s possible. How about the political home we deserve? With
fairly drawn voting maps, with a clear respect for everyone’s voices, without
barriers? What about a political home that says, I love you, your life is im-
portant and your elected leaders and public policy should reflect that? Just
like any other system in this nation, we can disrupt these barriers by seeking
justice—​electoral justice. Not because any one party or institution or candi-
date wants us to, but because we deserve it—​because our lives and our Black
futures require it. And we’re building that home. The Movement for Black
Lives has launched the Electoral Justice Project, a collaboration of more
than fifty Black organizations that will weave a web of Black civic power in
every corner of our communities. (Movement for Black Lives 2018)

Byrd, Lumumba, and Reed are all experienced political professionals.

Notably, in 2018, Jessica Byrd would go on to run Stacey Abrams’s historic
campaign for governor of Georgia—​a race that she lost by less than 2 per-
centage points and under uniquely suspicious circumstances, as her op-
ponent was also overseeing the election in his official capacity as Georgia’s
sitting secretary of state. Rukia Lumumba is the executive director of the
People’s Advocacy Institute, an organization that partners with small com-
munity organizations to increase their capacities in whatever area they deem
necessary by providing “education, training, coaching, investigation, re-
search, advocacy and legal services to assist in defining the structural inequi-
ties that cause harm, and together we develop new policies and practices
that reduce oppression, and foster self-​determination and a more unbiased
system” (People’s Advocacy Institute, n.d.). She is also the sister of two-​term
 Movement Means Changing Politics 199

Jackson, Mississippi, mayor Chokwe Antar Lumumba, and cochaired his

campaigns. Kayla Reed is the cofounder of Action St. Louis, an organiza-
tion founded in the aftermath of the uprising in Ferguson to “build political
power for Black communities in the St. Louis region” (Action St. Louis, n.d.).
Reed organized the ouster of St. Louis prosecutor Bob McCulloch in 2018,
who had occupied that position since 1991. Reed is particularly famed for
her unique and fun approach to electoral organizing. Though the motivation
for removing McCulloch from office was intensely sad—​“with tears in my
eyes, I left the house and joined thousands in the streets to protest this injus-
tice. I never forgot [McCulloch’s] face on the TV screen that night, nor his
half-​hearted apology to the family for their loss,” she wrote for the St. Louis
American—​Reed’s #ByeBob campaign was full of celebration and joy. She in-
itially began organizing the campaign through “Woke Voter STL” brunches,
in which she fed volunteers while they talked, laughed, and planned next
steps (Germain 2018). Reed was also the mastermind behind a 2018 cam-
paign of the Electoral Justice Project called #WakandaTheVote, where teams
of volunteers in over fifty cities registered people who had headed out to see
Marvel’s first Black superhero in the movie Black Panther (Rueckert 2018).
Together, these women lead a constellation of organizations that support
candidates and draft policy that align with the Movement for Black Lives.

A Theory of Political Engagement

Within the Movement for Black Lives, electoral justice is regarded as one tool
among many to fight for a world in which Black people can expect to not only
survive but thrive. This means working to build social and political structures
that will allow Black people to live freely —​without the burden of “the talk”
about how to avoid being brutalized or murdered by police, without the fear
of dying in childbirth because Black people who give birth are exponentially
more vulnerable, without the dread of premature death that shadows the vi-
brant lives of Black trans people, and without the injustice of the racial wealth
gap created by discriminatory state and federal laws that cannot be closed
through individual bootstrap strategies.1 The disruption and challenge of

1 On maternal deaths, see, for example, ProPublica’s Lost Mothers series, at https://​www.
propublica.org/​
series/​
lost-​
mothers. On violence against Black trans people, see, for example,
Donaghue 2020 and Human Rights Coalition 2020. On the racial wealth gap, see, for example,
Martin 2019 and McIntosh et al. 2020.
200 Reckoning

protest and direct action are indispensable ways to press demands, but elec-
toral politics remains essential for achieving these goals.
Like all other important aspects of the movement, electoral justice is
deeply theorized by those who do the work, which is to say it is not just a
slogan or an umbrella term for a set of political tactics—​it is also and most
profoundly a theory of democratic engagement. Each word holds explana-
tory power. Electoral refers to essential values that ought to be the founda-
tion of representative democracy. These values of reflection, dialogue, voice,
and participation can only result from a long-​term process of mutual edu-
cation, shared analyses, and community care. Proponents have observed
that these democratic values are not nurtured in the world of robocalls and
micro-​targeted political ads. Justice expresses a particular conception of pol-
itics that centers marginalized voices and commits to an ongoing process of
accountability and co-​governance that far exceeds the moment when a ballot
is cast. Justice is a practice of freedom derived from listening to and heeding
the call of people suffering the deprivation and indignities of oppression and
domination.
Under the umbrella of the Electoral Justice Project, launched in October
2017 (now called the Electoral Justice Voter Fund), M4BL is building an
ecosystem of organizations that aims to organize Black voters, many of
whom have felt shut out of or disinterested in the electoral process; re-
cruit progressive Black candidates for all levels of government; and support
both these endeavors with money and expertise that are independent of
the Democratic Party. That last element is essential. The necessity of de-
veloping a political apparatus focused on Black progressive politics that is
separate from the Democratic Party is the only way to create and preserve
an electoral space for Black people beyond what Paul Frymer has called
“electoral capture”: the Democratic Party’s historical and habitual disre-
gard for a loyal constituency that has no other reasonable alternative for
representation.
Therefore, electoral justice cannot be reduced to simply voting for
candidates or advocating for policies, and it is not expressed via loyalty to a
political party. Instead, it is the championing of an ongoing practice toward
freedom that uses organizing strategies to help people understand themselves
as agentive members of the polity who are not only called to periodically
choose between candidates, but are, much more importantly, also the people
who ought to set the political agenda. This means that electoral justice is not
only a plea for representation but also a demand for ongoing accountability
 Movement Means Changing Politics 201

and co-​governance. Co-​governance here means meaningful engagement

with stakeholder constituencies as political concerns and possibilities arise.
In this conception, electoral politics must be about more than temporary
wins; it must also be about the development of the political environment in
a way that makes transformative change both more possible and more prob-
able. That means engaging constituents in a long-​term and mutual process
of political education, analysis, relationship-​building, and mobilization. It is
crucial to the project of electoral justice that Black people and those in other
marginalized communities can meaningfully participate in imagining and
implementing bold solutions for improving the conditions of their daily lives.
In 1965, Bayard Rustin argued that when organizing Black people around
electoral politics, “more than voting is involved, here. A conscious bid for
political power is being made.” Electoral justice embraces this notion, and
its proponents understand that gaining and holding political power requires
organizing people long-​term and building community institutions capable
of both electing new people with political visions that align with movement
goals but also, imperatively, holding those representatives to account as they
carry out the duties of governance.
Unlike the assumption that underpins traditional politics, electoral justice
understands that political transformation toward freedom takes an invest-
ment of time and care, of which mobilizing people to vote is only a small
piece. Just as fundamental is the necessity of changing people’s minds about
what is politically possible. Such a feat requires both an abundance of im-
agination and a patient determination that is sorely lacking when the only
measure of success is whether a candidate has won or lost the vote count in a
particular moment.
Electoral justice, then, is what is required for electoral politics to be able
to do what we hope it will, but which it rarely does—​change politics, policy,
and our lives for the better. The framework of electoral justice causes one to
act from the understanding that political change can only result from the
deep work of listening to the lived experience of those least privileged, ana-
lyzing the conditions that cause their oppression, and defining bold, practical
solutions that organized people will fight for. This is a way of building power
that is fueled not with passive constituents but by active democratic citizens
who remain engaged with their own governance long after the moment of
election.
In addition, electoral politics can be useful to social movements as move-
ments not only in service to increasing democratic access and power for the
202 Reckoning

people whose concerns they represent. This is so for at least two reasons. First,
electoral politics can serve as a benchmark, a way to measure the breadth
and effectiveness of movement organizing. Elections are a moment when
organizers can see if the people are with them and figure out where efforts
have been successful and where they have fallen short. Second, elections can
act as a gauge for where the general public is in relation to movement goals.
This is extremely important for liberatory movements because their goals,
like the abolition of police and prisons and creating economies of care, re-
quire societal transformations that cannot happen overnight and will not be
achieved in one election cycle. Put simply, elections show social movements
where they are on the path toward building the world they want and what
steps may enable them to get from the world that is to the world they envision.
It is also important to note that the Electoral Justice Project is just one part
of the political infrastructure that the movement has built. It is not possible to
trace the entire breadth of that ecosystem here, but I will highlight a few or-
ganizations that span the gamut of professional expertise, candidate recruit-
ment and campaign staffing, and communications to illustrate the point.
Law for Black Lives is a professional organization that provides legal and
research support to movement organizations in areas related to abolition,
specifically for ending money bail, advocating for reparations, and creating
legal frameworks and precedents for the invest/​divest plank of the Vision for
Black Lives platform. Similar advocacy groups that seek to organize other
kinds of professionals in service of movement organizations and/​or goals
also exist, including Scholars for Black Lives and White Coats for Black
Lives (comprising those in medical/​pharmacy fields). On the campaign
side there are a constellation of organizations that groom and support po-
tential candidates and campaign staff. Organizations like Higher Heights for
America work specifically with Black women to cultivate them as candidates.
Collective PAC, which raised $6.5 million to support Black candidates in the
2018 election cycle, also runs an annual “boot camp” for aspiring candidates
and staffers called Black Campaign School (McKinney 2018; Khalid 2018).
Additionally, Shanelle Matthews leads two different communications shops
that serve the movement: Channel Black and the Radical Communicators
Network. Channel Black describes itself as “a storytelling and media training
program that develops the strategy, intervention, and spokesperson skills of
social movement leaders and impacted communities [whose] goal is to equip
marginalized people with the tools and supports to develop and tell their own
stories and have a say in how power and resources in the United States are
 Movement Means Changing Politics 203

distributed.” And RadComms is a network of communications professionals

that facilitate “cross-​movement collaboration for people working in commu-
nications for social change” (Matthews, n.d.).
This political infrastructure is making measurable and positive strides.
For example, on August 5, 2020, Cori Bush, an activist politicized by and
supported through the movement, won the democratic primary in Missouri’s
1st Congressional District. Bush, a nurse and single mother, became inter-
ested in politics after her experiences as a protestor during the Ferguson up-
rising in 2014. Her win was a stunning upset, unseating a fifty-​year political
dynasty to usher in a new era of visionary leadership that is not only repre-
sentative of, but, more importantly, accountable to, the people of St. Louis.
Bush mounted her campaign with little money, no connections to the tradi-
tional infrastructure of the local Democratic Party, and the reputation that
she had earned as a fierce activist in the streets. In an interview that took
place after her victory she commented, “They counted us out. They called
me—​I’m just the protestor, I’m just the activist with no name, no title and
no real money. That’s all they said that I was. But St. Louis showed up today”
(Ballentine 2020).
At the same time that Bush won a resounding victory as a candidate, voters
also overwhelmingly improved Medicare expansion in the state of Missouri.
It is not only the candidates and their status as firsts that undergird the cru-
cial nature of these electoral shifts, but also, and even more importantly, the
policies that they usher in with them and the ideas that undergird them. This
is one of the ways that protest can chart a course to power in politics. Bush is
one of several activists that the Movement for Black Lives has encouraged to
raise their voices and use their skills to represent communities that have too
long been overpoliced, underserved, and unrepresented.

Freedom Summer 2020

The organizing work of M4BL took on new significance with the COVID-​19
pandemic. The failure of elected leaders to respond adequately to the public
health crisis intensified concerns about how we care for ourselves and for one
another. Movement-​resourced mutual aid networks grew in their capacity
to provide the resources and solidarity needed in the absence of government
support. These initiatives have called into question why food, housing, and
healthcare are commodities rather than entitlements. They also made visible
204 Reckoning

the disproportionate impact of the disease on Black and brown people and
the poor.
From February 2020, in the face of soaring unemployment and rates of
infection, there was a proliferation in campaigns to cancel rent, provide
public healthcare, and release people from jails, prisons, and detention
centers. #FreeThemAll campaigns have articulated the dangers of human
caging amid COVID-​19 and brought attention to the health crisis created by
prisons and jails even before the pandemic. The police response to protests,
including brutality, armored vehicles, curfew, tear gas, pepper spray, and
rubber and wooden bullets, brought attention to glaring contradictions in
funding and priorities—​contradictions between countless police officers
equipped with high-​tech gear compared to insufficient numbers of health-
care workers, shortages of essential personal protective equipment, and ex-
orbitant healthcare costs that force millions into crippling debt; and between
the government’s immediate deployment of police to respond to protests and
its failure to respond to the pandemic with mass testing and distribution of
funds (Akbar 2020).
But these massive changes are complicated. By September 2020, white
support for M4BL had contracted. In some polls, their support had sunk
below the level of approval attained before the massive uprisings in June of
that year. A Pew Research Center poll released September 16 noted:

The recent decline in support for the Black Lives Matter movement is par-
ticularly notable among White and Hispanic adults. In June, a majority
of White adults (60%) said they supported the movement at least some-
what; now, fewer than half (45%) express at least some support. The share
of Hispanic adults who support the movement has decreased 11 percentage
points, from 77% in June to 66% today. By comparison, support for the
Black Lives Matter movement has remained virtually unchanged among
Black and Asian adults. (Thomas and Horowitz 2020)

These findings point to the longue durée of the process initiated by the
Movement for Black Lives. While there are inflection points where the move-
ment makes dramatic, immediate impacts, the real work of movement is
long-​term. The goals of this radical movement include policy changes, but
the goals are undergirded, in a deep way, by the belief that the structuring ide-
ological systems of the twentieth century and the institutions and practices
that formed to make the consequences of those ideologies real in people’s
 Movement Means Changing Politics 205

lives need to be dismantled and built anew. This is a colossal proposition and,
if it is successful, will be the work of several generations. However, we can see
from the evidence amassed here that the Black liberation movement born in
this, the twenty-​first, century has laid the foundation for a politics that can
shape the next era, one that centers human thriving from margin to center
and builds from the bottom up.
 Conclusion
On Futurity

When I envision the future, I think of the world I crave for my

daughters and my sons. It is thinking for the survival of the species—​
thinking for life.
—​Audre Lorde, “Man Child” in Sister Outsider

Futurity is a word with multivalent meanings; it indicates the future time,

a future event, or renewed or continuing existence. Futurity is the con-
viction that the part of the story one is living in is not and cannot be the
whole of it. This moment in time gives us a rare political opportunity to
begin something new. We are living in a critical juncture where we can
set the ideological terms on which the twenty-​first century is lived. This
movement provides a template of principles and ideas to overturn the
twentieth-​century paradigms of what constitutes proper and reasonable
ways to arrange our political, social, and economic lives. I do not argue
that the current iteration of the movement in defense of Black lives always
lives up to their ideals, but neither has any paradigm that shapes common
sense. Rather, I argue that radical Black feminist pragmatism is a good
place to start.
Since the initial appearance of the Movement for Black Lives (M4BL) in
2013, the public opinion environment on the issues of race, racism, and po-
licing have been transformed. But more than changing public opinion in the
domain of race and criminal justice, the movement has influenced common
sense perceptions of how political problems ought to be diagnosed, evalu-
ated, and solved. This is because, in addition to causing people to reconsider
the efficacy of the current criminal punishment system, the movement has
managed to make structural analysis mainstream, reshaping the terrain of
the politics of social justice.
 On Futurity 207

Using the case of race and policing, the network of organizations that be-
came M4BL has helped Americans understand structural relations in ge-
neral, including the idea that an individual’s life is conditioned by not only
personal motivation and interpersonal encounters, which is the usual expla-
nation in the ultra-​individualist framework I have called neoliberal common
sense, but also by edifices built for governance and systems of practice that
operate impersonally based on ingrained assumptions about the compara-
tive worth of some people’s lives over others. For example, the popular con-
versation that #BlackLivesMatter facilitated rejecting the terminology of
#AllLivesMatter not only built support for the movement, but also helped
to spread the core argument of radical Black feminist pragmatism, which is
that in order to address the problems we all face, we have to reason from
margin to center and bottom to top, not by appeals to a universalism that
neglects those suffering most acutely from the oppression and domination
from which we all seek to escape.
In addition, despite the handwringing of a chorus of public intellectuals
declaiming the dangers of identity politics, M4BL has been connecting the
dots between racial, gender, and economic justice, making very plain that
there are no dichotomous hierarchies but only a series of intersections. This
is because RBFP and its most unique element, the politics of care, demands
that we attend to the conditions preventing flourishing in people’s lived ex-
perience. While the politics of the movement cannot be described as a class
politics in the vein of the socialisms of the twentieth century, it is neverthe-
less a politics that understands class as a crucial relation among other so-
cial forces which structures the cumulation of advantage and disadvantage
affecting persons, groups, and geographies. In addition, movement strives
to center the poor, the disenfranchised, the ostracized, and the incarcerated.
This centering of the marginalized is not done to meet the tenets of an ab-
stract, immutable ordering of the world, but instead because they believe it is
the birthright of every human being to live their best and fullest lives and it
is only by starting with those who have been systematically left out that this
becomes possible.
The notion of the world to come, of its fragility, has always animated Black
political thought and culture. This is because to be Black in America puts one
in a strange position with regard to time. As Ytasha Womack writes,

There’s something about African American culture in particular that

dictates that all cultural hallmarks and personal evolutions are recast in a
208 Reckoning

historical lineage. Whether it’s the concept of prophecy and speaking into
the future or tropes of the past shadowing the present, whether by need or
narrative, many speak as if the future, past, and present are one. The threads
that bind can be as divergent as a tersely worded tweet, musical chord, fiery
speech, ancient Kemetic symbol, Bible quote, starry night, or string theory,
but there’s an idea that the power of thought, word and imagination can
somehow transcend time. Just as the right words and actions can speak the
future into existence, the same can recast the past, too. (Womack 2013, 153)

And so, the movement speaks itself into time—​anchored by the fulcrum
of the world as it is while ready to pivot to face the past or conjure the fu-
ture. This way of understanding futurity has a prefigurative element, but it
is undergirded by a purposive pragmatism. The reason for acting in the pre-
sent is not merely to pantomime a utopia, but instead to build a bridge from
current conditions to ones that offer us all more safety, more freedom, more
pleasure, and more capacity to develop ourselves and determine the world
we share. This bridge-​building is not merely mystical; it is, as Donna Kate
Rushin wrote in her Bridge Poem, “the bridge to [our] own power,” one that
is built from relationships of reciprocity and political friendship that enable
us to take concrete steps that mediate suffering while maintaining the ability
to push at and expand the boarders of the possible. As Jessica Byrd writes,
“We are radically reimagining the world so it will belong to all of us . . . our
fight is a celebration of us and the new world we are creating” (Byrd 2020).
But this future is contingent. The fight against the structuring of the world
under what bell hooks calls “white supremacist capitalist patriarchy” has
been ongoing for at least four centuries. It seems to be what Audre Lorde
calls the “shoreline” of modernity, the marker of its limit and the place from
which we might embark. In her dissertation on the practice of Black femi-
nist mothering, Alexis Pauline Gumbs writes, “we are the purveyors of the
horizon,” [of] approaches to sensibility that continue to recede, . . . who live
on the shifting edge of the world . . . who know the truth of erosion and bet
against it (Gumbs 2020, 1–​2). In other words, we cannot sail over the sweep
of history. We have been here—​or nearly here—​before. Even rendering an
account of the massive protests in the summer of 2020 causes one to tell a
story that contains within it a loop, a devastating refrain, an infuriating his-
tory in the round.
But let us begin on May 25, 2020. That day, four Minneapolis police
officers participated in the callous murder of a Black man named George
 On Futurity 209

Floyd, and the murder was captured on camera. The viral video of Floyd’s
killing was shared by a seventeen-​year-​old Black girl named Darnella Frazier,
who happened to be walking by with her baby cousin. The recording of this
police murder tore through the virtual world, opening up a reservoir of po-
litical rage and pain that had been simmering just beneath the surface of
public sentiment and discourse. Beginning the next day, May 26, thousands
of people started pouring into the streets. Protests began first in Minneapolis
and then rapidly occurred in every major metropolitan area in the United
States, followed quickly by suburban towns and rural counties, and finally
spilled over American borders, with protests taking place in at least sixty
other countries and on every continent except Antarctica.
George Floyd’s murder caused a conflagration of protest activity in the
summer of 2020 not only due to the casual depravity and sadism on display
as Derrick Chauvin, appearing calm and composed with hands resting in his
pockets, shoved his knee into Floyd’s neck, choking him to death over the
course of 8 minutes and 46 seconds. But also, because George Floyd pleaded,
“I can’t breathe” again and again, as he was slowly suffocated.
This phrase, “I can’t breathe,” has been repeated throughout the life of the
Movement for Black Lives. The trauma that accompanies this phrase is a po-
litical portal, a return to the scene of Eric Garner’s murder by police as he
also pleaded for breath in the summer of 2014. The grim spectacle of a public
lynching narrated by this phrase reminded people of not only these two
incidents, but of all that had occurred in between—​the cumulative weight of
dehumanization, the deep devaluing of Black lives that has continued even
amid organized resistance. Just as the killing of Mike Brown triggered a re-
cursive anger about the failure to defend the importance of Trayvon Martin’s
Black life, and the killing of Breonna Taylor reminded people of their baffled
fury at Sandra Bland’s demise, Floyd’s pained gasping breathed new life into
large street protests in defense of Black lives.
These immense demonstrations were able to reemerge, and at a much
greater scale, because protest is not merely the massing of a heartbroken
mob, nor only a political tactic—​it is also, crucially, a learning experience for
both those involved and those observing. What they learn is more about the
principles at stake, where they stand, and what they are willing to do to create
the change they seek. That means that protest creates political possibilities
that did not exist before it and could not exist without it. In this way, social
movements radicalize politics as they educate the polity. It is for this reason
that we have to understand social movement as cumulative. Currently, we are
210 Reckoning

in a moment of political swailing; it has unique potentials, but it is also a part

of a commonplace democratic pattern. Social movements recall democracy
to itself. They highlight the institutions, habits, and systems that must be un-
done to move forward. Remember too that in society, we do not build from
scratch, but instead reuse parts of the given combined with new ideas and
designs that transform our shared public meanings and sociopolitical ideas,
habits, and institutions.
This is not to say that the 2020 uprising was a replay of any other. It did
not repeat 1968 or 2014. Each iteration of struggle in the streets teaches the
organizers galvanizing people’s consciousness, the activists showing up at
actions, and the observers trying to figure out what is going on. Those who
might have encountered with disturbed confusion the violence inflicted on
Garner, Bland, and countless others had learned how to read what happened
to George Floyd. By the summer of 2020, they knew, due to the organizing
and public education efforts of the movement, that they were witnessing not
just a horrific overuse of force by a few rogue police, but instead a graphic
illustration of the structural contempt for Black life that manifests in every
domain of American life. And so people who had been wounded and politi-
cally awakened by the phrase “I can’t breathe” in 2014 were moved, in 2020,
to act and act boldly because they had also learned that polite requests for
half-​measures do not yield anything like justice, because the racial terror of
police murder and harassment has continued. Elizabeth Alexander conveys
the litany of incidents in bleak verse:

This one was shot in his grandmother’s yard. This one was carrying a bag
of Skittles. This one was playing with a toy gun in front of a gazebo. Black
girl in bright bikini. Black boy holding cell phone. This one danced like
a marionette as he was shot down in a Chicago intersection. The words,
the names: Trayvon, Laquan, bikini, gazebo, loosies, Skittles, two seconds,
I can’t breathe, traffic stop, dashboard cam, sixteen times. His dead body lay
in the street in the August heat for four hours. (Alexander 2020)

And the deaths are not the only situations that have led to this culmina-
tion. Recall that on the same day Floyd was murdered by police, our social
media feeds had already swelled with the viral video of a Black bird-​watcher
in New York’s Central Park, Christian Cooper, being threatened by Amy
Cooper (no relation), a white woman who used manufactured tears to call
in the police as a potentially deadly weapon against him in a dispute about
 On Futurity 211

leashing her dog. This was a very illustrative incident—​an object lesson in
everything that the movement has been telling America about white su-
premacy since 2013. This woman could use her whiteness, her femaleness,
her tears, to mobilize agents of the state in a way that everyone understood
would threaten Christian Cooper’s life.
And remember, even this incident was a culmination of a previous litany
of high-​profile incidents of white people using their whiteness to terrorize
Black people just going about their daily lives. With each iteration, the pre-
vious events seem to unfold again in the present tense. In April 2018, a ba-
rista at a Philadelphia Starbucks called the police because two Black men
had come in and sat down. They were having a business meeting, but she
claimed to feel afraid, so they were violently ejected by police. Over the rest
of the summer a slew of incidents involving white women calling police on
Black families and children lit up our news feeds. The perpetrators were
given nicknames: “BBQ Becky” called the police on a Black family having a
gathering in a public park. “Permit Patty” called the police on a Black eight-​
year-​old selling lemonade on the sidewalk on the grounds that he had not
obtained a permit. “Peppermint Patty” called the police on a Black woman
who mistakenly used the wrong lane to exit a supermarket parking lot. When
the Black woman pointed out that calling the police was a racist overreaction,
the white woman chided her to “put away the nigger card,” and then claimed
on the phone with 911 dispatch that she was being “attacked.” A group of
Black friends who rented an Airbnb in California were met with multiple
police cars and a helicopter because a white resident in the neighborhood
found it disturbing that they did not smile and wave. A Black graduate stu-
dent at Yale who fell asleep in a common study area while writing a paper was
woken up for police interrogation because a white student had called them
and questioned her right to be on campus.
The impact of this litany came not only because these everyday incidents
were being publicized, nor even because they seemed to follow one another
in quick succession and added to the pile of evidence of weaponized white-
ness, but because each encounter entered public discourse on terms set by
the Movement for Black Lives and provided an opportunity to further dis-
cuss what structural racism is, how it works, and why it affects the everyday
lives of Black people and other people of color.
This public discourse allowed people to ponder the question Patrisse Khan-​
Cullors and asha bandele keep asking in When They Call You a Terrorist: “In
what world does this make sense?” It is a startling question—​one more at
212 Reckoning

home in speculative fiction than in social science, but it is nevertheless the

heart of the issue. In what world does this systematic anti-​Black violence
make sense? How can we build a world in which it doesn’t?
This has been the mission of M4BL, to reveal the nonsense at the core of
dominant ideologies and radically and pragmatically imagine a world in
which anti-​Black racism and violence; expropriation of every human activity
for profit; dehumanization due to gender, gender expression, and sexuality;
and a state apparatus that serves only to punish people rather than make
them safe no longer make sense to us. This is why the movement has spent
the last eight years helping people to connect the dots between the symptoms
of anti-​Black racism and their overarching and interconnected structural
causes.
It is also important that in May 2020, the world had been grappling with
its first pandemic in one hundred years, and much of America had been
under stay-​at-​home orders to try to slow the spread of the novel coronavirus,
COVID-​19, for three months. The conditions created by the virus had cast
29 million Americans from work and tens of millions more were working
from home. This forced reordering of time gave people a space for both at-
tention and action that is normally unavailable amid the demands of the reg-
ular political economy, which dictates that most of our attention is focused
on waged work. Under the hiatus imposed by the pandemic, people had the
time to make the oft-​heard protest chant “no justice, no peace” a reality. In so
doing, the mass uprisings reshaped the political terrain of the United States
and the world, and it is a perfect illustration of the argument at the heart of
this book: social movements are not only an expressive function of those who
have been too-​long abused, but are also a specifically political tactic meant to
call unresponsive decision-​makers to surrender power—​or find the courage
to serve their constituents. Protest is one way a democratic people asserts its
legitimate authority, and it is also a reminder that a people can refuse to be
governed—​by revoking their consent.
In this volume, I have argued that political scientists have generally given
social movements too little credit for their role in democracy. What ought
to have become clear in the protest cycle that has characterized this century,
from Occupy Wall Street forward, is that social movements can change the
way people understand reality. Protests that are connected to clear and reso-
nant messages are not one-​off events. As I showed in my book The Politics of
Common Sense, resonant messages from political challengers furnish people
with an alternate explanation of how things are and ought to be. If resonant
 On Futurity 213

messages persist over time, they begin to shape the way we encounter the
world, even for people who do not (yet) agree. The movement has done the
work necessary to earn what I have written about as political acceptance
(Woodly 2015a). Political acceptance is not synonymous with agreement and
does not mean a problem has been resolved. It does not prevent backlash or
guarantee success. Instead, political acceptance is a threshold condition that
marks a set of issues as urgent and necessary to address. Political acceptance
means that political challengers no longer have to argue about whether their
cause is a political problem; everyone accepts that it is, and they can focus in-
stead on arguing about how to solve it.
Because of the passionate protest the world witnessed in Ferguson and
other cities around the country in 2014, the clear and often contentious
communication about why those protests were happening, and the organi-
zations that were born to combat structural racism in the wake of that mo-
ment, no one can now deny the reality of systemic, racist police violence.
So much about how people understand the task before us has changed. In
2015, Black Lives Matter was a contentious slogan. Less than a decade ago,
the pull of “colorblindness” and “tolerance” as dominant ideologies made the
slogan centering the suffering of Black people seem gauche, even offensive.
After all, it was only six years ago that San Francisco 49ers quarterback Colin
Kaepernick was pushed off his team and out of the NFL for insisting that
America recognize the ongoing violent oppression of Black people.
While activists do well to call out the often vague and hollow statements
of corporations and other entities that spent the summer tweeting messages
of support or gesturing toward fighting injustice, we must also recognize that
these gestures represent a transformation of the political context. Through
the relentless campaign by the Movement for Black Lives to give Black people
the language to talk about the structural depth and breadth of anti-​Blackness
and to educate all people about its reality, the movement has changed
common sense.
In the six weeks after George Floyd’s public execution, a Black Lives Matter
protest had been held in all fifty states and in 40 percent of the counties in
the United States. The scale of the 2020 protests is hard to fathom. By com-
parison, at the largest protests in the 1960s (the March on Washington in
1963, the antiwar March on the Pentagon in 1967), the decade that shaped
American ideas about what protest is and means, hundreds of thousands
of people showed up for Black civil rights and anti-​imperialism. In 2017,
the Women’s March, a mobilization in response to the election of Donald
214 Reckoning

Trump, mobilized between 3 and 5 million participants for a single-​day mo-

bilization. The Movement for Black Lives brought tens of millions of people
into the streets, where they remained for two months. In fact, between 8 per-
cent and 10 percent of Americans claim that they have participated in a Black
Lives Matter protest, which means between 25 and 30 million people have
massed in public for the defense of Black lives. Moreover, this effort has been
coordinated by a decentralized, highly networked cadre of Black leaders
who explicitly name the dismantling of white supremacy, patriarchy, and
rampant capitalism as its goal. No political scholar or professional would
have predicted that such a thing was possible. Indeed, in 2013, when the
movement began, these things were not yet possible. This is a future that had
to be radically imagined and then practically enacted. Luckily, that is what
the Movement for Black Lives is built to do. They do so by forcefully and dis-
ruptively challenging common political understandings of the way things are
and presenting an executable vision of the way they might be. And they have
been remarkably successful.
M4BL could not have foreseen the incredible impact that mass uprisings
in late May and June of 2020 would have on the political environment of the
nation and the world, but they were prepared to seize the political opportu-
nity. In July, M4BL introduced the BREATHE Act, a suite of policy proposals
authored by the movement’s policy table in July 2020 and presented by con-
gressional partners Ayanna Pressley and Rashida Tlaib. The proposed federal
legislation includes guidelines for how to defund police agencies and rein-
vest those resources in programs and institutions that support the health,
housing, and educational well-​being of Black, brown, and poor communi-
ties. The movement did not know, could not have known, that they would
help to reshape the political environment during the long COVID summer,
creating a space in which their radically imagined policy proposals would
become possible, but they were ready. Standing, as Lorde counseled, at the
shoreline “looking inward and outward, at once before and after, seeking a
now that can breed futures.” They were ready because the movement had
already spent years laying the philosophical and practical groundwork for
transformative political change led from below by Black organizers. They
were ready, because all along, the movement had been arguing in the future
perfect tense.
So it made sense when movement strategist Jessica Byrd introduced the
BREATHE Act legislation with an op-​ed imagining what the moment we are
 On Futurity 215

living now would look like from a future in which more people are able to live
and thrive:

Imagine it’s 2070. History classes all over the U.S. teach the 2020 Black Lives
Matter Uprisings and the national campaign to defund police. Students
are shocked to learn about police officers who once killed Black people.
For these young people, public safety means community and skilled
professionals coming together to resolve problems peacefully and everyone
has access to the resources they need to heal and flourish.
I’ll be an elder, sitting on my porch telling stories over lemonade. With
pride, I will share with anyone who will listen to how our mass multiracial,
intergenerational and global movement led by Black people accelerated this
march of history. (Byrd 2020)

This is the heart of the radical yet pragmatic imagination of the movement;
it asks, “What will we have to have done in order to live in the future we en-
vision?” And then it answers its own query in concrete terms as the new ho-
rizon of the possible emerges.
These observations taken together mean that the third decade of the
twenty-​first century might be a moment for reconstruction. If the public
becomes repoliticized around the notion of care it would be a formidable, era
defining force, and that is one outcome that has been made possible by the
movement. But there will also be a drive toward retrenchment, just as there
was in the 1880s after the Civil War and in the 1970s and 1980s after the civil
rights movement.
We perceive time as though it progresses, but while it moves, the trajec-
tory is not certain. This does not mean we are not at a new place. It simply
means that we, like generations preceding us and those to come, cannot pre-
tend that there is a universal momentum that favors justice. Instead, we have
work to do where we are. It is our duty to invest in a “poetics of the possible”
and to push forward conceptions of “what is and is not imaginable in [our]
lifetimes” (Gumbs 2020, x). Radical Black feminist pragmatism gives us con-
ceptual tools and practical strategies to both imagine and make the way. It
will not be a straight road; iterations are to be expected because freedom is
a process, we will always be getting free. However, this moment is a critical
juncture in which we can make the way easier, to set the terms such that fu-
ture generations are able to fight different battles.
216 Reckoning

Let me be clear, this movement is not built upon a plea. The speech act
declaring #BlackLivesMatter is an encouragement and a demand. For worse
and for better, we belong to each other. Those of us at the margins are not and
have never been subdued into silence. It has never been a question of voice,
but always one of the hearing. In this moment, because of this movement, the
arena is changed. The acoustics have been reset. And because of this political
shift, we are receiving an invitation. The ideas present in this movement are
offering the substance, the matter, that can help us to craft a new era, to sail
from the shoreline of modernity into a contemporary epoch that has not yet
been named, to construct a polity in which human thriving makes sense. The
task before us is how to answer.
So what shall we do?
 APPENDIX A

Examples of Bailouts and Regular Bail-​Out Actions

Bailout Location Primary Organizations Involved Year Number of People Spending Info
Bailed Out

#EndCashBail Louisville, KY Presbyterian Church/​The Bail 2019 Over 50 people $140K was spent on the
20191 Project bailout, with $10K coming
from Presbyterian donations
and $130k coming from the
Bail Project
Anti-​Nazi Protester Newnan, GA Atlanta Solidarity Fund 2018 12 counter-​protestors
bailout2 arrested during a rally of
fascist org
Bail Fund Boston, MA Boston Jews Against ICE 2019 12 activists arrested Over $19K
for Boston protesting ICE at Amazon’s
#JewsAgainstICE3 Cambridge HQ
Bay Area Dream Tampa Bay, FL Bay Area Dream Defenders 2017 Over 4 people Raised 25K—​One woman’s
Defenders’ 2017 bail was $10k for driving
Mama’s Day Bail with suspended license and
Out4 missing court dates

1 https://​www.pcusa.org/​news/​2019/​6/​12/​louisville-​area-​presbyterians-​and-​their-​friends-​ra/​
2 https://​actionnetwork.org/​fundraising/​support-​anti-​nazi-​protesters-​in-​newnan-​ga
3 https://​www.gofundme.com/​f/​never-​again-​is-​now-​nobusinesswithice
4 https://​www.tampabay.com/​news/​humaninterest/​dream-​defenders-​post-​bail-​for-​four-​mothers-​to-​raise-​awareness-​on-​national/​2323635/​
Bailout Location Primary Organizations Involved Year Number of People Spending Info
Bailed Out

Black Father’s Bail Philadelphia, PA Philadelphia Community Bail 2018 10 Black men
Out5 Fund
Black Love Bail Bexar County, TX National Bail Out Collective in 2018 20 People
Out6 collaboration with other advocacy
orgs
Black Mama Bail Birmingham, AL BLM Birmingham and The 2017 4 women8 $25K provided by Ordinary
Out7 Ordinary People Society People and $13K raised by
BLM
Black Mama’s Bail Philadelphia, PA Philadelphia Community Bail 2017 13 Black women $60K10
Out9 Fund
Coronavirus New Orleans, LA Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights 2020 22 people
Bailout11 and the Safety and Freedom Fund
at Operation Restoration
COVID Bail Out New York, NY Founded in April 2020 as a special 2020 242 people
NYC12 fund by BAJI and Emergency
Release Fund

5 https://​www.usatoday.com/​story/​life/​allthemoms/​2018/​06/​15/​national-​bail-​out-​pays-​bail-​so-​dads-​can-​home-​fathers-​day/​706387002/​
6 https://​medium.com/​in-​justice-​today/​the-​black-​love-​bail-​out-​aims-​to-​free-​poor-​defendants-​and-​teach-​others-​to-​do-​the-​same-​a33d93bfea00
7 https://​www.al.com/​news/​2017/​05/​alabama_​advocates_​bail_​women_​o.html
8 https://​southernersonnewground.org/​a-​labor-​of-​love/​
9 https://​decarceratepa.info/​content/​mamas-​bail-​out-​day
10 https://​www.inquirer.com/​philly/​opinion/​commentary/​black-​women-​incarceration-​mothers-​day-​bailout-​cash-​bail-​20180507.html
11 https://​rfkhumanrights.org/​news/​new-​orleans-​covid-​19-​bail-​out
12 https://​indyweek.com/​guides/​archives/​serena-​sebring-​organizer-​southerners-​new-​ground-​fights-​entrenched-​white-​supremacy/​
Durham Black Durham, NC Southerners On New Ground, 2017 9 black mothers
August Bailout13 Durham Chapter
Free the People Nationwide National Bail Fund Network 2018 The Bond Fund distributed Raised $492K
Day14 money raised to the 60
community bail and bond
funds that are part of its
network
“Freedom Should St. Louis, MO Presbyterian Church, St. Louis 2018 The money raised was given Raised over $47K16
Be Free—​No Cash Action Council, and Bail Project to local orgs to begin bailing
Bail” Rally15 out people
Freedom Summer Nationwide Community Justice Exchange 2019 Approximately 19 people18 Raised over $190K
Fund17
Funds for Freedom Nationwide Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights 2020 $1 Million Distributed to
Campaign19 Foundation and the Know Your over 30 local bail funds in
Rights Camp 22 states
Juneteenth/​Father’s Denver, CO Colorado Freedom Fund 2018 21 people Raised over $26K
Day Bail Out20
Mama’s Day Bail Denver, CO Colorado Freedom Fund 2018 14 Black women in 5 Denver raised over $20k
Out21 area jails

13 https://​indyweek.com/​guides/​archives/​serena-​sebring-​organizer-​southerners-​new-​ground-​fights-​entrenched-​white-​supremacy/​
14 https://​secure.actblue.com/​donate/​2019freethepeopleday
15 https://​www.pcusa.org/​news/​2018/​6/​19/​hundreds-​presbyterians-​join-​march-​st-​louis-​justice/​
16 https://​fox2now.com/​news/​presbyterian-​convention-​goers-​march-​on-​st-​louis-​justice-​center-​to-​bail-​out-​non-​violent-​offenders/​amp/​
17 https://​secure.actblue.com/​donate/​freedomday
18 https://​twitter.com/​LGBTQ_​Freedom/​status/​1149748353334501377
19 https://​rfkhumanrights.org/​2020-​bail-​out
20 https://​fundly.com/​coloradofreedom
21 https://​fundly.com/​coloradofreedom
Bailout Location Primary Organizations Involved Year Number of People Spending Info
Bailed Out

Mass Bail Out New York, NY Collaboration between Robert 2018 Over 100 $2
Action at NYC F. Kennedy Human Rights and people23 Million24
Jails22 various NYC grassroots orgs
Memphis Black Memphis, TN BLM Memphis 2019 6 Black Women $30K
Mama’s Bail Out25
New Birth Easter Lithonia, GA Lithonia’s New Birth Missionary 2019 23 people Over $100k
Bail Out26 Baptist Church alongside Scrapp
DeLeon and Rapper T.I.
Philadelphia Eagles Philadelphia, PA Philadelphia Eagles Social Justice 2018 9 people $50K
Bail Out27 Fund and the Philadelphia
Community Bail Fund
Shut Down GEO Baco Raton, FL Broward Dream Defenders 2019 6 activists who interrupted Raised over $6K
Bail Fund28 operations at GEO Group
HQ to highlight how the
company, which operates
private prisons

22 https://​rfkhumanrights.org/​news/​rfk-​bail-​action
23 https://​www.vice.com/​en_​us/​article/​zmdmy5/​over-​100-​inmates-​were-​bailed-​out-​in-​the-​largest-​mass-​bail-​in-​history
24 https://​thecrimereport.org/​2019/​01/​31/​can-​the-​mass-​bailout-​movement-​prod-​reform/​
25 https://​mlk50.com/​2020/​05/​09/​black-​mamas-​bail-​out-​and-​grace-​of-​god-​credited-​with-​release-​after-​4-​years/​
26 https://​www.huffpost.com/​entry/​new-​birth-​missionary-​baptist-​church-​bail-​out_​n_​5cc0cbcde4b01b6b3efc29c0
27 https://​thehill.com/​blogs/​blog-​briefing-​room/​news/​418640-​philadelphia-​eagles-​pay-​bail-​for-​9-​using-​social-​justice-​funds
28 https://​www.everribbon.com/​ribbon/​view/​74891
SONG’s 2017 Black Southern States Southerners on New Ground, 2017 64 Black women. Part of Raised over $200K
Mamas Mother’s Dream Defenders, Sister Song, the first National Bail Out
Day Bail Out and various Black Lives Matter Collective-​led bailout event
Campaign29 chapters. during which around a 100
people were bailed out
Super Bowl 2020 Nationwide SWOP Behind Bars & LGBT 2020 Approximately 12 sex
Sex Worker Bail Freedom Fund & Woodhull workers
Out30 Freedom Foundation
Texas Immigrant Nationwide Refugee and Immigrant Center for 2019 200 people from 40 facilities $21K
Bailout31 Education and Legal Services in 20 states; 56 people were
in Texas
Workhouse St. Louis, MO Action STL, The Bail Project, Arch 2018–2​ 020 3,500 people as of August
Bailout32 City Defense. 2020

29 https://​truthout.org/​articles/​southerners-​on-​new-​ground-​s-​bail-​out-​continues-​the-​radical-​tradition-​of-​black-​august/​
30 https://​twitter.com/​swopbehindbars/​status/​1223303688543973376
31 https://​www.expressnews.com/​news/​local/​article/​Raices-​leading-​2-​1-​million-​push-​to-​bail-​out-​200-​14849821.php
32 https://​www.theguardian.com/​us-​news/​2020/​aug/​03/​st-​louis-​workhouse-​jail-​legislation-​close
 APPENDIX B

Ongoing Bail Funds

State Name of Bail Fund1 Area of Operation Bail Types Funded Organizational Focus2

Alabama Shut Down Etowah’s Etowah Freedom Gadsden Immigration

Fund
Arizona
Pima Monthly Meeting Immigration Statewide Immigration
Bond Fund
Tucson Second Chance Community Bail Tucson Criminal
Fund
California
Al Otro Lado Vida Libre Bond Fund Statewide Immigration
Bay Area Anti-​Repression Committee San Francisco Criminal Activists
Bail Fund
Bay Area Immigration Bond Fund San Francisco area Immigration
Dede McClure Community Bail Fund San Diego Criminal Activists
Immigrant Families Defense Fund East Bay area Immigration Families in California schools
facing deportation
Los Angeles People’s City Council Los Angeles Criminal Activists
Freedom Fund

1 This includes bail funds that are their own independent organization as well as bail funds that are an ongoing program of an organization or a coalition of

organizations.
2 Unlisted in this category are the criteria that are used by many bail funds in determining priority of cases: inability to pay; health concerns; number/​needs of

dependents; risk of discrimination due to identity; proximity to structural harm; risk of loss of employment, housing, or education; deportation risk.
State Name of Bail Fund1 Area of Operation Bail Types Funded Organizational Focus2

NorCal Resist Sacramento Region Northern California Immigration/​ Activists

Bond Fund Criminal
Orange County Justice Fund Orange County Immigration
San Diego Immigrant Rights Consortium San Diego/​Imperial Immigration
Borderlands Get Free Fund Counties
Colorado
Colorado Freedom Fund Denver, Arapahoe, Criminal
Jefferson, Adams, Douglas,
El Paso, and Boulder
Counties
Immigrant Freedom Fund of Colorado Aurora Immigration
Conneticut
Connecticut Bail Fund Statewide Immigration/​ COVID-​19
Criminal
Delaware
FNB Bail Fund Wilmington Criminal Activists
Florida
Community Bail Fund Statewide Criminal
Fempower Community Bond Fund Miami-​Dade County Criminal
Florida Justice Center Florida Bailout Statewide Criminal Activists
LGBTQ Freedom Fund South Florida (Multi-​State Immigration/​ LGBTQ individuals/​
for Immigration) Criminal Individuals with HIV/​AIDS
Georgia
Atlanta Solidarity Fund Atlanta area Criminal Activists
Forsyth County Community Bail Fund Forsyth County Criminal COVID-​19/​Activists
Georgia Latino Alliance for Human Statewide Immigration
Rights Georgia Immigration Bond Fund
Hawaii
Hawaii Community Bail Fund Statewide Criminal
Illinois
Believers Bail Out Chicago Immigration/​Criminal Muslims
Champaign County Bailout Coalition Champaign County Criminal
Chicago Community Bond Fund Cook County Criminal
Winnebago Bond Project Winnebago Criminal
Indiana
BLM Bloomington Bail Out Fund Bloomington area Criminal Activists
Iowa
Prairielands Freedom Fund Statewide Immigration/​ Activists
Criminal
Kentucky
Louisville Community Bail Fund Louisville area Criminal
Louisiana
New Orleans Safety & Freedom Fund Orleans Parish Criminal Women
YWCA Greater Baton Rouge East Baton Rouge Parish Criminal
Community Bail Fund
Maryland
Baltimore Action Legal Team Baltimore area Criminal Covid-​19/​Home Detention
Community Bail Fund
Massachusetts
Beyond Bail & Legal Defense Fund Statewide Immigration
Massachusetts Bail Fund Statewide Criminal
Michigan
Kent County Immigration Bond for Our Kent County Immigration
Neighbor’s Defense Fund
The Woodward Foundation Detroit’s Detroit Criminal
Bail Fund
State Name of Bail Fund1 Area of Operation Bail Types Funded Organizational Focus2

Minnesota
Minnesota Freedom Fund Statewide Immigration/​Criminal BIPOC/​Homeless individuals/​
Activists
Mississippi
Mississippi Bail Fund Collective Statewide Criminal
Missouri
Kansas City Community Bail Fund Kansas City-​area Criminal
Race Matters Friends Community Bail Boone County Criminal
Fund
Reale Justice Community Bail Fund Kansas City-​area Criminal/​Immigration
STL Jail & Legal Support Fund St. Louis-​area Criminal Activists
Nevada
Arriba Las Vegas Workers Center Las Statewide Immigration
Vegas Family Unity Bond Fund
Progressive Leadership Alliance of Reno/​Las Vegas area Criminal
Nevada
Vegas Freedom Fund Clark County Criminal Activists
New
Hampshire
NH Conference UCC Immigrant and Statewide Immigration
Refugee Support Group Immigrant Bond
& Support Fund
New York
Emergency Release Fund NYC Criminal LGBTQ+/​ Medically
Vulnerable (COVID-​19)
Brooklyn Community Bail Fund NYC Criminal
COVID Bail Out NYC Criminal COVID-​19
 Dollar Bail Brigade NYC Criminal Pays bail on behalf of people
incarcerated for $1
New York Immigrant Freedom Fund NYC Immigration
No New Jails NYC NYC Criminal
OAR of Tompkins County Bail Fund Tompkins County Criminal
Revolutionary Abolitionist Liberation NYC Criminal People 25 years and under
Fund and people who have been
incarcerated the longest
Stop the Raids NYC Criminal
Swipe It Forward NYC Criminal Individual arrested for
fare-​evasion
The Liberty Fund NYC Criminal Those charged with
misdemeanor crimes
Washington Square Legal Services Bail NYC Criminal Those charged with
Fund misdemeanor crimes
North Carolina
Alamance County Community Bail Fund Alamance County Criminal
Blue Ridge Anarchist Black Cross’s Asheville area Criminal Activists
Asheville Bail Fund
North Carolina Community Bail Fund of Durham area Criminal
Durham
Ohio
Beloved Community Church Cincinnati Cincinnati Criminal Activists
Bail Fund
Central Ohio Freedom Fund Columbus area Criminal
Oregon
Portland Freedom Fund Multnomah, Clackamas, Criminal BIPOC
and Washington Counties
State Name of Bail Fund1 Area of Operation Bail Types Funded Organizational Focus2

Pennsylvania
Bukit Bail Fund of Pittsburgh Allegheny County Criminal
Dauphin County Bail Fund Dauphin County Criminal
New Sanctuary Movement of Philadelphia area Immigration
Philadelphia Community Fund for Bond
and Legal Support
Philadelphia Bail Fund Philadelphia area Criminal
Philadelphia Community Bail Fund Philadelphia area Criminal
Up Against the Law Legal Collective Philadelphia area Criminal Activists
Tennessee
Hamilton County Community Bail Fund Hamilton County Immigration/​
Criminal
Just City Memphis Community Bail Fund Shelby County Criminal
Nashville Community Bail Fund Nashville area Criminal
Texas
Hutto Community Deportation Defense Austin, TX area Immigration
& Bond Fund
RAICES Texas Bond Fund Statewide Immigration
Restoring Justice Bail Fund Harris County Criminal
Tarrant County Bail Fund Tarrant County Criminal COVID-​19
Utah
Decarcerate Utah Salt Lake Community Salt Lake County Criminal
Bail Fund
Vermont
Vermont Freedom Bail Fund Statewide Immigration
Virginia
Cville Immigrant Freedom Fund Statewide Immigration
Richmond Community Bail Fund Central Virginia Criminal
Roanoke Community Bail Fund Roanoke area Criminal
Washington
BLM Seattle Freedom Fund Seattle Criminal BIPOC Protesters
Fair Fight Immigrant Bond Fund Statewide Immigration
Northwest Community Bail Fund King, Snohomish, and Criminal
Pierce Counties
Wisconsin
Free the 350 Bail Fund Dane County Criminal Black people incarcerated in
Dane County Jail System
Multi-​state
3R Fund for Immigrants Northern Kentucky/​ Immigration
Cincinnati, Ohio
Black Mama’s Bail Out Action Nationwide Criminal Black mothers
FANG Bail Fund Rhode Island/​ Criminal Activists
Massachusetts
First Friends of NJ & NY Bond Fund New Jersey/​New York Immigration
Freedom for Immigrants National Nationwide Immigration
Detention Bond Fund
Fronterizo Fianza Fund West Texas/​New Mexico Immigration
New Sanctuary Coalition LIFE Bond Based in NYC, operates Immigration
Fund nationwide
SWOP Behind Bars Nationwide Criminal Sex workers
The Bail Project Nationwide Criminal
Trans/​Queer Migrant Freedom Bond Nationwide Immigration LGBTQ, prioritizing trans
Fund women and individuals
with HIV+
 APPENDIX C

Police Oversight Boards in the

United States

State Board Location Year Founded

Arkansas
Citizens’ Review Board Little Rock 2019
Arizona
Citizens’ Panel for Review of Chandler 2000
Police Complaints and Use
of Force
Independent Police Auditor Tucson 1997
California
Citizen Complaint Police Tulare 1995
Review Board
Citizen Police Oversight Inglewood 2002
Commission
Citizens’ Law Enforcement San Diego 1990
Review Board County
Civilian Oversight Los Angeles 2016
Commission County
Commission on Police San Diego 2020
Practices
Community & Police National City 2003
Relations Commission
Community Police Review Richmond 1984
Commission
Community Police Review Sacramento 2015
Commission
Department of Police San Francisco 2016
Accountability
Independent Police Auditor Palo Alto 2006
Independent Police Auditor Santa Cruz 2003
Office of Independent Review Fresno 2009
Office of the Independent San Francisco Revised in 2018
Police Auditor Bay Area Rapid
Transit (BART)
Office of the Independent San Jose 1993
Police Auditor
Police Advisory and Review Novato 1992
Board
232 Appendix C

State Board Location Year Founded

Police Commission Oakland 2017

Police Review Board Anaheim 2007
Police Review Commission Berkeley 1973
Police Station Citizens Claremont 2018
Advisory Committee
The Citizen Police Complaint Long Beach 1990
Commission
The Community Police Riverside 1998
Review Commission
The Office of Independent Orange County 2008, reorganized
Review in 2015
University of California, Davis 2014
Davis Police Accountability
Board
Colorado
Citizen Oversight Board Denver 2005
Citizen Review Board Fort Collins 1998, last amended
in 2016
Independent Review Board Aurora 2014
Connecticut
Civilian Police Review Board Hartford 1992
Civilian Review Board New Haven 2019
Florida
Citizens Police Review Board Fort Myers 2009
Citizens Police Review Board Ft. Lauderdale 1994
Citizen’s Police Review Board Naples 2001
Citizens Review Board Key West 2002
Citizens’ Police Review Board Orlando 1992
Civilian Investigative Panel Miami 2002
Civilian Police Review St. Petersburg 1991
Committee
Independent Review Panel Miami-​Dade 2016
Working Group County
Orange County Citizens Orange County Disbanded in
Review Board 2009 after losing
subpoena power
Police Advisory Council Gainesville 2010
Police Advisory Panels Sarasota 2011
Georgia
The Atlanta Citizen Review Atlanta 2007, granted
Board subpoena power
in 2010
Hawaii
Police Commission Hawaii County 1979
Police Commission Honolulu 1932
Police Commission Kauai 1943
 Appendix C 233

State Board Location Year Founded

Idaho
Office of Police Oversight Boise 1999
Illinois
Civilian Police Review Board Urbana 2011
Indiana
Civilian Office of Police Chicago 2016
Accountability
Iowa
Community Police Review Iowa City 1997
Board
Kansas
Citizens Police Advisory Olathe 1995
Council
Kentucky
Citizens Commission on Louisville 2003
Police Accountability
Louisiana
The Office of the Independent New Orleans 2010
Police Monitor
Maine
Police Citizen Review Portland 2001
Subcommittee
Maryland
Citizen Complaint Oversight Prince George’s 1990
Panel County
Civilian Review Board Baltimore 1999
Massachusetts
Community Ombudsman Boston 2007
Oversight Panel
Community Police Hearing Springfield 2010
Board
Police Review & Advisory Cambridge 1984, adopted
Board new rules and
regulations in 2011
Michigan
Board of Police Detroit 1974
Commissioners
Citizen’s Police Review Board Muskegon 1999
Citizens Public Safety Review Kalamazoo Relaunched in 2015
and Appeal Board after a hiatus
Police Civilian Appeal Board Grand Rapids 1996; amended in
2003
Police Oversight Commission Ann Arbor 2018
Minnesota
Office of Police Conduct Minneapolis 2012
Review
234 Appendix C

State Board Location Year Founded

Police Civilian Internal St. Paul Formed in 1993,

Affairs Review Commission significantly
amended in 2016
St. Cloud Police Citizens’ St. Cloud 1996
Review Board
Missouri
Citizens Police Review Board Columbia 2009
Civilian Oversight Board St. Louis 2014
Office of Community Kansas City 1943
Complaints
Police Civilian Review Board Springfield 1999, reinstated in
2012
Montana
Police Commission Missoula 1979
Nebraska
Citizen Complaint Review Board Omaha 2014
Nevada
Citizen Review Board Las Vegas 1997
New Hampshire
Police Commission Portsmouth 1991
New Jersey
Police Oversight Board Newark 2016
New Mexico
Civilian Police Oversight Albuquerque 2014 to replace
Agency prior entity
New York
Citizen Review Board Syracuse 2011
Civilian Complaint Review New York 1953, restructured
Board (CCRB) and given subpoena
power in 1993
Civilian Police Complaint Village of 2000
Review Board Ossining
Civilian Police Review Board Schenectady 2002
Civilian Review Board Rochester 2014
Commission on Citizens’ Buffalo 2000
Rights and Community
Relations
Community Police Board Ithaca 1996
Community Police Review Albany 2000
Board
Police-​Community Relations Newburgh 2014
and Review Board
North Carolina
Citizen Review Board Charlotte-​ 1997
Mecklenburg
Citizens/​Police Advisory Asheville 1989
Committee
 Appendix C 235

State Board Location Year Founded

Citizens’ Police Review Board Winston-​Salem 1993
Civilian Police Review Board Durham 2003, revised in 2014
and again in 2019
Criminal Justice Advisory Greensboro 2018
Commission

Ohio
Citizen Complaint Authority Cincinnati 2003
Community Police Council Dayton 2016
Office of Professional Cleveland 2016
Standards’ Civilian Police
Review Board
Oklahoma
Citizen Advisory Board Oklahoma City 2005
Oregon
Civilian Review Board Eugene 2006
Community Police Review Corvallis 2007
Advisory Board
Independent Police Review Portland 2001
Pennsylvania
Citizen Police Review Board Pittsburgh 1997
Police Advisory Commission Philadelphia 1993, re-​established
in 2017
Rhode Island
Providence External Review Providence Created in 2002,
Authority restarted in 2019
after staying dormant
for a decade
South Carolina
Charleston Citizen Police City of 2018
Advisory Council Charleston
Citizen Review Board City of 2015
Columbia
Citizen Review Board Richland 2001
County
Public Safety Citizen Review City of 2005
Board Greenville
Tennessee
Community Oversight Board Nashville 2018
Memphis Civilian Law Memphis 1994, restarted in
Enforcement Review Board 2016
Police Advisory & Review Knoxville 2001
Committee
Texas
Chief’s Advisory Action Board San Antonio 2016
Civilian Review Board Galveston Created in 2008,
suspended in 2019
236 Appendix C

State Board Location Year Founded

Community Police Oversight Dallas 2019, replaced

Board previous oversight
entity
Community Police Review Austin 2020, prior
Commission oversight entity
suspended in 2018
Independent Police Oversight Houston 2011
Board
Office of the Police Oversight Fort Worth 2020
Monitor
Utah
Police Civilian Review Board Salt Lake City 2020
Professional Standards West Valley 2013
Review Board City
Vermont
Citizen Police Brattleboro Amended in 2014
Communications Committee
State Police Advisory Statewide Amended in 1979
Commission
Virginia
Investigation Review Panel Virginia Beach Re-​established in
2013
Police Civilian Review Board Charlottesville 2019
Police Civilian Review Panel Fairfax County 2016
Washington
Citizen’s Advisory/​Review Spokane 2000, amended in
Board 2015
Community Police Seattle 2012, amended in
Commission 2017
Office of Law Enforcement King County 2006, amended in
Oversight 2015
Wisconsin
Fire and Police Commission Statewide 1885, bill to overhaul
regulation with commission under
local iterations consideration in
2021
 APPENDIX D

Progressive and Reform Prosecutors

Name State District Progressive/​ Election

Reform Year

Aisha Braveboy MD Prince George’s County State’s Reforma 2018

Attorney
Alexis King CO Jefferson/​Gilpin County Reform 2020
District Attorney
Alonzo Payne CO San Luis Valley District Progressivec 2020
Attorney
Amy Ashworth VA Prince William County Reform 2019
Commonwealth Attorney
Amy Weirich TN Shelby County District Reform 2011
Attorney (appointed)
Andrea MA Berkshire County District Reform 2018
Harrington Attorney
Andrew FL Hillsborough State Attorney Reform 2016
H. Warren
Beth McCann CO Denver County District Reform 2016
Attorney
Brian TX Fort Bend County District Reform 2018
M. Middleton Attorney
Bryan Porter VA Alexandria City Reform 2013
Commonwealth Attorney
Buta Biberaj VA Loudoun County Reform 2019
Commonwealth Attorney
Carol MI Ingham County Prosecuting Reform 2016
A. Siemon Attorney
Chesa Boudin CA San Francisco County District Progressive 2019
Attorney
Christian WI Winnebago County District Reform 2006
Gossett Attorney
Colette VA Richmond City Reform 2019
McEachin Commonwealth Attorney
Cyrus R. NY New York County District Reform 2009
Vance, Jr. Attorney
238 Appendix D

Name State District Progressive/​ Election

Reform Year

Dan Satterberg WA King County Prosecuting Reform 2007

Attorney
Danny Carr AL Jefferson County District Progressive 2018
Attorney -​Birmingham
Division
Darcel Clark NY Bronx County District Reform 2015
Attorney
Darius Pattillo GA Henry County District Reform 2016
Attorney
Dave Aronberg FL Palm Beach State Attorney Reform 2012
David Soares NY Albany County District Reform 2004
Attorney
David Sullivan MA Franklin & Hampshire Reform 2010
County District Attorney
Diana Becton CA Contra Costa County District Reform 2017
Attorney
Eli Savit MI Washtenaw County Progressive 2020
Prosecuting Attorney
Eric Gonzalez NY Kings County District Progressive 2016
Attorney
Fani Willis GA Fulton County Georgia Reform 2020
Faris Dixon NC Pitt County District Attorney Reform 2018
Gary Tyack OH Franklin County Prosecuting Reform 2020
Attorney
George Gascón CA Los Angeles County District Progressive 2020
Attorney
George Hartwig GA Houston County District Reform 2010
Attorney
Gordon CO Jackson/​Larimer County Reform 2020
McLaughlin District Attorney
Hillar Moore LA East Baton Rouge Parish Reform 2008
III District Attorney
J. Hanley IL Winnebago County State’s Reform 2020
Attorney
Jack PA Delaware County District Reform 2019
Stollsteimer Attorney
James Stewart LA Caddo Parish District Implemented 2015
Sr. Attorney some
reformsb
 Appendix D 239

Name State District Progressive/​ Election

Reform Year

Jason Anderson CA San Bernardino County Implemented 2018

District Attorney some reforms
Jason LA Orleans Parish District Progressive 2020
R. Williams Attorney
Jeff Reisig CA Yolo County District Attorney Reform 2006
Jeff Rosen CA Santa Clara County District Reform 2010
Attorney
Jim Hingeley VA Albemarle County Progressive 2019
Commonwealth Attorney
Jody Owens MS Hinds County District Reform 2019
Attorney
Joe Gonzales TX Bexar County District Reform 2018
Attorney
John Chisholm WI Milwaukee County District Reform 2006
Attorney
John Choi MN Ramsey County Attorney Reform 2010
John Creuzot TX Dallas County District Reform 2018
Attorney
John Hummel OR Deschutes County District Reform
Attorney
Jose Garza TX Travis County District Progressive 2020
Attorney
Joseph Platania VA Charlottesville City Reform 2017
Commonwealth Attorney
Justin Kollar HI Kauai County Chief Reform 2012
prosecutor
Karen MI Oakland County Prosecuting Reform 2020
McDonald Attorney
Karl Racine DC District of Columbia Attorney Reform 2014
General
Katherine FL Miami-​Dade State Attorney Implemented 1993
Fernandez some reforms
Rundle
Kent Volkmer AZ Pinal County Attorney Reform 2016
Kim Ogg TX Harris County District Reform 2016
Attorney
Kimberly MO City of St. Louis Circuit Progressive 2016
Gardner Attorney
240 Appendix D

Name State District Progressive/​ Election

Reform Year

Kimberly IL Cook County State’s Attorney Progressive 2015

M. Foxx
Kristin CO Denver City Attorney Reform 2016
M. Bronson
Larry Krasner PA Philadelphia City District Progressive 2017
Attorney
Locke MO Cole County Prosecuting Reform 2018
Thompson Attorney
Lynneice AL Jefferson County District Reform 2016
O. Washington Attorney -​Bessemer Division
Marian Ryan MA Middlesex County District Reform 2013
Attorney (appointed)
Marilyn Mosby MD Baltimore City State’s Attorney Reform 2014
Mark A. TX Nueces County District Reform 2016
Gonzalez (D) Attorney
Mark Dupree, Sr. KS Wyandotte County District Reform 2016
Attorney
Mary Carmack-​ NM Santa Fe/​Rio Arriba/​Los Reform 2020
Altwies Alamos County District
Attorney
Mary Pat NY Rensselaer County District Reform 2018
Donnelly Attorney
Melinda Katz NY Queens County District Progressive 2019
Attorney
Melissa Nelson FL Clay/​Duval/​Nassau County Reform 2016
State Attorney
Michael CO Boulder County District Reform 2018
Dougherty Attorney
Michael OH Cuyahoga County Reform 2016
O’Malley Prosecuting Attorney
Mike O’Connell KY Jefferson County Attorney Reform 2008
(appointed)
Mike Schmidt OR Multnomah County District Reform 2020
Attorney
Mimi Rocah NY Westchester County District Progressive 2020
Attorney
Monique FL Orange/​Osceola County State Progressive 2020
Worrell Attorney
 Appendix D 241

Name State District Progressive/​ Election

Reform Year

Nancy O’Maley CA Alameda County District Implemented 2009

Attorney some reforms
Natasha Irving ME Knox/​Lincoln/​Sagadahoc/​ Reform 2018
Waldo County District Attorney
Parisa VA Arlington County Progressive 2019
Dehghani-​Tafti Commonwealth Attorney
Patricia G. NH Rockingham County Attorney Reform 2014
Conway
Paul D. LA Jefferson Parish District Reform 1996
Connick Jr. Attorney
Pete Holmes WA Seattle City Attorney Reform 2010
Pete Orput MN Washington County Attorney Reform 2010
Phillip Terrell LA Rapides Parish District Implemented 2014
Attorney some reforms
Rachel Rollins MA Suffolk County District Progressive 2018
Attorney
Rachel Romano WV Harrison County Prosecuting Implemented 2015
Attorney some reforms
Raul Torrez NM Bernalillo County District Reform 2016
Attorney
Ryan Mears IN Marion County Prosecutor Reform 2019
Sarah George VT Chittendon County State’s Reform 2017
Attorney (appointed)
Satana Deberry NC Durham County District Progressive 2018
Attorney
Scott Colom MS Lowndes/​Oktibbeha/​Clay/​ Reform 2015
Noxubee County District
Attorney
Shameca MS Adams/​Amite/​Franklin/​ Reform 2019
Collins Wilkinson County District
Attorney
Sherry Boston GA DeKalb County District Reform 2016
Attorney
Sim S. Gill UT Salt Lake County District Reform 2010
Attorney
Stephanie VA Portsmouth City Reform 2015
N. Morales Commonwealth Attorney
Steve T. Descano VA Fairfax County Commonwealth Progressive 2019
Attorney
242 Appendix D

Name State District Progressive/​ Election

Reform Year

Timothy D. Sini NY Suffolk County District Attorney Reform 2017

Todd KS Leavenworth County District Reform 2008
Thompson Attorney
Tori Verber CA San Joaquin County District Reform 2014
Salazar Attorney
Wesley Bell MO St. Louis County Prosecuting Progressive 2018
Attorney
Zachary Klein OH Columbus City Attorney Reform 2017

a Reform prosecutor: This category represents those prosecutors who have taken steps

to implement reforms but are not decarceral. This category also includes prosecutors who
have claimed membership with the progressive movement but have failed to live up to
their promises or who have implemented some progressive reforms but who have failed to
pursue progressive policies in critical areas such as policing.
To be classified as a reformist requires that a prosecutor takes initiative to implement
reforms beyond carrying on or slightly expanding reforms from prior administrations. It
is also sensitive to the overall context and length of a career. A six-​term prosecutor whose
only reform was setting up a drug court twenty years ago would not be considered a re-
formist. The category is also cognizant of the rhetoric the prosecutor uses. While using
reformist/​progressive rhetoric is not sufficient in and of itself, how they frame their poli-
cies is important. There is a difference between prosecutors who say they are declining to
prosecute certain misdemeanor offenses because they lack the resources versus one who
declines to prosecute those crimes because they do not believe those offenses should re-
sult in prison time. It reflects different things about what one can expect from their career
and who they are looking towards as their base of support. It also reflects the influence of
the movement on the scope of what a prosecutor is capable of doing and their reasons for
making changes.
b Implemented some reforms: this is a subcategory of the reform category. This cate-

gory indicates that the prosecutor does not claim progressivism but that reforms they did
pursue were meaningful in the context of the movement’s work toward criminal justice
reform. This could be because they were elected as a rejection of a deeply controversial/​
conservative prosecutor, or because they are long-​standing prosecutors who shifted their
rhetoric and policies in recent years as pressure for criminal justice reform mounted.
c Progressive prosecutor: This category indicates a commitment to comprehensive

decarceral solutions and restricting the power of the criminal justice system. Below are
some key institutional habits of the progressive prosecutor1:
• They have an outsider status, such as a former defense attorney, activists, or
prosecutors in reformist offices who challenge the DA from the left.

1 Some of the criteria provided here are based on the Community Justice Exchange’s

Abolitionist Principles & Campaign Strategies for Prosecutor Organizing, see https://​www.
communityjusticeexchange.org/​abolitionist-​principles.
 Appendix D 243

• They directly call out law enforcement, police associations and regressive prosecutors
in their rhetoric and have a corresponding antagonistic/​challenge-​based relationship
with them.
• They work to hold police to account and limit their role and contact with the
community.
• This excludes policies that seek to use police to intervene in a community or en-
courage greater contact between police and the communities they historically vic-
timize, even if it is in the name of diversion.
• They seek to shrink the size of the criminal justice system, particularly their own of-
fice, by cutting budgets, staff, and scope of duties of the prosecutor’s office.
• This includes removing prosecutors who are committed to traditional law and
order prosecution.
• They do not support hi-​tech solutions to crime such as tagging “high-​risk” individ-
uals for intervention.
• They promote pretrial freedoms by working to forego cash bail as well as electronic
monitoring.
• They seek to reduce long-​term harm caused by the prison industrial complex by
expunging criminal records and avoiding/​limiting probation, parole, and other
forms of extended surveillance.
• They work to decrease the range of issues that are criminalized and create alternatives
to incarceration.
• They pursue non-​enforcement for certain crimes, especially crimes of poverty or
drug offenses.
• They create barriers between the criminal justice system, including the prosecutor’s
office, and social services/​social workers, including schools and housing. This
requires exerting pressure on other system stakeholders.
• They work to empower communities through funding community-​based resources
for community problems, separating these resources to the criminal justice system.
• They do not rely on coercive measures or surveillance in designing diversion
programs or other alternatives to incarceration.
• They pursue transparency by releasing, in an accessible way, as much data as possible
to allow constituents to review the impact they have had in office.
• This includes providing open and early discovery for defense.
• They avoid prosecutorial mechanism meant to maximize punishment and coerce
defendants, such as stacking charges, up-​charging, and plea bargaining.
• Their diversion programs are accessible to all people regardless of ability to pay,
and they do not place onerous demands on participants.

While few if any prosecutors will meet all of these, they each indicate a commitment to
more than just reform of the system, but also advocate for the reduction of its power and
influence. Many reformist prosecutors end up expanding the scope and reach of the crim-
inal justice system even in the process of reducing jail populations. It should be noted that
some prosecutors labeled as “progressive” ran on promises to implement progressive pol-
icies but have not been in office long enough to measure their success.
 APPENDIX E

Movement Syllabi

Anon. 2018. “Prison Abolition Syllabus 2.0.” Black Perspectives. https://​www.aaihs.org/​

prison-​abolition-​syllabus-​2-​0/​.
Barber, Lauren, Mankaprr Conteh, Alex Dean, Eric Jordan, and Ann Nguyen. 2017.
“A Seat at the Table Syllabus.” Issuu, February 8. https://​issuu.com/​ajcwfu/​docs/​
seatatthetablefinal.
Benbow, Candice. 2016. “Lemonade Syllabus.” Issuu, May 6. https://​ issuu.com/​
candicebenbow/​docs/​lemonade_​syllabus_​2016.
Bonilla, Yarimar, Marisol LeBrón, Sarah Molinari, Isabel G. Tamargo, and Kimberly
Roa. n.d. “#PRSYLLABUS.” Puerto Rico Syllabus. https://​puertoricosyllabus.
com/​?fbclid=IwAR0RvchrbwBFKGBe6IBvpey_​5ZBOEGG-​MmHKPtLDPtVgP6
AHew8dxEcbYFE.
“Ferguson Syllabus.” n.d. Sociologists for Justice. https://​sociologistsforjustice.org/​
ferguson-​syllabus/​.
Halley, Catherine. 2017. “Charlottesville Syllabus: Readings on the History of Hate
in America.” JSTOR Daily, August 16. https://​daily.jstor.org/​charlottesville-​syllabi-​
history-​hate-​america/​.
Harris-​Perry, Melissa. 2018. “Race, Class, and Social Justice.” Syllabus, Wake
Forest University, Winston-​Salem, NC. https://​static1.squarespace.com/​static/​
5b69f86ff407b482714e9084/​t /​5 c3fa68cc2241b31b771de11/​1 547675276454/​
RaceClassSocialJusticeFall2018.pdf.
Harris-​Perry, Melissa. 2020. “Disaster, Race, and American Politics.” Syllabus, Wake
Forest University, Winston-​Salem, NC. https://​docs.google.com/​document/​d/​
14uKFyc-​Ii0rT5Q7YHoGelGq86FLIfG3kPBrYgc3Gcck/​edit.
Johnson, Jessica Marie, and Martha S. Jones. 2018. “Black Womanhood.” Syllabus,
John Hopkins University, Baltimore, MD. http://​dh.jmjafrx.com/​2018/​01/​27/​black-​
womanhood-​the-​syllabus/​.
Kendi, Ibram X. 2019. “A Reading List for Ralph Northam.” The Atlantic. https://​www.
theatlantic.com/​ideas/​archive/​2019/​02/​antiracist-​syllabus-​governor-​ralph-​northam/
​582580/​?utm_​medium=social&utm_​term=2019-​02-​12T14%3A40%3A35&utm_​
content=edit-​promo&utm_​campaign=the-​atlantic&utm_​source=facebook.
Neal, Mark Anthony. 2016. “#ColinKaepernickSyllabus.” NewBlackMan (in Exile),
September 6. https://​www newblackmaninexile.net/​2016/​09/​colinkaepernicksyllabus.
html.
NYC Stands with Standing Rock Collective. 2016. “#StandingRockSyllabus.” NYC Stands
with Standing Rock Collective. https://​nycstandswithstandingrock.wordpress.com/
​ s tandingrocksyllabus/ ​ ? fbclid=IwAR2g4_​ u mNJNj8mBrDXMp5YYxeT6z7sJ
XRRsm5epFrnjk5-​xCLi88QMlq6Ts.
Petrella, Christopher, and Ameer Loggins. 2017. “Freedom Dreams: The Colin
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​reading-​list.
246 Appendix E

Purnell, Derecka. 2016. “Radical Political Action.” Boston Review, March 7. http://​
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Stewart, Jessica Lynn, and Melissa Harris-​Perry. 2019. “Black Women’s Political Activism.”
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The Red Papers. 2017. “A Women’s Strike Syllabus.” The New Inquiry. https://​thenewinquiry.
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Quoted Author Interviews and Personal Communications

Byrd, Jessica. Interview with author, March 12, 2018.

Cadet. Jewel. Interview with author, December 27, 2017.
Carruthers, Charlene. Interview with author, July 12, 2017.
Cooper, Brittney (activist, assoc. professor Africana Studies, Rutgers University).
Interview with author, March 21, 2017.
Hatcher, Paris. Comments in reading discussion, September 16, 2018.
Hooks, Mary. Interview with author, October 19, 2018.
Khan-​Cullors, Patrisse. Interview with author, July 17, 2017.
Matthews, Shanelle (communications director, Black Lives Matter Global Network
Foundation). Interview with author, March 8, 2017.
Mitchell, Maurice (cofounder of BlackBird). Interview with author, June 30, 2017.
Police officer, Cobb County, Georgia. Interview with author, November 13, 2017.
 Index

Abdullah, Melina, 191 Arendt, Hannah, 130, 133, 147

abolitionist ethic Aristotle, 59, 129, 142
and “congregational” model of public “the art of the possible,” 130–​31
commitment, 102 Asian voters, 165
and decarceral trend, 181 authority bias, 171
and election activism, 195
and movement policy initiatives, 191 Back of the Yards neighborhood, 134
and politics of care, 87–​88, 90, 93, bail funds and programs
115–​21, 126 and activism aimed at
and radical mandate of M4BL, 72 prosecutors, 185, 188
and theories of political and decarceral trend, 182
engagement, 202 and election activism, 197
and unapologetic Blackness, 113 examples of, 217–​21
Abrahms, Stacey, 198 and M4BL Cleveland gathering, 42–​43
accountability, 86, 93, 107–​8 ongoing funds, 223–​29
Action St. Louis, 199 and organizational fundraising, 151, 153
activism. See political activism and and theories of political
engagement engagement, 202
ACT UP, 6 Baker, Ella, 1, 43–​44, 55, 56, 58
age dynamics in social movements, 105–​7 Balko, Radley, 29
Ahmed, Sarah, 66 Bambara, Toni Cade, 54
Airbnb, 211 bandele, asha, 145, 211–​12
Akbar, Amna, 57–​58 Barr, William, 195
Alexander, Elizabeth, 210 Behind the Mule (Dawson), 164
Alexander, Marissa, 21–​22, 183 The Beloved Community church (Saint
Alexander, Michelle, 116 John’s United Church of Christ), 31
Alinsky, Saul, 128, 131–​35, 138, 157 Berkeley, California, 191
Allen, Lauren, 173 Bernard, Tanya Lucia, 38
alliances, political, 162 Berne, Patty, 101n1
“All Live Matter” counter-​slogan, 173–​74, Black Alliance for Just Immigration
207 (BAJI), 151
Alvarez, Anita, 182, 184 Blackbird, 27, 33–​34, 153
anarchism, 71 Black Campaign School, 202
Anderson, Devon, 185 Black civil rights movement, xi, 6, 163,
anger, politicized, 74–​77 164, 165
anti-​Black racism, 211–​12. See also racism Black conservatism, 68
and racial attitudes Black diaspora, 87
antidemocratic movements, 17 Black feminism, 50, 80. See also radical
anti-​globalization activism, 132–​33 Black feminist pragmatism (RBFP)
antiwar activism, 213 Black Feminist Future, 53
Arab Spring, 170 Black Feminist Thought (Collins), 78n6
272 Index

“Black Identity Extremists” designation, and election activism, 195

169, 194 and fundraising, 151, 153
Black joy and healing justice, 122, 124
and healing justice, 121–​22 and Khan-​Cullors political
and mandate for radical change, 72–​74, 76 engagement, 53
and organizational culture, 156–​57 and liberatory goal of M4BL, 64
and political organizing, 139 and movement policy initiatives, 191
and politics of care, 85, 87, 93, 108, organizational and movement
114–​15 culture, 154
Black liberation movements and organizational structures, 150
and communicative element of and unapologetic Blackness, 108, 111
movement work, 177 Black Lives Matter Los Angeles, 191
and election activism, 195 Black Lives Matter Network, 192
and margin-​to-​center ethic, 83 Black Lives Matter Policy Table, 43
and origins of Movement for Black Black Lives Matter Rides, 35–​37
Lives, 18, 45 Black Mama’s Day Bail Out, 188
and political claims of M4BL, 69 Black Marxism, 68
and politics of care, 93 Black Organizing for Leadership and
and radical mandate of M4BL, 72 Dignity (BOLD), 86
and summer of 2020 protests, 205 Black Panther Party, 39, 144
and unapologetic Blackness, 111 Black queer feminism, 78–​79, 113, 129
Black Lives Matter (BLM) Black Reconstruction (Du Bois), 145
and Black liberation movements, 18 “Black Twitter,” 178–​79
and communicative element of Black Youth Project 100 (BYP 100)
movement work, 177, 180 Healing and Safety Council, 98, 103,
and context of 2016 election, 6 105, 112, 124–​25
and “cycles of contention,” 4 and intergenerational interdependence,
and displacement of the colorblind 105–​6
narrative, 173, 176 and intersectionality theory, 78
and the Ferguson uprisings, 34 and M4BL Cleveland gathering, 38, 41
impact of mass uprisings, 214–​15 organizational and movement culture,
and M4BL Cleveland gathering, 38 156–​57
and margin-​to-​center ethics, 81, 82 and politics of care, 87, 117n5
and movement policy initiatives, 216 and theories of political organization, 129
origins of, 20–​23 Bland, Sandra, 5–​6, 209, 210
and origins of M4BL, 34–​37 Bolden, Nicole, 29
and political claims of M4BL, 66, 68–​69 Boyd, Rekia, 5, 25
and political organization, 152 BREATHE Act, 214–​15
and pragmatism of social movements, 18 Breedlove, Gina, 86
and radical Black feminist pragmatism, 51 bridge-​building efforts, 53, 208
rejection of “All Live Matter” counter-​ brown, adrienne maree
slogan, 173–​74, 207 and “emergent strategy” of organizing, 146
and shifts in public opinion, 165, 170, on leadership styles, 59
213–​14 and political claims of M4BL, 70
Black Lives Matter Global Network on pragmatic imagination, 52, 54
Foundation on responsibility of activism, 20
and anti-​incarceration activism, 23 and unapologetic Blackness, 114
and democratic experimentation, 60 Brown, Elaine, 144
 Index 273

Brown, Emanuel, 86 and politics of care, 92

Brown, Michael and the politics of despair, 8
account of murder, 24–​28 and radical Black feminist organizing, 139
and context of 2016 election, 6 and tactical diffusion, 182
and election activism, 196 Care Work (Piepzna-​Samarasinha), 101
and Ferguson uprisings, 24, 110 Caring Democracy (Tronto), 91–​92
funeral, 30 Carruthers, Charlene
and impact of Floyd’s murder, 209 on accountability, 107
and origins of #BlackLivesMatter, 18 and fundraising issues, 152
and origins of M4BL, 34–​37, 45 on intergenerational interdependence, 105
and shifts in public opinion, 165 on intersectionality theory, 78–​79
bureaucratization, 3–​4, 7, 17 on LGBTQ activism, 113
Bush, Cori, 203 and political education in movement
Butler, Octavia, 1 organizing, 145
#ByeAnita campaign, 184–​85 and politics of care, 87
#ByeBob campaign, 199 and radical Black feminist organizing,
Byrd, Jessica, 23, 59, 196–​98, 208, 214–​15 136, 137–​38, 139, 140
on radical imagination, 53
Cadet, Jewel, 105–​7, 193 and relationships in political
Campbell, Travis, 181 organizing, 143
capitalism on squad care, 155–​56
and election activism, 193 and theories of political organization,
and exposing effects of state power, 169 128–​29, 128–​30
and goals of M4BL, 214 and unapologetic Blackness, 114
and Highlander Folk School approach cash bail, 185, 188, 197, 243. See also bail
to organizing, 135 funds and programs
injustice of “racial capitalism,” 28–​29 Castile, Philando, 172, 189
and origins of social movements, 17 Channel Black, 202
and political claims of M4BL, 71 charismatic leadership, 54–​56, 58–​59
and politics of care, 93 Charlottesville, Virginia, 61
“racial capitalism,” 94 Chauvin, Derrick, 209
and radical Black feminist Chicago, Illinois, 184–​85
activism, 53, 137 Chicago Community Bond Fund, 151
and radical mandate of M4BL, 76 Chicago Police Department, 185
and structural oppression, 143 citizenship, 3, 16, 17, 91–​92, 94, 169–​70.
captured constituencies, 60 See also democracy and democratic
carceral systems and practices institutions
“carceral state,” 21 civic knowledge, 7
decarceral trend, 181 civil asset forfeiture, 195
and decarceral trend, 181 civil disobedience, 212
and election activism, 197 civil rights movements, 9
and exposing effects of state power, 169 Civil War, 215
and impact of the M4BL, 161 Clare, Eli, 101n1
and M4BL issue activism, 113, 115 Clarke, Septima, 128
and margin-​to-​center ethic, 79, 207 Cleveland, Ohio, 38–​45
and movement policy initiatives, Clifton, Lucille, 89
191–​92 Clinton, Bill, 194
and origins of #BlackLivesMatter, 21, 23 Cloward, James, 60
274 Index

Coates, Ta-​Nehisi, 22 democracy and democratic institutions

Cohen, Cathy, 112, 145 and democratic experimentation, 50,
COINTELPRO, 169 51, 54–​61
collective care ethic, 123. See also politics and exposing effects of state power, 168
of care and interdependence, 101
Collective PAC, 202 and interest group pluralism, 12–​16
collective trauma, 85n7 and political organization, 127
colorblind narrative, 173–​76, 180, 213 and political pragmatism, 71
Colorlines, 36–​37 and politics of despair, 8–​10
Combahee River Collective Statement, 78n6 as remedy for politics of despair, 16–​17
communalism, 68 and repoliticization of public life, 17–​18
communicative element of movement social movements as democratic
work, 176–​80 institutions, 10–​12
community-​based organization (CBO), social protest as tool of, 212
128–​31, 131–​36, 138, 140 and stratification of political
Community Change Action, 130 participation, 12–​13
The Condemnation of Little B (Brown), 144 and value of social movements, 3
Confederate monuments, 61 Democratic Party, 8–​9, 164–​65, 167, 192,
congregational model of public 200, 203
commitment, 102 Dewey, John
conservatism, 75, 162, 163, 176 and political claims of M4BL, 70
Cooper, Amy, 210–​11 and the politics of despair, 10
Cooper, Anna Julia, 1, 44, 80 on social intelligence, 56–​58
Cooper, Brittney, 35, 42–​44, 64, 69, social intelligence concept, ​51
74, 145 and theories of political organizing, 128,
Cooper, Christian, 210–​11 133, 135–​36, 135n1
Corey, Angela, 21, 182–​84 Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of
COVID-​19 pandemic, 165, 203–​4, 212 Mental Disorders, 85n7
Crawford, John, 25 Dignity and Power Now, 191–​92
Crenshaw, Kimberlé, 69 direct action, xvi, 31, 33, 40–​43, 72, 108,
crime and criminal justice, 92, 116–​19. See 124, 194, 200
also carceral systems and practices; Disability Justice Collective, 101n1
policing and law enforcement disability justice movement, 101, 101n1,
curfews, 39, 204 122–​23, 122n6
cycles of contention, 4 distributed framing, 179–​80
diversity within M4BL, 39–​40
Dahl, Robert, 13–​14 Dixiecrats, 163
Dallas, Texas, 172–​73 domination, 89–​90, 122
Davis, Angela, 10, 47 double consciousness, 80, 112
Davis, Jordan, 25 double jeopardy, 78n6
Dawson, Michael, 49, 68, 145, 164 Douglass, Frederick, 1, 10
death penalty, 183 Dream Defenders, 38, 183
decentralized organization, 44–​45, 54, 56, Du Bois, W. E. B., 20, 80, 112, 145
59, 132, 214 Durkheim, Emile, 27, 33, 73, 115
defund-​the-​police initiatives, 116, 189, Dussel, Enrique, 69, 80–​81
191, 214–​15
de jure segregation, 164 East Harlem Preservation, 106
Deleuze, Gilles, 146–​47 ecology of power, 146
 Index 275

economic policy, 168–​69 Ferguson, Missouri

education, 135–​36, 144, 176 and author’s background, xi
Edwards, Erica, 55 and Black Lives Matter Rides, 35–​37
effervescence, collective, 27, 33, 73, and decarceral trend, 181
81–​82, 115 and election activism, 196
Eisenhower, Dwight, 163 and injustice of “racial capitalism,”
election activism, 192–​99, 200–​202 28–​30
Electoral Justice Project, 197, 199–​200, 202 and local organization, 30–​34
Electoral Justice Voter Fund, 114, 200 mobilization after Michael Brown
Ella Baker Center for Human Rights, 151 murder, 25–​28
“Ella Baker style” of organization, 43–​44 and origins of #BlackLivesMatter, 18
Ellison, Ralph, 73 and origins of M4BL, 23–​24, 45
Elmasry, Mohammed, 171 and racial capitalism, 28–​29
el-​Nawawy, Mohamad, 171 and shifts in public opinion, 165, 171, 213
Eloquent Rage (Cooper), 74 Whose Streets? documentary, 110
emergent strategies, 146–​47 Ferguson Action, 38
Emergent Strategy (brown), 52 Fernandez, Christian, 183, 184
Emily’s List, 196 Ferrell, Brittany, 34
Emmanuel, Rahm, 113, 185 Fifth Estate, 10
emotion work, 139 fines and fees, 28–​30. See also cash bail
“end of history” thesis, 5 Fischer, Greg, 61
End Sheriff Violence, 192 Fisher, Bernice, 98–​99
Enlightenment values, 100, 125 Floyd, George, 166, 189, 208–​10, 209, 213
environmental justice movement, 122n6, 179 Folk School model of organizing, 128,
ethic of care, 91–​92. See also politics of 131–​36
care Ford Foundation, 151
evangelicals, 162 Foucault, Michel, 145
explicit bias, 175–​76 Foxx, Kim, 185
exteriority, 81 Frazier, Darnella, 209
Freedom as Marronage (Roberts), 61–​62
Facebook Freedom Rides, 35, 37
and Black Lives Matter Rides, 37 #FreeThemAll campaign, 204
and communicative element of French, Antonio, 26
movement work, 179 Frymer, Paul, 60, 200
and election activism, 192 Funders for Justice, 151
and human rights activism, 32–​33 funding sources, 151–​53
and liberatory goal of M4BL, 65 futurity, 206–​16
and reactions to Zimmerman verdict,
xiii, 21 Gallup, 8, 167
fairness ethic, 126 Gamaliel Foundation, 132
Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), Gampa, Anup, 174, 175
20n1, 169, 194 Garner, Eric, 5, 25, 209, 210
Federal Election Commission, 5 Garvey, Marcus, 71
feminism. See radical Black feminist Garza, Alicia, 6, 21, 34, 68–​69, 81–​83, 145
pragmatism (RBFP) gay rights and gay marriage, 6, 112n3. See
Feminist Theory from Margin to Center also LGBTQ activism
(hooks), 79–​80 Gecan, Michael, 129–​30, 131, 132–​34,
The Feminist Wire, 36 138, 142
276 Index

Geertz, Clifford, 148 Hatcher, Paris, 53

gender identity, 8, 83. See also LGBTQ Hattam, Victoria, 162
activism Hawthorne, California, 20n2
generational trauma, 95–​96, 96–​97, 122 Head, Louis, 26
Geventa, John, 145 healing justice movement, 85, 91, 121–​25,
Gilded Age, 7 122n6, 139
Gilmore, Ruth Wilson, 88, 118, 121, 145 Helm, Chanelle, 60–​61
goals orientation Hemphill, Prentis, 49, 86, 108
and communicative element of “A Herstory of the #BlackLivesMatter
movement work, 179 Movement” (Garza), 68–​69, 81
and community-​based organization, Heyer, Heather, 61
132, 134 Higganbotham, Evelyn, 73
and election activism, 197 Higher Heights for America, 202
and M4BL’s table structure, 149 Highlander Folk School, 115, 128, 131–​36,
and politics of care, 118 135n1, 157
and power-​building in political Hispanic households, 8
organizing, 145 Hochschild, Jennifer, 180
and radical Black feminist organizing, Holder, Eric, 194
138–​41 holding space, 104–​5
and summer of 2020 protests, 204 Holocaust, 96
and theories of political engagement, hooks, bell, 79–​80, 208
201–​2 Hooks, Mary, 39–​42, 71–​74, 76–​77, 127–​28,
Goffman, Erving, 54 144, 188
GoFundMe, 35 Horton, Myles, 128, 134, 135–​36, 157
Gould, Deborah, 6–​7, 73, 139 housing programs, 191
Grant Park, xii Houston, Texas, 185
grassroots organizing, 27, 139, 149, 152, 163 Hughes, Langston, xiv, 137
Great Recession, 5 Hughey, Joseph, 146
Green, Marshall (Kai M.), 105, 124–​25 Human Rights at Home Campaign, 32
Green Movement, 170 Hurricane Katrina, 122
Griffith, Mark Winston, 38 hyper-​localism, 131
grounding, 107
group identities, 178 identity politics, 207
Guardian, 23, 36, 172 ideology, 138, 145
Guattari, Felix, 146–​47 imagination of social movements, 52
Gumbs, Alexis Pauline, 85, 208 Imarisha, Walidah, 20, 70
Guy-​Sheftall, Beverly, 145 immigrant detention and separations,
185, 194
Hands Up United, 35 implicit bias, 175–​76
Haparimwi, Charlene, 111 incarceration rates, 79. See also carceral
harm-​prevention ethic, 126. See also systems and practices
politics of care indigenous organizations and resources,
Harriet’s Apothecary, 86 24, 30, 142
Harris, Christopher Paul, 156–​57 individual-​rights ideology, 126, 163. See
Harris-​Perry, Melissa, 155 also states’ rights
Harvard Law Review, 121 Industrial Areas Foundation, 128, 132
Harvey, Thomas, 29–​30 inequality, 7–​9, 12–​14
hashtags, 18, 21, 173, 177–​80 Inouye, Mie, 134–​35, 135n1
 Index 277

institutional dehumanization, 94 and political education in movement

interdependence organizing, 145, 211–​12
and “holding space,” 104–​5 on pragmatic imagination, 53
intergenerational, 105–​7 Kindred Healing Justice Collective, 91
and politics of care, 93, 98–​107 Kindred Southern Healing Justice
and radical Black feminist organizing, Collective, 122
139 King, Martin Luther, Jr., 44
and “showing up,” 103–​4
interest group pluralism, 12–​16 Lacan, Jacques, 114
interlocking oppressions, 78n6 Lamar, Kendrick, 42
interorganizational environment, 153–​57 Latchison, Diamond, 34
interpersonal trust, 7 Latino voters, 165
intersectionality, 50, 78–​79, 78–​84, 207 law enforcement. See policing and law
Ithaca, New York, 190 enforcement
Law for Black Lives, 202
Jasper, James, 37 leadership
Jeantel, Rachel, xi leaderful approach, 44, 55, 59, 60
Jefferson, Thomas, 10 and political organizing process, 140,
Jesus Christ, 32 142–​43, 146
Jim Crow, 184 and social intelligence and democratic
Johnson, Micah Xavier, 172 experimentation, 54–​61
Johnston, Hank, 11 Let Us Breathe Fund, 152
Jones, Claudia, 78n6 LGBTQ activism, 69, 87
Jordan, June, 85 liberalism, 75, 99
jouissance, 54, 114 liberation feminism, 49
judicial system, 167 liberatory goals, 50, 51, 61–​66, 140
justice Lindsey, Treva B., 114
and interest group pluralism, 14 localism, 132. See also grassroots
and liberatory goals of RBFP, 62 organizing
and margin-​to-​center ethics, 78–​84 Lomax, Tamura, 36
and politics of care, 126 Lopez, Christy, 191
pragmatic imagination, 51–​52 Lorde, Audre
and future of M4BL, 206, 208
Kaba, Mariame, 86, 117–​21, 189, 191 on “institutional dehumanization,” 94
Kaepernick, Colin, 213 on issue advocacy, 47
Katznelson, Ira, 169 and political education in movement
Kelley, Robin D.G., 145 organizing, 145, 214
Khan-​Cullors, Patrisse and politics of care, 85
on abolition ethic, 121 quoted, 159
and anti-​incarceration activism, 23 and radical mandate of M4BL, 74–​76
and Black Lives Matter Rides, 35, 36 Louisville, Kentucky, 60–​61
and liberatory goal of M4BL, 65 Lowery, Wesley, 23–24, 26
and movement policy initiatives, 191 Low-​Key, 34
and organizing during Ferguson Lowndes, Joe, 162
uprisings, 34 Lukes, Stephen, 145
and origins of #BlackLivesMatter, 6 Lumumba, Chokwe Antar, 199
and political claims of M4BL, Lumumba, Rukia, 197–​99
67–​68 Luxemburg, Rosa, 10, 82
278 Index

MacArthur Foundation, 151 Mingus, Mia, 101n1

Making All Black Lives Matter (Ransby), 29 Minneapolis, Minnesota, 181, 189, 208–​9
“Man Child” (Lorde), 206 Minnesota Freedom Fund, 151
Mapping Police Violence study, 190 Missourians Organizing for Reform and
Marcano, Mervyn, 33, 34, 153 Empowerment, 35
March for Our Lives, 4 Mitchell, Maurice “Moe,” 27–​28, 31–​33
March on Washington, 213 Mitchell, Moe, 31
Margaret, Sebastian, 101n1 Mitchell, Nikita, 97, 154
margin-​to-​center ethics, 44, 50, 51, 78–​84, mobilization, 127–​28, 129, 145
112, 205, 207 Monmouth University, 166
Marin, Mara, 103 Moore, Darnell, 34, 35, 36, 145
marronage, 61–​62, 64–​66 Moore, Leroy, 101n1
Martha P. Johnson Institute, 119 More, Thomas, 52–​53
Martin, Trayvon mothering practices, 85
and activism aimed at Mother Jones, 26
prosecutors, 183, 184 motivated reasoning, 140
and author’s background, xi–​xii Movement for Black Lives (M4BL)
and author’s reaction to Zimmerman and author’s background, xv–​xvi
verdict, xiii and bail programs, 188
and context of 2016 election, 5 and Cleveland gathering, 37–​38, 43
and impact of Floyd’s murder, 209 and communicative element of
and origins of #BlackLivesMatter, 18, movement work, 176–​77, 179–​80
20–​22 and conceptual terrain of American
and origins of M4BL, 23–​24 politics, 161–​62, 165–​67
and recursive trauma of police violence, and “cycles of contention,” 4
24–25, 28 decentralized organization, 44–​45
Marxism, 68, 69 and democratic experimentation, 59–​60
Mass Action for Black Liberation, 195 and displacement of the colorblind
mass incarceration, 79, 197. See also narrative, 173–​75
carceral systems and practices and election activism, 192–​93, 195–​99
Matthews, Shanelle, 64, 111, 176–​77, and the elections of 2016, 212–​13
195–​96, 202 “Ella Baker style” organization, 43–​44
McAdam, Doug, 24, 30, 142 and funding resources, 152
McAlevey, Jane, 142 and healing justice, 122
McCaskill, Clair, 196 impact of mass uprisings, 214–​15
McCulloch, Bob, 199 and leadership styles, 55–​56
McDonald, Laquan, 182–​83, 184 and liberatory goals, 62–​63
McHarris, Thenjiwe, 32–​33 and margin-​to-​center ethics, 80–​81
McIntyre, Spirit, 86 misperceptions of, 49
McSpadden, Leslie, 26 origins of, 23–​24, 34–​37, 94
Medicare expansion, 203 platform and goals of, 43, 66–​67,
mental health resources, 189, 190 212–​13
#MeToo Movement, 4, 179 political claims of, 66–​71
Mettler, Suzanne, 161 and political organization, 127–​28,
Mijente, 195 136–​38, 140, 143–​44, 146, 148–​50,
militarization of police, 171–​72, 197 149, 150, 152, 157
Million Hoodies, 38 and politics of care, 86, 90–​91, 125
mindfulness, 107 and pragmatic imagination, 58
 Index 279

and radical Black feminist pragmatism and displacement of the colorblind

(RBFP), 45–​46 narrative, 174
and scope of study, 4, 18–​19 police oversight efforts, 194
and shifts in public opinion, 206 and respectability politics, 109–​10
and structural racism, 168 and shifts in public opinion, 165
and summer of 2020 protests, 204 Occupy movement, 4, 152, 170, 212
and “transformation in service of the oligarchy, 3, 7, 10, 16
work,” 77 Oliver, Mary, 74, 74n5
and unapologetic Blackness, 108–​9, Oluo, Ijeoma, 172
112–​13, 113–​14 Open Society Foundation, 151
Mullings, Leith, 145 oppression
Murch, Donna, 145 and healing justice, 122, 124
Muslim ban, 194 and politics of care, 93
Myrick, Svante, 190 and radical Black feminist organizing, 139
and radical Black feminist pragmatism,
National Advisory Commission on 89–​90
Criminal Justice Standards and as social trauma, 94–​98
Goals, 116 organic leaders, 142
National Association for the Advancement organizational cultures, 153–​57
of Colored People (NAACP), 128 Organization for Black Struggle (OBS),
National Bail Out Day, 188 30–​31, 34, 35
National Organization of Black Law organizing
Enforcement Executives, 169 community-​based and Folk School
National Women’s Studies Association, traditions, 131–​36
74–​75 defining political organization, 128–​31
Nelson, Matt, 24 described, 127–​28
Nelson, Melissa, 184 key activities of, 141–​48
neoliberalism, 100, 147–​48, 168, 207 and radical Black feminism, 136–​41
networked organizational form, 148–​53, 149 structures, cultures, and environment,
New Deal, 162–​63 148–​57
news media, 109, 170–​73, 174, 177–​78 other care, 114–​15. See also politics of care
New York Academy of Medicine, 106
New York Foundation, 32 Pace, Sharon, 26
New York Police Department, 169 Page, Cara, 86, 91, 122
New York State Civic Engagement Table, 32 partisanship, 8. See also political activism
New York Times, 3, 152, 171 and engagement
Next Generation Action Network, 172 patriarchy, 124, 137, 143, 168, 193, 208, 214
No Ashes in the Fire (Moore), 145 Patterson, Orlando, 92
nonprofits, 24, 32–​33, 38, 45, 151, 154, Peirce, Charles Sanders, 52
163. See also specific organizations People’s Advocacy Institute, 198
non-​reformist reforms, 191 Perry, Imani, 49
Noor, Miski, 111 personal responsibility rhetoric, 117
North Star Fund, 152 Pew Research Center, 8, 165, 166, 172,
Nussbaum, Martha, 99 173, 204
“A Phenomenology of Whiteness”
Obama, Barack (Ahmed), 66
and author’s background, xii Physics of Blackness (Wright), 66
critique of Movement for Black Lives, 3 PICO National Network, 132
280 Index

Piepzna-​Samarasinha, Leah Laksshmi, value and goals of, 3

101, 101n1, 123 See also politics of care
Piven, Frances Fox, 60 Politics (Aristotle), 129
pluralism, 12–​16 politics of care
“Poetry is not a Luxury” (Lorde), 159 and abolitionist ethic, 93, 115–​21
policing and law enforcement and accountability, 93, 107–​8
and abolitionist ethic, 115–​21 and defense of Black joy, 85, 87, 93, 108,
defund and abolition initiatives, 116, 114–​15
189, 190, 191, 214–​15 described, 84–​88
and exercise of domination and abusive and healing justice, 121–​25
authority, 63, 90 and interdependence, 93, 98–​107
and federal civil rights investigations, and oppression as social trauma, 93, 94–​98
194–​95 and political organization, 127
Mapping Police Violence study, 190 and radical Black feminist
militarization of police, 171–​72, 197 pragmatism, 50
police oversight boards, 191, 194–​95, and relationship-​building, 138–​39
231–​36 and theories of political organization, 137
police violence and killings, xi–​xii, 5–​6, and unapologetic Blackness, 93, 108–​21
20n1, 63, 165–​67, 171–​72, 177, 181, Politics of Common Sense, 179
182, 197, 204 The Politics of Common Sense (Woodly),
“stop-​and-​frisk” policing, 20, 20n3 xi, 212–​13
and summer of 2020 protests, 204 politics of despair, 3, 6–​10, 16–​17
and traffic enforcement, 189 Polletta, Francesca, 33, 37
and unapologetic Blackness, 109, pop culture, 109
113–​14 postcolonial political theory, 80–​81
Uniform Crime Reporting Program, post-​genocidal societies, 96
20n1 poverty, 28–​29, 60–​61, 63, 81–​82, 117, 190
white weaponization of, 210–​11 power-​building and analysis, 142–​47
Policing and Social Justice Project, 117 Praelli, Lorella, 130–​31
policy initiatives, 189–​92, 214–​15 pragmatism, 17–​18, 50, 51–​54, 69–​71
political activism and engagement Pressley, Ayanna, 214
election activism, 192–​99 primary elections, 184
and intergenerational prison systems, 115–​16, 118–​19, 121. See
interdependence, 106 also carceral systems and practices
and margin-​to-​center ethics, 83 progressive prosecutors, 185, 186–​88,
and organizing activities, 58, 58n3, 237–​43
127–​28, 129, 141–​48 Project NIA, 117
and partisanship, 8 Project South, 38
political docetism, 31–​32 prosecutors, 182–​85, 186–​88, 237–​43
and politics of care, 103–​4, 126 public action, 141, 145
and politics of despair, 7 public opinion, 161–​62, 161–​67, 173–​76,
and the politics of despair, 9 204, 206
religious activism, 31–​32 The Purpose of Power (Garza), 145
and “showing up,” 103–​4 Purser, Ronald, 100–​101
and social media
and socioeconomic stratification, 12–​13 queerness and queer activism
surveillance of activists, 169 and Black Lives Matter Rides, 35
and unapologetic Blackness, 108–​21 and election activism, 194
 Index 281

and intersectionality theory, 78–​79 Reagan, Ronald, 144, 162

and M4BL Cleveland gathering, 39–​42 realignment, political, 163–​64, 166
and margin-​to-​center ethic, 83 redlining, 61, 169
and political claims of M4BL, 68–​69 Reed, Kayla, 34, 199
and unapologetic Blackness, 111, 113 re-​enactment protests, 132–​33
Quinnipiac University, 166 reform prosecutors, 185–​88, 186–​88,
237–​43
Raboteau, Albert J., 102 regressive district attorneys, 182–​83
race and ethnicity, 8, 162–​67, 207. See also Reid, Kayla, 197
racism and racial attitudes relationship-​building, 138–​39, 141–​42
racial discrimination, 166 religious activism, 31–​32
racism and racial attitudes reparations, xv, 39, 61, 66–​67, 88, 91, 121,
and Charlottesville protests, 61 139, 202
and displacement of the colorblind reparative justice, 139
narrative, 173–​76 reproductive justice movement, 122n6
and origins of #BlackLivesMatter, 21 Republican Party, 8–​9, 162, 165
and racial capitalism, 28–​29, 94 Resource Generation, 152
racial resentment, 110 respectability politics, 73, 109–​11, 112n3
and radical mandate of M4BL, 74–​75 rhizomic model of organization, 147
and reactions to Ferguson uprising, 165 Rice, Tamir, 5, 40
and shifts in public opinion, 163 Rice, Tony, 34
and systemic racism, 158, 175 Richie, Beth, 145
and weaponization of whiteness, 210–​11 Rising Majority, 150–​51, 195
radical Black feminist pragmatism (RBFP) Roberts, Chris, 112
central elements of, 50 Roberts, Neil, 61–​62, 65
and communicative element of Robinson, Cedric, 28, 94
movement work, 207 Robinson, Derek, 34
and future of M4BL, 215 Rogers, Jamala, 34
intersectional lens, 78–​84 Rogers, Melvyn, 57
liberatory aim, 51, 61–​66 Roosevelt, Franklin, 162–​63
and origins of Movement for Black The Root, 38
Lives, 45 Ross, Loretta, 122n6
political goals of, 66–​71 Rushin, Donna Kate, 208
and political organization, 127 Rustin, Bayard, 201
political philosophy, 49–​51
and politics of care, 84–​88, 125 Safety Beyond Policing, 120
and pragmatic imagination, 50, 51–​54 Saint John’s United Church of Christ (The
radical mandate, 71–​77 Beloved Community church), 31, 36
and scope of study, 4 Sawyer, Jeremy, 174, 175
and social intelligence, 54–​61 Scholars for Black Lives, 202
and theories of political organization, secondary marginalizations, 112–​13,
128–​29, 136–​41 112n3
Radical Communicators Network, 202 segregation, 60–​61, 162
radical imagination, 19, 52, 53–54, 57–​58 self care, 114–​15
radical mandates, 50, 71–​77 self-​defense, 21–​22
Ramsey, Donovan, 194 self-​determination, 124
Ransby, Barbara, 29, 34, 37, 43, 55–​56, Sessions, Jeff, 195
144–​45 Shakur, Assata, 1
282 Index

Sharpton, Al, 28 St. Louis, Missouri, 28–​30, 199, 202–​3

Sims, J. Marion, 106 St. Louis Action Council, 34
simultaneity, 78n6 St. Louis American, 199
“Singapore” (Oliver), 74n5 St. Louis County, 24, 29, 30, 45
Sister Outsider (Lorde), 159, 206 St. Louis Post-​Dispatch, 171
Smith, Christen A., 96 “stop-​and-​frisk” policing, 20, 20n3
social death, 92 structural analysis, 143–​46, 207
social intelligence, 50, 51, 54–​61, 56–​57 structural racism, 168–​69
socialism, 71, 76 submerged state, 161
social media sundown towns, 20, 20n2
and communicative element of Support Team Assistance Response
movement work, 177–​80 (STAR) program, 190
and displacement of the colorblind surveillance of activists, 169
narrative, 173–​74 Susana, Biannela, 183
and election activism, 192 swailing, 12
and fundraising issues, 152–​53 Syedullah, Jasmine, 102
and murder of Michael Brown, 25–​26 systemic racism, 158, 175
and origins of #BlackLivesMatter, 6
and origins of M4BL, 24, 35, 37 “table” organizational structure, 148–​50, 149
and shifts in public opinion, 170–​71 Talley, Heather Laine, 36
and unapologetic Blackness, 109 Tarrow, Sydney, 4
and weaponization of whiteness, 210 tax policy, 168
social movements, 10–​12, 16–​17, 210. See Taylor, Breonna, 209
also specific organizations Taylor, Je Naé, 103, 124
social trauma, 93, 94–​98 Tea Party movement, 4
Solidaire, 151–​52 theory of action, 57
Solomon, Akiba, 36–​37 Third Reich, 17
Souls of Black Folk (Du Bois), 80 A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and
“soul wound,” 96 Schizophrenia, 146–​47
Southern Christian Leadership Threadcraft, Shatema, 100
Conference (SCLC), 55, 128 Three Point Strategies, 196, 198
Southerners on New Ground (SONG), 39, Thucidides, 133
77, 127, 128, 150, 151 Thurmond, Strom, 163
Speer, Paul, 146 Thurston, Chloe, 168
Spence, Lester, 145 Tlaib, Rashida, 214
squad care, 155 tolerance, 213
“stand-​your-​ground” laws, 21 Tometi, Opal, 6, 34
Starbucks, 211 To Pimp a Butterfly (Lamar), 42
States and Social Movements (Johnston), 11 Townes, Emily, 109
states’ rights, 163 traditionalism, 163
States’ Rights Democratic Party traffic-​ticket quotas, 189
(Dixiecrats), 163 transformation in service of the
state violence, 124. See also policing and work, 77, 128
law enforcement transgender activism, 39–​40, 41–​42, 83,
Steez, Fresco, 87, 176 113. See also LGBTQ activism
stereotypes, 109, 135, 167, 177–​78. See also triple oppression, 78n6. See also
racism and racial attitudes intersectionality
Sterling, Alton, 172 Tronto, Joan, 91–​92, 94, 99
 Index 283

Troutman, Stephanie, 36 When They Call You a Terrorist (Khan-​

Truman, Harry, 163 Cullors and bandele), 67, 145, 211–​12
Trump, Donald, 5, 170, 193–​94, 213–​14 White Coats for Black Lives, 202
trust, 7, 8 white racial attitudes, 75
Tumblr, 6 white supremacy ideology
Twitter, 6, 25, 152–​53 and communicative element of
Type 2 diabetes, 96 movement work, 176, 177–​78
and displacement of the colorblind
Unapologetic (Carruthers), 145 narrative, 173
Unapologetic: A Black, Queer, and Feminist and election activism, 193
Mandate for Radical Movements and Highlander Center arson, 115
(Carruthers), 129 and origins of #BlackLivesMatter, 21
unapologetic Blackness, 86, 93, and racial capitalism, 29
108–​21, 138 and recursive trauma of police
Uniform Crime Reporting Program, 20n1 violence, 25
United Nations, 32 Whose Streets? (documentary), 110
US Constitution, 10 Williams, Ebony, 34
US Department of Justice, 28, 29, 30, 170 Williams, Ife, 98
US Human Rights Network, 32 Williams, Kei, 83, 119
utopianism, 52–​53, 53n2, 208 Wilson, Darren, 25
Wilson, Starsky, 31–​32
Very Smart Brothas, 111 Woke Voter STL, 199
vigilantes, xii, 5–​6 Wolin, Sheldon, 11–​12
vindication, 72–​73 Womack, Ytasha, 207–​8
visionary labor, 57–​58 Women Donors Network, 152
Vision for Black Lives, 168, 197, 202 Women’s March, 213–​14
Vitale, Alex, 117 Wright, Michelle, 66

#WakandaTheVote, 199 Yates, Ashley, 152

war on drugs, 117, 144 Yglesias, Matthew, 167
Washington Post, 23, 29, 167 Young, Damon, 111
wealth inequality, 7–​8 Young, Iris Marion, 13, 90, 95
Weaver, Vesla, 21 Young, Marion, 90
Weber, Max, 3, 7, 10, 17 YouTube, 35
“We Gon Be Alright” (Lamar), 42
wellness programs, 31, 100, 114, 123–​24, 126 Zimmerman, George, 21–​23, 24–​25, 110,
West, Cornel, 145 182, 183