Read the readings provided and answers the questions.

Assignment 6

1. Read Sexton. Yes, it may be incomprehensible. That’s okay. Do a page by page summary of Sexton (1-1/2 pages)

Example (p.1 - Sexton says blah, blah blah; page 2. Talks about x, y, z). Then answer the following questions (note: it’s okay to reflect any confusion you have but guess at what he’s saying if it’s not clear to you): a. Why does Sexton think the ultimate racial division is not white/people of color, but Black/non-Black? b. What is his critique of “oppression olympics?” c. What does he mean by “people of color blindness?” d. What do you think of his argument?

2. Assess the different position by Sexton and “We are not all Trayvon” on one hand, and “Native Lives Matter” and “Race Beyond Black and White” on the other hand. You don’t need to summarize each one individually 1 page

a. What explains the different perspectives and positions? b. Are these positions reconcilable? If so, how? c. What is your position on this debate and why?

3. Read “Abolish the Police”. Offer your personal reflection on the ideas presented. (½ page)

3 1 Social Text 103 • Vol. 28, No. 2 • Summer 2010

DOI 10.1215/01642472-2009-066 © 2010 Duke University Press

The camp, which is now firmly settled inside [the city], is the new biopolitical nomos of the planet. — Giorgio Agamben

In the center of late capital is the ghetto. — Donald Lowe

In Means without End, the theoretical précis of his Homo Sacer tetralogy,1 Giorgio Agamben suggests that under present conditions “we will have to abandon decidedly, without reservation, the fundamental concepts through which we have so far represented the subjects of the political (Man, the Citizen and its rights, but also the sovereign people, the worker, and so forth) and build our political philosophy anew starting from the one and only figure of the refugee.”2 The proposal derives from a para- mount concern to counteract the increasing institutionalization of the state of exception throughout the political-juridical order of the modern nation-states, and it is premised on an understanding of the refugee as a limit-concept, a figure that “at once brings a radical crisis to the prin- ciples of the nation-state and clears the way for a renewal of categories that can no longer be delayed.”3 This urgent renewal of categories is made possible by the conceptual crisis of the nation-state represented by the refugee insofar as she disarticulates “the trinity of state-nation-territory” and “the very principle of the inscription of nativity” upon which it is based.4 The refugee is the contemporary political subject par excellence because she exposes to view “the originary fiction of sovereignty” and thereby renders it available to thought.

People-of-Color-Blindness Notes on the Afterlife of Slavery

Jared Sexton

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What is this fiction? It is not only the presumed identity between the human (zoē ) and the citizen (bios) — the conceptual fissure that makes pos- sible the modern production of bare life — and that between nativity and nationality — the conceptual distinction that makes possible the recipro- cal naturalization of propagation and property in the name of race. It is also the conflation of the ruler (or ruling class) with sovereignty itself, the tautological claim that the law (logos) is ontologically prior to the estab- lishment of its jurisdictional field, a space defined by relations of purely formal obedience. The state of exception would seem to betray the mystical foundation of authority because the sovereign power operates in suspension of positive law, enforcing the law paradoxically insofar as it is inapplicable at the time and place of its enforcement. However, the dynamic stability of that foundation — the space of obedience — is demonstrated by the terrible fact that the state of exception has been materialized repeatedly within a whole array of political formations across the preceding century and in the particular form of the camp. With the birth of the camp, the excep- tion becomes the rule, consolidating a field of obedience in extremis — in place of rule by law, a paradigm of governance by the administration of the absence of order.5

However, if for Agamben the camp is “the new biopolitical nomos of the planet,” its novelty does not escape a certain conceptual belatedness with respect to those “repressed topographies of cruelty” that Achille Mbembe has identified in the formulation of “necropolitics.”6 On my reading, the formulation of necropolitics is enabled by attending to the political and economic conditions of the African diaspora in the historic instance — both acknowledging the form and function of racial slavery for “any historical account of the rise of modern terror” and addressing the ways that “the political economy of statehood [particularly in Africa] has dramatically changed over the last quarter of the twentieth century” in connection with “the wars of the globalization era.”7 Necropolitics is important for the historicist project of provincializing Agamben’s paradig- matic analysis, especially as it articulates the logic of race as something far more global than a conflict internal to Europe (or even Eurasia). Indeed, Mbembe initially describes racial slavery in the Atlantic world as “one of the first instances of biopolitical experimentation” and goes on to discuss it, following the work of Saidiya Hartman, as an exemplary manifestation of the state of exception in “the very structure of the plantation system and its aftermath.”8

Mbembe abandons too quickly this meditation on the peculiar insti- tution in pursuit of the proper focus of his theoretical project: the formation of colonial sovereignty. In the process, he loses track of the fact, set forth in the opening pages of Hartman’s study, that the crucial aspects of “the peculiar terror formation” that Mbembe attributes to the emergence of

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colonial rule are already institutionalized, perhaps more fundamentally, in and as the political-juridical structure of slavery.9 More specifically, it is the legal and political status of the captive female that is paradigmatic for the “(re)production of enslavement,” in which “the normativity of sexual violence [i.e., the virtual absence of prohibitions or limitations in the determination of socially tolerable and necessary violence] establishes an inextricable link between racial formation and sexual subjection.”10 This is why for Hartman resistance is figured through the black female’s sexual self-defense, as exemplified by the 1855 circuit court case State of Missouri v. Celia, a Slave, in which the defendant was sentenced to death by hanging on the charge of murder for responding with deadly force to the sexual assault and attempted rape by a white male slaveholder.

Having engaged Hartman, Mbembe must write the following under the terms of a certain disavowal: “The most original feature of this ter- ror formation [the colony] is its concatenation of biopower, the state of exception, and the state of siege. . . . the colony represents the site where sovereignty consists fundamentally in the exercise of power outside the law (ab legibus solutus) and where ‘peace’ is more likely to take on the face of a ‘war without end.’ ”11 In the earlier text, Hartman describes “the particular mechanisms of tyrannical power that converge on the black body,” highlighting both “the absoluteness of power” under slavery in general and the particular ways that its gendered dimensions reveal that generality at its extreme:

In this instance, tyranny is not a rhetorical inflation, but a designation of the absoluteness of power. Gender, if at all appropriate in this scenario, must be understood as indissociable from violence, the vicious refiguration of rape as mutual and shared desire, the wanton exploitation of the captive body tacitly sanctioned as a legitimate use of property, the disavowal of injury, and the absolute possession of the body and its “issue.” In short, black and female difference is registered by virtue of the extremity of power operat- ing on captive bodies and licensed within the scope of the humane and the tolerable.12

Mbembe’s formulation can suggest the originality of colonial sov- ereignty only insofar as it bypasses Hartman’s evidence and argument.13 In fact, it does so by artfully recuperating the very sources that Hart- man brings in for critique. In note 30 of “Necropolitics,” Mbembe cites affirmatively Hartman’s Scenes of Subjection (alongside Manuel Moreno Fraginal’s 1964 Marxist history of Cuban slavery, The Sugar Mill, and Susan Buck-Morss’s 2000 Critical Inquiry article, “Hegel and Haiti”) in support of his claim that “the very structure of the plantation system and its aftermath manifests the emblematic and paradoxical figure of the state of exception.”14 In notes 34 and 36 of the same article, however, Mbembe

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cites affirmatively two sources in contradiction of Hartman’s position: the well-known passage from the 1845 Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave in which the narrator describes the “terrible spectacle” of the torture of his Aunt Hester by the overseer, Mr. Plumber; and the work of folklorist Roger Abrahams on the form and function of “corn shucking” as slave performance in the antebellum United States.

It is curious that Mbembe avails himself of these precise references given that, in the second paragraph of the first page of Scenes, Hartman states: “I have chosen not to reproduce Douglass’s account of the beat- ing of Aunt Hester in order to call attention to the ease with which such scenes are usually reiterated, the casualness with which they are circulated, and the consequences of this routine display of the slave’s ravaged body. Rather than inciting indignation, too often they immure us to pain by virtue of their familiarity. . . . and especially because they reinforce the spectacular character of black suffering.”15 For these reasons, Hartman explicitly rejects such “invocations of the shocking and the terrible” as a means to “convey the routinized violence of slavery and its aftermath,” opting instead to “consider those scenes in which terror can hardly be discerned — slaves dancing in the quarter, the outrageous darky antics of the minstrel stage, the constitution of humanity in slave law, and the fash- ioning of the self-possessed individual.”16 That is to say, the reiteration and circulation of passages like Douglass’s description of Aunt Hester’s torture do not help to establish for readers “the violent tenor of the slave’s life,” as Mbembe would have it, but rather serve to obscure and to naturalize it.17

In pursuit of her thesis, Hartman challenges the prevailing modes of historical writing about slavery, including the sort of folkloric ethnography for which Abrahams gained an international scholarly reputation. Hart- man extends the work of Hayden White (in his Metahistory and Tropics of Discourse) in reading the text of Abrahams’s 1992 Singing the Master as typical of the pastoral genre that emplots history as comic romance. “When history is emplotted in the comic mode,” she suggests, “its mode of historical explanation tends to be organicist and its ideological implica- tions conservative.”18 Abrahams celebrates the capacities of the slave to subvert the regime through her signifying beyond the master’s awareness and comprehension, but Hartman demonstrates how this celebration relies upon an erasure of the structural violence, the hardly discernible terror, of compelled performance. Mbembe thus defends Abrahams’s American pastoral against Hartman’s criticism when he mobilizes the former as sup- port for the idea that

in spite of the terror and the symbolic sealing off of the slave, he or she main- tains alternative perspectives toward time, work, and self. This is the second paradoxical element of the plantation world as a manifestation of the state

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of exception. Treated as if he or she no longer existed except as a mere tool and instrument of production, the slave nevertheless is able to draw almost any object, instrument, language, or gesture into a performance and then stylize it. Breaking with uprootedness and the pure world of things of which he or she is but a fragment, the slave is able to demonstrate the protean capabilities of the human bond through music and the very body that was supposedly possessed by another.19

Mbembe’s conjectural phrasing — asserting a supposed possession of the body rather than a political-juridical order that enforces its actuality — has the effect of diminishing the violence of slave law in the very scenes of subjection that Hartman shows to be central to “the construction of racial difference and the absolute distinctions of status between free white per- sons and black captives.”20 It also seeks to discredit the scholarship that operates according to such assumptions. Put slightly differently, it seeks to resurrect the same problematic attributions of “humanity,” “agency,” and “personhood” that Hartman identifies as key components of the racial domination of blacks in “the tragic continuities between slavery and freedom.” Uncritical, and ultimately romantic, ethnographic claims, like those Mbembe draws upon, about the slave’s capacity and capability for “stylization” are theoretically untenable since the publication of Scenes of Subjection over a decade ago. I am talking broadly here about the sort of claims about slavery that rely on phrases like “In spite of the terror” and “ . . . nevertheless. . . .”21

This is not likely evidence of oversight or lack of rigor, but rather misrecognition of the theoretical level at which Hartman’s critique is posed. Hortense Spillers limns something like this critical distinction in her landmark 1996 essay on psychoanalysis and race, “ ‘All the Things You Could Be by Now, If Sigmund Freud’s Wife Was Your Mother.’ ”22 Midway through that study, Spillers quotes Jürgen Habermas from his 1968 Knowl- edge and Human Interests: “A critically mediated knowledge of laws cannot through reflection alone render the law itself inoperative, but it can render it inapplicable.” Her point will not be to endorse straightaway “Habermas’s self-reflection, in which case the laws are operative but do not apply,” both because it “appears to be predicated on the agency of self-knowing” that the Du Boisian figure of double consciousness significantly complicates and because, pace Marx (and, in his own social-democratic way, Habermas too), it is not enough simply “to see with greater clarity what the problem is.”23 Yet Spillers finds useful the conceptual discrimination between the domain of the operation of the law (in which it is historically determinate of social, political, and economic existence) and the domain of the application of the law (in which it solicits the consent of the governed or, in another parlance, the identification of the dominated position). A law may be or

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may become inapplicable, enabling an array of subversion and resistance at the level of infrapolitics or, better, providing preconditions for effective opposition, but that does not thereby make it inoperative — maybe not even a little bit. Ultimately, it is a question of evaluative criteria: are we judging the significance of a practice based on whether or to what extent it renders a law inapplicable or inoperative? One would think that the inevitably political dimension of analysis holds the latter firmly in place as its horizon.24

But even the inapplicability of the law cannot be safely assumed, given not only the complications of double consciousness for the slave but also the obscure versatility of slave law’s functioning. Again, Hart- man is instructive: what appears in the first instance to be evidence of an agency that indexes the law’s inapplicability for the slave may upon closer scrutiny reveal a convoluted form of consent. There are questions of the operation and application of slave law for the free as well. Regarding the former, we note the fact that “the absolute submission mandated by law was not simply that of slave to his or her owner, but the submission of the enslaved before all whites.”25 The latter group is better termed all nonblacks (or, less economically, the unequally arrayed category of nonblackness), because it is racial blackness as a necessary condition for enslavement that matters most, rather than whiteness as a sufficient condition for freedom. The structural position of the Indian slaveholder — or, for that matter, the smattering of free black slaveholders in the United States or the slavehold- ing mulatto elite in the Caribbean — is a case in point.26 Freedom from the rule of slave law requires only that one be considered nonblack, whether that nonblack racial designation be “white” or “Indian” or, in the rare case, “Oriental” — this despite the fact that each of these groups has at one point or another labored in conditions similar to or contiguous with enslaved African-derived groups. In other words, it is not labor relations, but property relations that are constitutive of slavery.

Not all free persons are white (nor are they equal or equally free), but slaves are paradigmatically black. And because blackness serves as the basis of enslavement in the logic of a transnational political and legal culture, it permanently destabilizes the position of any nominally free black population. Stuart Hall might call this the articulation of elements of a discourse, the production of a “non-necessary correspondence” between the signifiers of racial blackness and slavery.27 But it is the historical materi- alization of the logic of a transnational political and legal culture such that the contingency of its articulation is generally lost to the infrastructure of the Atlantic world that provides Frank Wilderson a basis for the concept of a “political ontology of race.”28 The United States provides the point of focus here, but the dynamics under examination are not restricted to its bounds. Political ontology is not a metaphysical notion, because it is the

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explicit outcome of a politics and thereby available to historic challenge through collective struggle. But it is not simply a description of a political status either, even an oppressed political status, because it functions as if it were a metaphysical property across the longue durée of the premodern, modern, and now postmodern eras. That is to say, the application of the law of racial slavery is pervasive, regardless of variance or permutation in its operation across the better part of a millennium.29

In Wilderson’s terms, the libidinal economy of antiblackness is per- vasive, regardless of variance or permutation in its political economy. In fact, the application of slave law among the free (that is, the disposition that “with respect to the African shows no internal recognition of the libidinal costs of turning human bodies into sentient flesh”) has outlived in the postemancipation world a certain form of its prior operation — the property relations specific to the institution of chattel and the plantation- based agrarian economy in which it was sustained. Hartman describes this in her 2007 memoir, Lose Your Mother, as the afterlife of slavery: “a measure of man and a ranking of life and worth that has yet to be undone . . . a racial calculus and a political arithmetic that were entrenched centuries ago.”30 On that note, it is not inappropriate to say that the continuing application of slave law facilitated the reconfiguration of its operation with the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, rather than its abolition (in the conventional reading) or even its circumscrip- tion “as punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted” (on the progressive reading of contemporary critics of the prison-industrial complex). It is the paramount value of Loïc Wacquant’s historical sociology, especially in Wilderson’s hands, that it provides a schema for tracking such reconfigurations of anti-blackness “from slavery to mass imprisonment” without losing track of its structural dimensions, its political ontology.31

Mbembe’s misconstrued engagement with Hartman makes more than likely a disavowal of the transatlantic connection (of categorical eli- gibility for enslavement) that racial slavery forges among African-derived populations in favor of a “third worldist” conception of the colonized warranting analytic comparison and political solidarity between the sub- Saharan African postcolony and the living legacy of colonialism in the Middle East.32 What the latter share is a problematic of decolonization broached by way of a subsumption of slavery under the rubric of colonial- ism (simply because slavery was instituted within the colonies), making of slavery one more instance of a general phenomenon — “modern terror” or “the generalized instrumentalization of human existence and the material destruction of human bodies and populations.”33 This emphasis on “general- ized instrumentalization” goes some way in explaining how Mbembe can justify theoretically a leap from discussion of the “death-in-life” commerce

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of racial slavery from (at least) the mid-sixteenth-century Dutch Golden Age to the formation of the mid-twentieth-century apartheid regime to the broader political economy of statehood in the African postcolony to the ongoing “colonial occupation of Palestine,” which Mbembe describes as “the most accomplished form of necropower” in the contemporary world.34 The generalized instrumentalization of human existence spanning across these distinct, if overlapping, social formations is a regrettably imprecise hypothesis and, as a result, loses track of the singular commodification of human existence (not simply its labor power) under racial slavery, that structure of gratuitous violence in which a body is rendered as flesh to be accumulated and exchanged.

The final object of contemplation in Mbembe’s rewriting of Agam- ben’s rewriting of Foucault’s biopolitics is the fin de siècle figure of resis- tance to the colonial occupation of Palestine: the (presumptively male) suicide bomber. The slave, “able to demonstrate the protean capabilities of the human bond through music and the very body that was supposedly possessed by another,” is thus contrasted subtly with the colonized native, whose “body is transformed into a weapon, not in a metaphorical sense but in a truly ballistic sense” — a cultural politics in lieu of an armed struggle in which “to large extent, resistance and self-destruction are synonymous.”35 Resistance to slavery in this account is self-preservative and forged by way of a demonstration of the capabilities of the human bond, whereas resis- tance to colonial occupation is self-destructive and consists in a demonstra- tion of the failure of the human bond, the limits of its protean capabilities. One could object, in an empiricist vein, that the slave too resists in ways that are quite nearly as self-destructive as an improvised explosive device and that the colonial subject too resists through the creation and perfor- mance of music and the stylization of the body, but that would be to miss the symptomatic value of Mbembe’s theorization.

Mbembe describes suicide bombing as being organized by “two apparently irreconcilable logics,” “the logic of martyrdom and the logic of survival,” and it is the express purpose of the rubric of necropolitics to meditate upon this unlikely logical convergence.36 However, there is a discrepancy at the heart of the enterprise. Rightly so, the theorization of necropolitics as a friendly critique of Agamben’s notion of bare life involves an excursus on certain “repressed topographies of cruelty,” including, first of all, slavery, in which “the lines between resistance and suicide, sacri- fice and redemption, martyrdom and freedom become blurred.”37 Yet, as noted, the logic of resistance-as-suicide-as-sacrifice-as-martyrdom is for Mbembe epitomized by the presumptively male suicide bomber at war with colonial occupation, “the most accomplished form of necro power” in the contemporary world, rather than Hartman’s resistant female slave, Celia, engaged in close-quarters combat with the sexual economy of slave society,

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“the emblematic and paradoxical figure of the state of exception.”38 Why the unannounced transposition? Because the restricted notion of homo sacer — alongside the related notions of bare life and the state of exception— is being used in confusion to account for the effects of the biopolitics of race too generally. The homo sacer, “divested of political status and reduced to bare life,” is distinguished not by her vulnerability to a specific form or degree of state-sanctioned violence but by her social proscription from the honor of sacrifice.39 The homo sacer is banned from the witness-bearing function of martyrdom (from the ancient Greek martys, “witness”). Her suffering is therefore imperceptible or illegible as a rule. It is against the law to recognize her sovereignty or self-possession.

This sort of conceptual conflation is pronounced in recent discus- sions of racial inequality within the United States as well, where post- colonial immigration has become the political watchword. Two figures are held up as exemplary: the immigrant worker from Mexico or Central America profiled and harassed by the Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement and terrorized by a militarized U.S. Border Patrol (and vari- ous vigilante efforts) as her unskilled and semiskilled labor is exploited for the productive and service sectors of the national economy; and the immi- grant worker from the Middle East or South Asia profiled and harassed by the Special Registration Program of the National Security Entry-Exit Registry System (now US-VISIT) and terrorized by a militarized Trans- portation Security Administration (and various vigilante efforts) as her unskilled and semiskilled labor is exploited for the productive and service sectors of the national economy. The various state agencies of this system- atic discrimination are consolidated within the Department of Homeland Security, and that institution serves as the grand target of much immigrant rights activism.40 Indeed, Agamben himself is not far from this position, given that the ethical elevation of the figure of the refugee is motivated by his analysis of the dynamics of xenophobia in contemporary Europe (given too that the Eurocentric political exile of the refugee remains a species of immigration that “persists in the hope of justice under capitalism”).41

In Means without End, Agamben is in mind of the atrocities com- mitted during the war in Bosnia-Herzegovina (1992–95), the “camps of ethnic rape” in which Bosniak women were systematically targeted by Serbian military, paramilitary, and police forces for this particular form of sexual violence in order to degrade or destroy the capacities of the (largely Muslim) Bosniak population to reproduce itself as Bosniak. The project of “ethnic cleansing” was extended in this way beyond the means of direct killing, massacre, imprisonment, torture, and deportation (including acts of genocide in Srebrenica and Foča) to include the forced reproduction of what was understood to be a form of biological impurity. For Agamben, the reproductive impetus of interethnic mass rape under conditions of warfare

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indexes a profound unmooring of “the principle of birth, which ensured the inscription of life in the order of the nation-state,” a global development in excess of the regional military hostilities.42 This is the novel element of the camp in our age, and this is why Agamben declares the camp — “the camps of ethnic rape” — to be the new biopolitical nomos of the planet. In other words, Agamben is marking a critical distinction between the prosecution of Serbian officials during the 1990s by the UN International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia and the UN International Court of Justice in the Hague and the prosecution of Nazi officials after World War II by the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg: “the Nazis,” writes Agamben, “never thought of carrying out the ‘final solution’ by impregnating Jewish women.”43

Agamben is correct to identify the permanent crisis of the political system of the modern nation-state with “the original biopolitical fracture” of the third term of its conceptual trinity: birth.44 The malfunction of “the traditional mechanisms that used to regulate” the transformation of “birth into nation,” the failure of the inscription of nativity upon which is founded the “functional nexus between a determinate localization (territory) and a determinate order (state)” is remedied, as it were, by the state’s increasingly direct “management of the biological life of the nation.”45 The camp — “a space in which, for all intents and purposes, the normal rule of law is sus- pended and in which the fact that atrocities may or may not be committed does not depend on the law but rather on the civility and ethical sense of the police” — reinscribes naked life in the order of the nation-state by force.46 The violence of this reinscription is meant both to arrest and remove the “people of the excluded” (the “minority” slated for indefinite isolation, expulsion, elimination, etc., even when in the numerical majority) and to ensure the properly political existence of the remainder of the population, the People as an “integral body politic” (the “majority” whose integrity is nonetheless reduced to a remainder by virtue of their constitutive exclusion from the space of the camp, even when in the numerical minority).47

Agamben is incorrect to date the onset of this crisis and the advent of the paradigm of the camp with the “new laws on citizenship and on the denationalization of citizens” in Europe of the interwar years, that is, the rise of martial law in the first half of the twentieth century.48 The general failure of the inscription of nativity in the order of the nation-state and the state’s management of the biological life of the nation is pre- dated and prepared by the strict prohibition of nativity under the regime of racial slavery and the state’s management of the biological life of the enslaved throughout the Atlantic world, most pointedly through the sexual regulation of race in the British North American colonies and the United States.49 And the racial circumscription of political life (bios) under slavery predates and prepares the rise of the modern democratic state, providing

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the central counterpoint and condition of possibility for the symbolic and material articulation of its form and function.50 If in Agamben’s analysis the inscription of nativity in Euro-America is disquieted in the twentieth century by postcolonial immigration, the native-born black population in the United States — known in the historic instance as “the descendants of slaves” — suffers the status of being neither the native nor the foreigner, neither the colonizer nor the colonized.51 The nativity of the slave is not inscribed elsewhere in some other (even subordinated) jurisdiction, but rather nowhere at all. The nativity of the slave is foreclosed, undermining from within the potential for citizenship, but also opening the possibility of a truly nonoriginal origin, a political existence that signifies “the pres- ence of an absence that discloses the absence inherent in all presence and every present.”52 Agamben overestimates the extent to which the question of nativity is displaced by the figure of the refugee. It is perhaps better to say that it is disturbed by the presence of strangers in a strange land. More simply, we might say to the refugee that you may lose your motherland, but you will not “lose your mother.”53 The latter condition, the “social death” in which one is denied kinship entirely by the force of law, is reserved for the “natal alienation” and “genealogical isolation” characterizing slavery. Here is Orlando Patterson, from his encyclopedic 1982 study:

I prefer the term “natal alienation” because it goes directly to the heart of what is critical in the slave’s forced alienation, the loss of ties of birth in both ascending and descending generations. It also has the important nuance of a loss of native status, of deracination. It was this alienation of the slave from all formal, legally enforceable ties of “blood,” and from any attachment to groups or localities other than those chosen for him by the master, that gave the relation of slavery its peculiar value to the master. The slave was the ultimate human tool, as imprintable and as disposable as the master wished. And this was true, at least in theory, of all slaves, no matter how elevated.54

True, even if one attains the income and educational levels of the mythic American middle class, the celebrity of a Hollywood icon, or the political position of the so-called leader of the free world. The alienation and isolation of the slave is not just vertical, canceling out ties to past and future generations (“the descendants of slaves” now understood as a strict oxymoron). It is also horizontal, canceling out ties to the slave’s contemporaries as well. The deracination of the slave, reduced to a tool, is total, more fundamental than the displacement of the refugee, whose status obtains in a network of persecuted human relations in exile rather than in a collection or dispersal of a class of things. Crucially, deracina- tion is strictly correlative to the “absolute submission mandated by law” discussed by Hartman above, the most perfect example of the space of purely formal obedience defining the jurisdictional field of sovereignty.

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Because the forced submission of the slave is absolute, any signs whatso- ever of “reasoning . . . intent and rationality” are recognized “solely in the context of criminal liability.” That is, “the slave’s will [is] acknowl- edged only as it [is] prohibited or punished.”55 A criminal will, a criminal reasoning, a criminal intent, a criminal rationality: with these erstwhile human capacities construed as indices of culpability before the law, even the potentiality of slave resistance is rendered illegitimate and illegible a priori. Again, this is true not only for the slave’s resistance to submission to this or that slaveholder but to the whole of the free population, what I called earlier the unequally arrayed category of nonblackness.

The disqualification of black resistance is not unrelated to the peculiar and long-standing cross-racial phenomenon in which the white bourgeois and proletarian revolutions on both sides of the Atlantic can allegorize themselves as revolts against slavery, while the hemispheric black struggle against actually existing slavery and its afterlife cannot authorize itself literally in those same terms. The latter must code itself as the apotheosis of the French and American revolutions (with their themes of Judeo-Christian deliverance) or, later, the Russian and Chinese revolutions (with their themes of secular messianic transformation) or, still later, the broad anticolonial movements in Asia, Africa, and Latin America of the mid-twentieth century (with their themes of indigenous reclamation and renaissance).56 The metaphoric transfer that dismisses the legitimacy of black struggles against racial slavery (and what Wacquant calls its “functional surrogates”) while it appropriates black suffering as the template for nonblack grievances remains one of the defining features of contemporary political culture. That notable black academics, artists, and activists participate in this gesture is nothing new, of course, but their increasing degrees of self-consciousness and virulence in so doing signal the hegemony it presently enjoys.

A case in point: the summer 2008 issue of the American Scholar, the literary quarterly of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, featured a cover article titled “The End of the Black American Narrative,” written by MacArthur Fellow and National Book Award–winner Charles Johnson.57 Johnson describes himself as “a writer, philosopher, artist, and black American” and demonstrates an intimate knowledge of black American history, cul- ture, and politics, but only to establish the authority upon which he will subsequently disabuse himself and his readers of the very narrative that organized his rise to prominence. His thesis — “It simply is no longer the case that the essence of black American life is racial victimization and disenfranchisement” — is unoriginal, poorly drawn, and argued by asser- tion rather than evidence, but it resonates nonetheless with the political common sense I am attempting to challenge. Though Johnson’s fiction has been justly lauded by the critical establishment, his social commen-

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tary on this score lacks acumen, to say the least. He does not just refer to this story of “victimization and disenfranchisement” as being “very old” but also “obsolete” and “antique”; not just obsolete and antique, but also “medieval” and “Ptolemaic”; not just premodern, but prior even to the Dark Ages — ancient.

In the final analysis, though, it is the charge of “ahistorical” that matters most here. To think “that the essence of black American life is racial victimization and disenfranchisement” is, for Johnson, to have a psychological problem, a fixation, a form of delusion that prevents one from apprehending the dynamic of history and seeing “the things themselves” all around us. What are these things? Quite simply, the empirical facts of black American economic, educational, and occupational diversity and rising numbers of immigrants from the West Indies and Africa, immi- grants who apparently do not identify with the black American narrative as (something related to) their own story (despite the now belabored fact that the whole range of dispersed African-derived populations is struc- turally positioned by the history of racial slavery). Johnson thus regards this caricatured version of black American history as so much “rubbish that stands in the way of knowledge.” In this way, Johnson assists the idea of an obsolete black American narrative as the premise — the grand assumption—for entire fields of academic inquiry, policymaking, media punditry, service provision, political lobbying, and community organiza- tion that have for the better part of a generation advocated for an end to “the black-white binary” analysis of race and racism. The call for paradigm shift has become the hallmark of the post–civil rights era, in which the initiatives of multiracial coalition politics, immigrant rights, liberal multi- culturalism, and conservative colorblindness operate uneasily — and often unwittingly — within a broad-based strategic integration.

In this light, we might augment the post-9/11 critique of the racial state regarding the Bush administration’s initiation of the ongoing war on terror, the passage of the PATRIOT Acts, the formation of the Department of Homeland Security, the “anti-terrorist” roundups of 2001, the torture of “enemy combatants” at U.S. military prisons, and so on.58 This redacted commentary might productively shift the prevailing conceptualization of American empire and especially the use of imprisonment and police profiling as tropes of the racialized political oppression it engenders, both nationally and internationally. We are in a position now to see how the deployment of this rhetorical device (for example, “Flying While Brown” is like “Driving While Black”; the Immigrant Workers Freedom Ride “builds on the history of the noble US civil rights movement”; the prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib is reminiscent of the lynching of blacks)59 is made possible by a misrecognition of the lived experience of the black. This point is developed by Wilderson with reference to the distinction between political conflict

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(involving a demand that can be satisfied by the end of exploitation or the restoration of sovereignty) and political antagonism (involving a demand that cannot be satisfied through a transfer of ownership or organization of land and labor) or, in related fashion, between contingent forms of suffer- ing (state violence incurred by breaching the modality of hegemony) and structural forms of suffering (state violence experienced as gratuitous, a direct relation of force).60 The former designation in each case encompasses a wide range of exploitation and exclusion, including colonization, occupa- tion, and even extermination, while the latter indicates the singularity of racial slavery and its afterlife, the lasting paradox of a sentient and sapient being “sealed into crushing objecthood.”61

By way of illustration, let us consider briefly Haile Gerima’s powerful 1976 film, Bush Mama, one of the signal contributions to the black inde- pendent film movement of the early post–civil rights era.62 The most striking aspect of Bush Mama is not, as might be expected, the motif of disorientation: its ceaseless, frenetic action and escalating turmoil. Surely, the crowded and unforgiving urban ghetto is the referent and context of Gerima’s work and, in a sense, serves to constitute the projection of a besieged black interiority, the production of a lived space without reprieve and a juridical existence without recourse.63 One gets the sense that to be black in an antiblack world, a world captured brilliantly by Charles Burnett’s tense and jagged cinematography, is to be inundated and under assault at every turn, pushed into an endlessly kinetic movement; which is to say subjected to an open and absolute vulnerability — not so much con- trolled by the transnational channels of “disciplined mobility” as pressed by the forces of a merciless routing.64

Nor is it the explicit and nearly overwhelming thematic of conver- sion: from quotidian urgency and the pressurized hustle of everyday ghetto life to political insurgency and the principled rupture of historic change. There is a seductive, perhaps anodyne political reading of the film as a threat of riot or, more generously, a call to arms or, at least, an intuition of political opposition, even if it has not yet attained the language or the power to articulate platform and program. Yet it cannot escape our atten- tion that this deservedly well-known production takes shape in the twilight of the black movement of the late 1960s and early 1970s; in the wake of an unparalleled, though not unprecedented, domestic state repression; amid the dimming cinders of the hundreds of scenes of urban uprising unfold- ing across the United States in the preceding decade; in the denouement of the great anticolonial revolts throughout Africa and the third world that would supply profound inspiration as points of identification and solidar- ity. Bush Mama is produced in the aftermath of rebellion, its containment and incorporation by adjustments of public policy and military strategy,

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the return or mutation of a mood that exercises even the conceptual limits of melancholia.

The most stunning aspect of the film is, then, its recurrent torpor and heaviness, its palpably depressive atmosphere, its leitmotif of exhaus- tion. One thinks, for instance, of the many scenes of indefinite waiting, of vacant gazes drifting about unspecified points in the distance, of stolid faces peering through the steel bars of the prison-house cage, of being simply stuck here or there, of killing (and being killed by) time, of mean- dering reminiscence and pronouncement and exhortation, of hopelessly needing to be two or three places at once. The patent anxiety generated by this layering of impasses does not culminate in the film’s accelerating surface tempo or its taxing stretch across narrative tenterhooks. The more profound effect is, on the contrary, to slow the pace of this confrontation to a veritable standstill and to produce an affective condition beyond or beneath the tremors of panic. However, this is not to say that the film exhibits fatalism, defeatism, or despair.

Exhaustion in no way precludes the labor of critical reflection, the hope of organized political action, or, for that matter, the enjoyment of a vibrant and sustaining cultural life. Nor does it disable engagement with what might be a complex and quite expected range of emotional stances as warranted by the situation: fear, outrage, doubt, sadness, evasion, despera- tion, even guarded buoyancy. Indeed, there are traces of all such energies in Bush Mama (so too for Gerima’s 1993 Sankofa), even where they are laced with the pathos of suffering that circulates along the blocked and barren carceral pathways of the ghetto. Exhaustion is operative at another cin- ematic level, produced through an amplification of the structuring breach in the conjunction of state and civil society, the point at which the black comes into radical acquaintance with herself: living scandal to the dead logic of capital, condition of possibility and impossibility for the opera- tions of the commodity form, internal foreign object to the institutions of liberal democracy and mockery to its conceptions of citizen and subject, the conceits of its rule of law, the full repertoire of its criteria for human being. Ultimately, Bush Mama is a film about a fight that unfurls without the political vanity of struggle or the moral nobility of resilience, without the existential comforts of spirit and soul, without the historic promise of transformation, reconstruction, or even a form of alternate sociality — a fight without guarantees. As such, Bush Mama may have an audience or, like Celia, a jury, but it has no community.65

Our protagonist, Dorothy (Barbara O. Johnson), is embattled from the start. In the opening scene, she weathers a midday mugging by an importunate and ragged young black boy (interestingly, the scene is inter- cut with unannounced documentary footage in which the crew of Bush Mama weathers a midday mugging by suspicious uniformed officers of the

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Los Angeles Police Department).66 Beyond the daily threat of such pedes- trian street violence, she is beset by the structural deprivations of acute poverty (dilapidated housing, malnutrition, atrophied social services, etc.), the ravages of compulsive drinking (compounded by the berating of her “support” group), the reproductive controls of a punitive welfare agency (which, among other things, coerces abortion by threatening withdrawal of financial assistance), and the ubiquitous predations of local police (who arrest and imprison her male lover early in the film for an unspecified — and immaterial — charge, subtracting his expected wages and affective labor from the household; shoot dead a deranged and perhaps mentally ill black man on the sidewalk as Dorothy looks on; and, most important, commit a brutal sexual assault against her daughter, Luann [Susan Williams], after harassing her on the sidewalk and then forcing their way into the apart- ment. After Dorothy’s arrest and imprisonment on the charge of murder for responding with deadly force to her daughter’s assailant, the police torture her in custody, inducing miscarriage as a result and realizing, as it were, the malevolent designs of government “aid” that open the film).

Though it is not difficult to itemize the atrocities Dorothy suffers, both directly and indirectly, and to theorize their relations and sources, I suggest that her position — and Luann’s as well — is not comprehensible by way of the analogical gestures of anticolonialism that animate the freedom dreams of the prison letters between Dorothy and her imprisoned lover, Ben (Ben Collins), that close the film. Reading from this angle (a reading that should not necessarily be avoided) may yield a compelling narrative of oppression, but what the film indexes, even when the diegesis cannot sustain it, is an ontological condition of gratuitous violence exterior to the interlarded rationales of the colonial enterprise (including its systems of patriarchy and class warfare). It is the exteriority of this violence sub- tending the various systems of oppression that signals the sine qua non of racial slavery. As such, the superimposed images of Dorothy, the titular “bush mama,” and that distant “bush mama” of the Movimento Popular de Libertacao de Angola (MPLA), whose prominently displayed agitprop portrait raises the specter of national liberation within the internal colonies of the United States, are held together by dint of an occlusion: “The vul- nerability of the postcolonial is open, but not absolute [as is the slave’s]: materially speaking s/he carves out zones of respite by pushing the Settler, whether back to the European zone or into the sea. This also means that the postcolonial’s psychic vulnerability is not absolute — one can dream of land lost and land restored. In this respect, Haile Gerima’s Dorothy is not exactly the Bush Mama in the MPLA poster.”67 That is to say, what qualifies the condition of the slave is a suffering that not only wrecks the coordinates of any humanism but also, for the same reason, precludes the generation of a proper political demand directed at a definable object or

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objective. What is produced instead is an abstract political insistence — a politics of the (death) drive.68

One can perhaps forgive Gerima for not enlarging upon this com- plication while subscribing to more likely frames of political intelligibil- ity. Indeed, this gesture of strained political identification replicates the conceptual trouble endemic to his contemporaries in their formulation of Black Power and eventually Black Liberation, insofar as they were envi- sioned and articulated as a politics of third-world solidarity.69 As Wilderson persuasively claims, as an instance of the “shift in the politics of cinematic thought and the cinematic unrest which it catalyzed,” Bush Mama is made possible not so much by the good judgment and artistic genius of Gerima and his counterparts in the movement of black independent filmmakers (though these are undeniable factors) as by the activity of radical black political formations and the urban rebellion of significant segments of black communities across the country: “Black folks on the move.”70 The problem is not so much the principled or strategic interest in a global solidarity but rather the tactical translation of such sentiments into arrangements of alli- ance and the guiding assumptions on which the alliance is based. Wacquant would call this solidarity in “the form of an emotive amalgamation rather than of a reasoned comparison.”71 How, then, to think about “the position of the unthought” in a world for which (the afterlife of ) slavery continues to provide the grounding metaphor of social misery?

If the oppression of nonblack people of color in, and perhaps beyond, the United States seems conditional to the historic instance and functions at a more restricted empirical scope, antiblackness seems invariant and limitless (which does not mean that the former is somehow negligible and short-lived or that the latter is exhaustive and unchanging). If pursued with some consistency, the sort of comparative analysis outlined above would likely impact the formulation of political strategy and modify the demeanor of our political culture. In fact, it might denature the comparative instinct altogether in favor of a relational analysis more adequate to the task. Yet all of this is obviated by the silencing mechanism par excellence in Left politi- cal and intellectual circles today: “Don’t play Oppression Olympics!” The Oppression Olympics dogma levels a charge amounting to little more than a leftist version of “playing the race card.” To fuss with details of compara- tive (or relational) analysis is to play into the hands of divide-and-conquer tactics and to promote a callous immorality.72 However, as in its conserva- tive complement, one notes in this catchphrase the unwarranted transla- tion of an inquiring position of comparison into an insidious posture of competition, the translation of ethical critique into unethical attack. This point allows us to understand better the intimate relationship between the censure of black inquiry and the recurrent analogizing to black suffering mentioned above: they bear a common refusal to admit to significant dif-

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ferences of structural position born of discrepant histories between blacks and their political allies, actual or potential. We might, finally, name this refusal people-of-color-blindness, a form of colorblindness inherent to the concept of “people of color” to the precise extent that it misunderstands the specificity of antiblackness and presumes or insists upon the mono- lithic character of victimization under white supremacy73 — thinking (the afterlife of ) slavery as a form of exploitation or colonization or a species of racial oppression among others.74

The upshot of this predicament is that obscuring the structural position of the category of blackness will inevitably undermine multiracial coalition building as a politics of radical opposition and, to that extent, force the question of black liberation back to the center of discussion. Every analysis that attempts to understand the complexities of racial rule and the machinations of the racial state without accounting for black existence within its framework — which does not mean simply listing it among a chain of equivalents or returning to it as an afterthought — is doomed to miss what is essential about the situation. Black existence does not represent the total reality of the racial formation — it is not the beginning and the end of the story — but it does relate to the totality; it indicates the (repressed) truth of the political and economic system. That is to say, the whole range of positions within the racial formation is most fully understood from this vantage point, not unlike the way in which the range of gender and sexual variance under patriarchal and heteronormative regimes is most fully understood through lenses that are feminist and queer.75 What is lost for the study of black existence in the proposal for a decentered, “postblack” paradigm is a proper analysis of the true scale and nature of black suffer- ing and of the struggles — political, aesthetic, intellectual, and so on — that have sought to transform and undo it. What is lost for the study of nonblack nonwhite existence is a proper analysis of the true scale and nature of its material and symbolic power relative to the category of blackness.76

This is why every attempt to defend the rights and liberties of the latest victims of state repression will fail to make substantial gains inso- far as it forfeits or sidelines the fate of blacks, the prototypical targets of the panoply of police practices and the juridical infrastructure built up around them. Without blacks on board, the only viable political option and the only effective defense against the intensifying cross fire will involve greater alliance with an antiblack civil society and further capitulation to the magnification of state power. At the apex of the midcentury social movements, Kwame Ture and Charles Hamilton wrote in their 1968 clas- sic, Black Power: The Politics of Liberation, that black freedom entails “the necessarily total revamping of the society.”77 For Hartman, thinking of the entanglements of the African diaspora in this context, the necessarily total

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revamping of the society is more appropriately envisioned as the creation of an entirely new world:

I knew that no matter how far from home I traveled, I would never be able to leave my past behind. I would never be able to imagine being the kind of person who had not been made and marked by slavery. I was black and a history of terror had produced that identity. Terror was “captivity without the possibility of flight,” inescapable violence, precarious life. There was no going back to a time or place before slavery, and going beyond it no doubt would entail nothing less momentous than yet another revolution.78

Notes

1. The tetralogy includes Agamben’s Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998), Remnants of Auschwitz: The Witness and the Archive, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen (New York: Zone, 1999), State of Exception, trans. Kevin Attell (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), and a fourth text yet to be published. See Jenny Edkins, “Whatever Politics,” in Giorgio Agamben: Sovereignty and Life, ed. Matthew Calarco and Steven DeCaroli (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2007), 70 –91, for a discussion of the tetralogy and its relation to Agamben’s conception of “whatever politics” as outlined in his The Coming Community, trans. Michael Hardt (Minne- apolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993).

2. Giorgio Agamben, Means without End: Notes on Politics, trans. Vincenzo Binelli and Cesare Casarino (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2000), 16.

3. Ibid., 23. 4. Ibid., 24. 5. See Ulrich Raulff, “An Interview with Giorgio Agamben,” trans. Morag

Goodwin, German Law Journal 6 (2004): 609–14. 6. Achille Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” trans. Libby Meintjes, Public Culture 15

(2003): 40. 7. Ibid., 21, 30 –32. 8. Ibid., 21. 9. This problem does not first arise for Mbembe with the publication of “Nec-

ropolitics.” It is already apparent in the framing of On the Postcolony, trans. A. M. Berrett, Murray Last, Steven Rendall, and Janet Roitman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), a collection of essays that theorize “the African subject emerging, focusing on him/herself, withdrawing, in the act and context of displace- ment and entanglement” (15) as that problematic emerges — or develops — after the advent of the abolitionist era and dating roughly from the nineteenth century. In other words, it is a meditation on the colony and the postcolony, rather than slavery and its afterlife.

10. Saidiya V. Hartman, Scenes of Subjection: Terror, Slavery, and Self-Making in Nineteenth-Century America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 85.

11. Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” 22–23. 12. Hartman, Scenes of Subjection, 86. 13. Mbembe’s argument ignores not only Hartman but work of a host of

scholars in the field of African American and black Atlantic studies, including Lin- don Barrett, Blackness and Value: Seeing Double (New York: Cambridge University

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Press, 1998); Ian Baucom, Specters of the Atlantic: Finance Capital, Slavery, and the Philosophy of History (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005); Stephen Best, The Fugitive’s Properties: Law and the Poetics of Possession (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004); Robin Blackburn, The Making of New World Slavery: From the Baroque to the Modern, 1492–1800 (New York: Verso, 1997); Brent Hayes Edwards, The Practices of Diaspora: Literature, Translation, and the Rise of Black Internationalism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003); David Eltis, The Rise of African Slavery in the Americas (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000); Sibylle Fischer, Modernity Disavowed: Haiti and the Cultures of Slavery in the Age of Revolu- tion (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004); Lewis Gordon, Bad Faith and Antiblack Racism (Amherst, MA: Humanity, 1995); Ronald Judy, (Dis)forming the American Canon: African-Arabic Slave Narratives and the Vernacular (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993); David Marriott, Haunted Life: Visual Culture and Black Modernity (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2007); Toni Morrison, Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992); Fred Moten, In the Break: The Aesthetics of the Black Radical Tradition (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003); Cedric Robinson, Black Marxism: The Making of the Black Radical Tradition (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000); Jenny Sharpe, Ghosts of Slavery: A Literary Archeology of Black Women’s Lives (Minneapolis: University of Minneapo- lis Press, 2003); Hortense Spillers, Black, White, and in Color: Essays on American Literature and Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003); and Alexander Weheliye, Phonographies: Grooves in Sonic Afro-Modernity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005).

14. Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” 21. 15. Hartman, Scenes of Subjection, 3. 16. Ibid., 4. 17. Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” 21. 18. Hartman, Scenes of Subjection, 215n14. 19. Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” 22. See also his “African Modes of Self-Writing,”

Public Culture 14 (2002): 239–73, where he continues the meditation on what he terms “self-styling” in the postcolony.

20. Hartman, Scenes of Subjection, 83. 21. This is as good a place as any to note that what I find problematic in

Mbembe’s treatment of Hartman’s work on the power relations of New World slavery is, to some extent, rooted in a local (which is not to say parochial) argument among scholars in the field of African studies and involves contests over the institutional trajectory of the Council for the Development of Social Science Research in Africa (CODESRIA). Mbembe served as executive director of CODESRIA from 1996 to 2000, and his series of articles published in English translation in the journal Public Culture — of which Mbembe is a contributing editor — should (also) be read in light of this partisan struggle. See, for instance, Francis Njubi Nesbitt, “Post-Colonial Anxieties: (Re)presenting African Intellectuals,” African Affairs 107 (2008): 273–82. The tensions in Mbembe’s work have become more apparent with the dissemination of Mbembe’s first major English-language translation, On the Postcolony, in 2001. In fact, while Mbembe has repeatedly criticized the “Afro-radicalism” of Marxist scholars like Claude Aké, Samir Amin, Mahmood Mamdani, and Walter Rodney, he has also made approving references to the black radical tradition as it developed in the North American and Caribbean contexts, especially those trends examined in Robinson’s Black Marxism. See Achille Mbembe, “On the Postcolony: A Brief Response to Critics,” African Identities 4, no. 2 (2006): 143–78. Hartman’s work

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would hardly fit into the description of either of Mbembe’s favorite targets — Marx- ism and Nationalism, or, when taken together, what he calls “Afro-pessimism” — but her analysis suffers the same fate due mainly, I think, to the idea Mbembe implicitly (and wrongly) attributes to her position: that “the African is said to express himself in the world only as a wounded and traumatized subject” (Achille Mbembe, “Subject and Experience,” in Keywords: Experience, ed. Nadia Tazi [New York: Other Press, 2004], 4) — an easy enough misreading and one that Mbembe shares with some of the early reviews of Scenes of Subjection (see Saidiya V. Hartman, “The Position of the Unthought: An Interview with Frank B. Wilderson, III,” Qui Parle 13 [2003]: 181–201). To say that “the text of black agency” is legible to the world in “the criminal record” (Hartman, “Position of the Unthought,” 192) forecloses upon the idea that a countervailing practice of appropriation and stylization can be derived for the slave on the basis of “alternative perspectives toward time, work and self” (Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” 22). Neither the complications of double consciousness nor the material limitations of resistance as “alternative perspectives” are so easily bypassed.

22. Hortense Spillers, “ ‘All the Things You Could Be by Now, If Sigmund Freud’s Wife Was Your Mother’: Psychoanalysis and Race,” boundary 2 23, no. 3 (1996): 75–141. The provocative title is borrowed from Charlie Mingus’s 1960 song of the same name.

23. Spillers, “ ‘All the Things,’ ” 100, 104. 24. For a critique of infrapolitics, see Michael Hanchard, Party/Politics: Hori-

zons in Black Political Thought (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006). 25. Hartman, Scenes of Subjection, 83. 26. See, for instance, Larry Koger, “Black Masters: The Misunderstood Slave-

owners,” Southern Quarterly 43 (2006): 52–73; and Tiya Miles and Sharon Holland, eds., Crossing Waters, Crossing Worlds: The African Diaspora in Indian Country (Dur- ham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006).

27. Stuart Hall, “The Problem of Ideology: Marxism without Guarantees,” in Stuart Hall: Critical Dialogues in Cultural Studies, ed. David Morley and Kuan Hsing-Chen (New York: Routledge, 1996), 25– 46.

28. Frank B. Wilderson III, “Red, White, and Black: Cinema and the Struc- ture of U.S. Antagonisms” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 2005).

29. The pervasiveness and longevity of the ideology that constructs/conflates racial blackness and/as eligibility for enslavement is detailed by historian David Eltis and cultural critic Ian Baucom. For Eltis, the motives for the historic designa- tion of African slavery were importantly noneconomic and actually ran counter to the cold calculus of profit maximization: “No West European power after the late Middle Ages crossed the basic divide separating European workers from full chattel slavery. And while serfdom fell and rose in different parts of early modern Europe and shared characteristics with slavery, serfs were not outsiders either before or after enserfment. The phrase long-distance serf trade is an oxymoron. . . . Although there is no evidence that Europeans ever considered instituting full chattel slavery of Euro- peans in their overseas settlements, the striking paradox is that no sound economic reasons spoke against it. By the seventeenth century, the most cursory examination of relative costs suggests that European slaves should have been preferred to either Euro- pean indentured labor or African slaves. And while native Americans were cheap to enslave, their life expectancy and productivity in post-Columbian plantation condi- tions hardly compared with that of pre-industrial or, indeed, post-industrial Euro- peans” (Eltis, Rise of African Slavery in the Americas, 64– 65; emphasis added). For Baucom, the commodification of human being that enables the transatlantic slave

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trade also underwrites the emergence of the system of modern finance: “The slaves were thus treated not only as a type of commodity but as a type of interest-bearing money. They functioned in this system simultaneously as commodities for sale and as the reserve deposits of a loosely organized, decentered, but vast trans-Atlantic banking system: deposits made at the moment of sale and instantly reconverted into short-term bonds” (Baucom, Specters of the Atlantic, 61).

30. Saidiya V. Hartman, Lose Your Mother: A Journey along the Atlantic Slave Route (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2007), 6.

31. Loïc Wacquant is especially useful to this discussion given his argument about the “structural symbiosis and functional surrogacy” that obtains between slavery, Jim Crow, the ghetto, and the prison — the four “peculiar institutions” that have “successively operated to define, confine, and control African Americans in the history of the United States” (Wacquant, “From Slavery to Mass Incarceration,” New Left Review 13 [2002]: 41). More important is his displacement of empirical chimeras like “bias” or “disparity” in favor of a historical sociology that accounts for the evolving continuity not simply of racial inequality (which is suffered variously by all nonwhites) but of racial domination: “Viewed against the backdrop of the full historical trajectory of racial domination in the United States . . . the glaring and growing ‘disproportionality’ in incarceration that has afflicted African Americans over the past three decades can be understood as a result of the ‘extra-penological’ functions that the prison system has come to shoulder in the wake of the crisis of the ghetto and of the continuing stigma that afflicts the descendants of slaves by virtue of their membership in a group constitutively deprived of ethnic honor (Max Weber’s Massehre)” (42).

32. This despite Mbembe’s repeated dismissal of “Afro-radicalism,” which he describes glibly as “a form of Marxist political economy” that “asked the wrong questions about . . . slavery, colonialism, and apartheid” or, less generously, as “a jumble of dogmas and doctrines that are repeatedly intoned rather than systems of questioning” (Mbembe, “Subject and Experience,” 3).

33. Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” 14; emphasis in original. 34. Ibid., 27. 35. Ibid., 22, 36. 36. Ibid., 35. 37. Ibid., 40. 38. Ibid., 36, 27, 21. 39. Ibid., 12. 40. See Jared Sexton, “Racial Profiling and the Societies of Control,” in War-

fare in the American Homeland: Policing and Prison in a Penal Democracy, ed. Joy James (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 197–218.

41. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 395.

42. Agamben, Means without End, 45. 43. Ibid., 44. Agamben’s discussion of the war in Bosnia-Herzegovina is pass-

ing and does not attempt to do justice to the complexity of the series of Balkan wars during the decade. For a discussion of the intersecting conflicts and the central role played by NATO in their unfolding, see Tariq Ali, ed., Masters of the Universe: NATO’s Balkan Crusade (New York: Verso, 2000).

44. Agamben, Means without End, 34. 45. Ibid., 43. 46. Ibid., 42.

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47. Ibid., 35. 48. Ibid., 43. 49. See Rachel Moran, Interracial Intimacy: The Regulation of Race and Romance

(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001). 50. See Edmund Morgan, American Slavery, American Freedom: The Ordeal of

Colonial Virginia (New York: Norton, 1995). 51. Of course, this raises immediately the question of black immigrant groups.

Though they are distinguished often enough, and often enough distinguish them- selves, from the native-born black population in the United States, black immigrants cannot avail themselves of the racial capital of nonblack immigrants of color. Instead, they find themselves consistently folded back into the category of homegrown black- ness, as it were, and subject to the same protocols of social, political, and economic violence, especially in subsequent generations. It gets worse, not better, as is the case with other immigrant populations. See Douglas Massey, “The Residential Segrega- tion of Blacks, Hispanics, and Asians, 1970 –1990,” in Immigration and Race: New Challenges for American Democracy, ed. Gerald Jaynes (New Haven, CT: Yale Uni- versity Press, 2000), 44–73. Black immigrants do not so much disrupt the paradigm as demonstrate why it is correct to speak at this level of an irresolvable discrepancy between blackness and immigrant status. We are back to that “transatlantic con- nection (of categorical eligibility for enslavement) that racial slavery forges among African-derived populations” mentioned above.

52. Mark C. Taylor, Altarity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 93.

53. Hartman, Lose Your Mother. 54. Orlando Patterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study (Cam-

bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 7–8. 55. Hartman, Scenes of Subjection, 82. 56. As in the case of black immigrants to the United States, the movements

for decolonization in Africa encounter the “racial calculus and political arithmetic” (Hartman, Lose Your Mother, 6) of slavery as an internal limit on their capacity to claim (national or regional or continental) sovereignty and independence in the man- ner of their Asian and Latin American comrades.

57. Charles Johnson, “The End of the Black American Narrative,” American Scholar, Summer 2008, www.theamericanscholar.org/the-end-of-the-black-american -narrative/.

58. The relevant literature is too vast to cite, but see, for example, Nancy Chang, Silencing Political Dissent: How Post–September 11 Anti-Terrorism Measures Threaten Our Civil Liberties (New York: Seven Stories, 2002); Danny Goldberg, Victor Goldberg, and Robert Greenwald, eds., It’s a Free Country: Personal Freedom in America after September 11 (New York: Nation, 2003); Richard Leone and Greg Anrig, eds., The War on Our Freedoms: Civil Liberties in an Age of Terrorism (New York: Public Affairs, 2003); Marcus Raskin and A. Carl LeVan, eds., In Democracy’s Shadow: The Secret World of National Security (New York: Nation, 2005). For a cri- tique of the use of the lynching metaphor in discussion of the Abu Ghraib prison scandal, see Jared Sexton and Elizabeth Lee, “Figuring the Prison: Prerequisites of Torture at Abu Ghraib,” Antipode 38 (2006): 1005–22.

59. See, respectively, Richard Muhammad, “Voices from the Immigrant Work- ers Freedom Ride,” AlterNet 25 September 2003, www.alternet.org/story/16835; Kareem Shora, “Guilty of Flying While Brown,” Air and Space Lawyer 1 (2002), www.adc.org/index.php?id=456; Susan Sontag, “Regarding the Torture of Others,” New York Times, 23 May 2004, 25.

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60. Frank B. Wilderson III, “Gramsci’s Black Marx,” Social Identities 9 (2003): 229–31.

61. Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, trans. Charles Markmann (New York: Grove, 1967), 109. It goes without saying that the slave also suffers the exploi- tation of her labor, the expropriation of her land and resources, the loss of her politi- cal sovereignty, the disruption of her cultural heritage, but she suffers all of this as contingencies of her captivity, rather than as the essence of her dominated position. Which is to say that socializing the economy, reclaiming the land, and reviving languages and customs offer no reparation in lieu of her freedom. Such welcome developments would be necessary but insufficient.

62. See Wilderson, “Red, White, and Black,” for an excellent treatment of Bush Mama and its engagement with the matter of political violence, especially its affective proximity to the clandestine paramilitary operations of the Black Libera- tion Army in the 1970s. For additional approaches to Gerima, see Steve Howard, “A Cinema of Transformation: The Films of Haile Gerima,” Cineaste 14 (1985): 28–29, 39; Ntongela Masilela, “The Los Angeles School of Black Filmmakers,” in Black American Cinema, ed. Manthia Diawara (New York: Routledge, 1993), 107–17; Paula Massood, Black City Cinema: African American Urban Experiences in Film (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2003); Mike Murashige, “Haile Gerima and the Political Economy of Cinematic Resistance,” in Representing Blackness: Issues in Film and Video, ed. Valeria Smith (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1997), 183–204; Tony Safford and William Triplett, “Haile Gerima: Radical Depar- tures to a New Black Cinema,” Journal of the University Film and Video Association 35 (1983): 59– 65.

63. See Wacquant for an understanding of the ghetto as an analytic concept designating “a highly peculiar form of urbanization warped by asymmetric rela- tions of power between ethnoracial groupings: a special form of collective violence concretized in urban space,” rather than as a folk concept designating something akin to a slum or a segregated neighborhood or area of concentrated poverty (Wacquant, “From Slavery to Mass Incarceration,” 3). It is the specific genealogy that links slavery to Jim Crow to the ghetto to the prison that warrants my claim about the singularity of the racial domination of blacks, even when other nonblack groups find themselves in similar institutional settings (for example, Southeast Asians in segre- gated enclaves and Chicanos in prison) as a result of profoundly different historical processes and trajectories.

64. Lawrence Grossberg writes of “a new regime of everyday life . . . not merely the reconstruction and reorganization of everyday life, but the transformation of everyday life into a specific form of structured mobility, a disciplined mobiliza- tion. Everyday life becomes the site for and the mode of a new apparatus of power, aimed at depoliticizing significant segments of the population by erasing the lines that connect everyday life to the political and economic realities that are its condi- tions of possibility” (Lawrence Grossberg, We Gotta Get Out of This Place: Popular Conservatism and Postmodern Culture [New York: Routledge, 1992], 294).

65. Ronald Judy has effectively repealed the accoutrements of black commu- nity in the historic instance. His discussion of the cultural ramifications of capital’s immanence and the coterminous transmutation of black existence — from wholesale confinement as factors of fixed capital to unyielding expulsion to the poor fortunes of political economic obsolescence — forecloses the possibility of the black’s redemp- tion through work and its correlate organization in the institutions of civil society. More to the point, it radically wards against the possibility of an oppositional black- ness. Rightly recasting the romance of community, with its belief in an “immaterial

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purity” beyond power, as an affair with the police, Judy asks pointedly: “Can there even be a ‘community’ of niggers, as opposed to a ‘bunch’ or ‘collection?’ ” (Ronald Judy, “On the Question of Nigga Authenticity,” boundary 2 21 [1994]: 222).

66. “The state simply invades both the diegesis and the apparatus of Bush Mama because, like its main character, like the flesh of Black bodies, and the narra- tion of Black stories, the institutionality of Black cinema is open and vulnerable in absolute terms” (Wilderson, “Red, White, and Black,” 358).

67. Wilderson, “Red, White, and Black,” 357. 68. This point is fully consonant with Wilderson’s discussion of political

antagonism and structural suffering. The psychoanalytic notion of the drive distin- guishes it from (biological) needs, which can be satisfied, and reveals that it does not so much aim at an object as it derives enjoyment ( jouissance) from its repetitive movement along a circular path around the object. The drive does not have an object per se, but it does have an aim — the enjoyment of its own movement. Perhaps this gives new meaning to the old leftist saying that “there is joy in the struggle itself.” Perhaps it also goes some way toward explaining the perennial racist lament that blacks always seem to demand everything but never seem to be politically satisfied with anything! For an extended discussion of a politics of the death drive, see Lee Edelman, No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (Durham, NC: Duke Uni- versity Press, 2004).

69. Midway through Bush Mama, during an evening political education ses- sion at Dorothy’s kitchen table, Luann’s friend Angie, the resident militant, declares: “I bet if all us mad folks unite, like the Indians, Chicanos, the Blacks, and the Asians, we’d shape up the white folks and they’d have to act differently.” Angie makes the classic mistake of believing that political coalitions can and should be built around supposedly shared sentiments, rather than, say, a convergence of interests and inde- pendent bases of power. On this and other “myths of coalition,” see Kwame Ture and Charles Hamilton, Black Power: The Politics of Liberation (New York: Vintage, 1992), especially chap. 3.

70. Wilderson, “Red, White, and Black,” 361. 71. Loïc Wacquant, “French Working-Class Banlieue and Black American

Ghetto: From Conflation to Comparison,” Qui Parle 16 (Spring 2007): 2. 72. See Elizabeth Martínez, De Colores Means All of Us: Latina Views for

a Multi-Colored Century (Boston: South End, 1998). As noted in my discussion of Mbembe and Johnson above, the dogma is aided and abetted by certain black intellectuals as well. Take, as a further example, the chastising statement made by longtime civil rights activist Rev. Richard Lowery on the occasion of the 2003 Immigrant Workers Freedom Ride: “We may have come over on different ships but we’re all in the same damn boat now” (cited in Chris McGann, “Busloads of Activ- ists,” Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 8 July 2003, seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/129926_ freedom08.html). The “many ships, same boat” sentiment was echoed more recently in the inaugural address of Massachusetts’s first black governor, Deval Patrick (D), on January 4, 2007: “People have come to these shores from all over the world, in all manner of boats, and built from a wilderness one of the most remarkable soci- eties in human history.” See www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/ 2007/01/04/text_of_governor_deval_l_patricks_inaugural_address/.

73. See David Hollinger, “Amalgamation and Hypodescent: The Question of Ethnoracial Mixture in the History of the United States,” American Historical Review 108 (2003), www.historycooperative.org/journals/ahr/108.5/hollinger.html.

74. I will develop this concept further in my book-in-progress, “The Shadow of a Color Line: Racial Politics beyond Coalition.”

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75. We should be careful not to confuse “the vantage of black existence” with “the views of black people.” The two will likely overlap, but they are not identical. A sensibility derived from attention to the structural position of the category of blackness is likely to be produced by people designated or self-identified as black, but it will neither be exclusive to nor inherent in their intellectual practice. Also, the reader should not mistake this claim as a totalizing gesture. Arguing that black existence indicates the truth of the racial formation is not to say that there is nothing else besides the category of blackness ( Jared Sexton and Huey Copeland, “Raw Life: An Introduction,” Qui Parle 13 [2003]: 57–58, 61, notes 17–19). Rather, it is to say that the slave embodies what Slavoj Žižek would call the “universal particular”: not another particular group among others, but “a singularity of the social structure” that “relate(s) to the totality,” a point of identification with constitutive — not con- tingent — exclusion (Slavoj Žižek, “Repeating Lenin,” Lacan Dot Com, 2001, www .lacan.com/replenin). See also Žižek, The Ticklish Subject: The Absent Centre of Politi- cal Ontology (New York: Verso, 1999), especially part 2. As Wilderson demonstrates in “Red, White, and Black,” the commodification of human being that establishes racial blackness as a world-historical development linked to the rise of global capital- ism underwrites, materially and symbolically, the emergence of modern colonial rule and the exploitation of waged labor. A revised and expanded version of the argu- ments set forth in the dissertation is forthcoming under the same title from Duke University Press. For a literary rendering of this position, see Frank B. Wilderson III, Incognegro: A Memoir of Exile and Apartheid (Boston: South End, 2008).

76. Here I am extending arguments made by bell hooks in her seminal essay “Black Women: Shaping Feminist Theory,” in The Black Feminist Reader, ed. Joy James and T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting (New York: Blackwell, 2000), 131– 45: “By projecting onto black women a mythical power and strength, white women both pro- mote a false image of themselves as powerless, passive victims and deflect attention away from their aggressiveness, their power (however limited in a white supremacist, male-dominated state), their willingness to dominate and control others. These unacknowledged aspects of the social status of many white women prevent them from transcending racism and limit the scope of their understanding of women’s overall social status in the United States” (143).

77. Ture and Hamilton, Black Power, 60. 78. Hartman, Lose Your Mother, 40.

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Part 2

We are NOT all Trayvon: Challenging Anti-Black Racism in POC Communities July 16, 2013 by Asam Ahmad

“Community must not mean a shedding of our differences, nor the pathetic pretense that these differences do not exist.” – Audre Lorde (1)

I have been trying to articulate the depth of my grief, rage and sadness at the verdict in the Trayvon Martin show-trial for days now. Every word seems insufficient, hollow.

But one thing I do know for sure: I am not Black. As a brown, Muslim, cis queer man of color there are a lot of oppressions that I face, that allow me to relate to the gravity of what has just occurred, but anti-Black racism is not one of them. I know that so many of us feel the weight of this grief right now. I know that we want to show our solidarity with Black folks in this historical moment. But appropriating and universalizing this tragedy will not do justice to Trayvon Martin.

We are NOT all Trayvon Martin. People of color keep getting hella mad for being called out on white passing privilege, for being asked to hold themselves accountable to the ways they are not like Trayvon and more like Zimmerman. So many folks seem to be having a hard time acknowledging that this murderer was a Latino who had light-skinned privilege and played into the rules of White supremacy to get away with murder. The fact that so many white folks are identifying with him should tell you something: it is a marker of how some people of color gain access to the toxic privilege of passing for White, of choosing not to identify themselves as poc but coopting into the system of White supremacy instead. Sometimes we do this for our own safety but sometimes, obviously, we do it for other reasons altogether. These are all realities of this case, and they are realities of a hierarchy that accords privilege and oppression on the basis of the amount of melanin in our bodies.

Why do these facts make you mad? Why is it so hard to acknowledge that you have access to forms of privilege that Black folks simply never have? As poc we are so often taught to think of ourselves as oppressed and as nothing else. But oppression is not a static entity and it does not remain constant for all POC. How can this not be obvious to anyone paying the slightest amount of attention right now?

(continued below)

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Those of us who are not Black need to be very explicitly clear about this: Trayvon was not murdered because he was a person of color. This verdict was not delivered because he was a person of color. Trayvon was murdered because he was Black. This verdict was delivered because he was Black. Given the amount of intense anti-Black racism that continues to circulate in non-Black poc communities, given the number of ways we continue to benefit from anti-Black racism, it is paramount that we do not forget this. To appropriate the specificity of this injustice, to attempt to universalize this travesty as one faced by all people of color is to perpetuate another form of violence. To not acknowledge the role and specificity of anti-Black racism in this

whole charade is another form of violence. This murder and this verdict are very specifically about anti-black racism – about the power of White supremacy and about what it means to have a black body in a White supremacist society.

And our inability to acknowledge these facts are hurting Black folks and African descended folks right now. This is not solidarity. This is not what solidarity can ever look like. It shouldn’t be that fucking hard to sit back and listen to the grieving voices of black people in this moment. It shouldn’t be this hard to not get defensive and keep your mouth shut and just listen.

There is a long history of anti-Black racism in South Asian communities, in Arab communities, in East Asian communities. Anti-Black racism is a global phenomenon. We need to be talking about this and the ways we benefit from anti-Black racism in our lives. This is not to say that anti-Black racism manifests in the same way in all of these communities, or to elide the ways in which colonialism, imperialism and White supremacy structure differential hierarchies of race. But it is to note the pervasiveness of anti-Black racism all over the world, the ways in which it structures, globally, a calculus of privilege and oppression.

As Sara Ahmed reminds us, “Solidarity does not assume that our struggles are the same struggles, or that our pain is the same pain, or that our hope is for the same future. Solidarity involves commitment, and work, as well as the recognition that even if we do not have the same feelings, or the same lives, or the same bodies, we do live on common ground.” (2)

What does a solidarity premissed on respecting our differences look like? How can we, non- Black people of color, show our solidarity with Black folks and Black bodies that are continually under threats of violence in ways that we will never know or experience? A good place to start would be by acknowledging our own internalized anti-Black racism, by talking about the legacies of prejudice and hate that have been passed from generation to generation, by speaking honestly about the ways in which we benefit from colorism and anti-Black racism. Perhaps the best way we can mourn right now is by having these conversations in our own non-Black people of color communities, by calling out anti-Black racism when we see it, by naming it and refusing to perpetuate it. This needs to happen in spaces where Black people are not present, or at least are not the only ones leading the discussion. It is our responsibility, as non-Black poc, to create spaces that address the ways we benefit from not being Black.

And for those of us posting about our grief in our social networks, what else are you doing? What are you doing when no one is looking? Its easy to feel grief for a dead Black boy, but what about the Black men & male-identifying folks in your lives? Are there any Black men in your lives? If not, ask yourself why. If you are an organizer, what are you doing to make your spaces less alienating to Black men? If you are a feminist, are you thinking about the ways in which White feminism has constantly gained its status and privilege through the oppression of Black men? Are you thinking about how feminism has often thrown Black men under the bus in order to “make progress” and how Black male bodies have been constructed as the ne plus ultra Other of feminism? And what are you doing to challenge this fact and acknowledge the layered complexities of Black men’s experience? If you are not doing at least some of these things your grief is meaningless and only signals the paralyzing nature of your guilt. (3)

(1) Lorde, Audre. Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. Trumansburg, NY: Crossing Press, 1984. Print. Pg. 113.

(2) Sara Ahmed, 2004, The Cultural Politics of Emotion, p. 189.

(3) A lot of my thoughts in this piece have been informed by the thoughts and words of Black people around me. I want to acknowledge Janaya Khan and Muna Mire.

Part 3

Native Lives Matter, Too Lydia Millet Lydia Millet OCT. 13, 2015 Continue reading the main storyShare This Page Share Tweet Email More Save

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Credit Arianna Vairo IN August 2010 John T. Williams, a homeless woodcarver of the Nuu-chah-nulth tribe who made his living selling his work near the Pike Place market in Seattle, was shot four times by a police officer within seconds of failing to drop the knife and piece of cedar he was carrying (Mr. Williams had mental health problems and was deaf in one ear). He died; the folding knife was found closed on the ground. The young police officer who shot Mr. Williams resigned, but he never faced criminal charges, even though the Seattle Police Department’s Firearms Review Board called the shooting unjustified.

In South Dakota in 2013, a police officer used his Taser to shock an 8-year-old, 70-pound Rosebud Sioux girl holding a knife; the force of the shock hurled her against a wall. After an investigation, the officer’s actions were deemed appropriate.

That same year 18-year-old Mah-hi-vist (Red Bird) Goodblanket of the Cheyenne-Arapaho tribes was killed by the police in his parents’ home in Oklahoma just before Christmas. They’d called 911 because their son was having a violent episode after a misunderstanding with his girlfriend. Before the police entered their home Red Bird’s father begged them, “Please, don’t shoot my son.” A few minutes later, the parents would count seven bullet holes in their son’s body — one in the back of his head. The exact narrative of the incident, which fittingly took place in Custer County, is in dispute.

In November 2014, also in Oklahoma, Christina Tahhahwah of the Comanche tribe died under suspicious circumstances while in police custody. Fellow inmates claim that jail guards shocked her with a Taser for refusing to stop singing Comanche hymns.

In December 2014, one day after attending a #NativeLivesMatter rally against police violence, Allen Locke, a 30-year-old Lakota man, was shot dead by the police in South Dakota. Mr. Locke had been holding a steak knife at the time he was hit by up to five bullets; the shooting was deemed justified a month later.

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SEE SAMPLE PRIVACY POLICY Most recently, in July, a 24-year-old Lakota mother of two named Sarah Lee Circle Bear died in a South Dakota jail of a methamphetamine overdose. Her death, which involved a two-hour time lapse between the first signs of physical distress and her transport to a hospital, got almost no national media attention.

All the victims were Native Americans, and they’re just a small sample of a systemic problem. American Indians are more likely than any other racial group to be killed by the police, according to the Center on Juvenile and Criminal Justice, which studied police killings from 1999 to 2011 (the rate was determined as a percentage of total population). But apart from media outlets like Indian Country Today, almost no attention is paid to this pattern of violence against already devastated peoples.

When it comes to American Indians, mainstream America suffers from willful blindness. Of all the episodes of police violence listed above, only the killings of Mr. Williams and Mr. Goodblanket received significant news coverage outside Indian circles, the latter only in an article for CNN.com by the Oglala Lakota journalist and activist Simon Moya-Smith. The Williams shooting, which was the subject of public outcry, was covered by a major local news site, The Seattle Post-Intelligencer, as well as by The New York Times.

One reason for Indian invisibility in the media may be low numbers; Native Americans and Alaska Natives in the country now total about three million, or 5.2 million if you include mixed- race individuals, compared with about 45 million African-Americans. Perhaps equally important, their population densities off the reservation tend to be low. They have a small urban presence; New York, with about 112,000, and Los Angeles, with about 54,000, rank first and second among cities with American Indian populations. Phoenix, Oklahoma City and Anchorage come next. About one-fifth of American Indians still live on reservations.

Economic and health statistics, as well as police-violence statistics, shed light on the pressures on American Indian communities and individuals: Indian youths have the highest suicide rate of any United States ethnic group. Adolescent women have suicide rates four times the rate of white women in the same age group. Indians suffer from an infant mortality rate 60 percent higher than that of Caucasians, a 50 percent higher AIDS rate, and a rate of accidental death (including car crashes) more than twice that of the general population.

At the root of much of this is economic inequality: Indians are the poorest people in the United States, with a poverty rate in 2013 that was about twice the national average at 29.2 percent — meaning almost one in three Indians lives in poverty. So it doesn’t come as a complete shock

that members of these disadvantaged communities encounter law enforcement more often than, say, middle-class whites. But the rate at which native people die as a result of those encounters is nonetheless deeply disturbing: Though “single-race” Indians make up slightly less than 1 percent of the population, they account for nearly 2 percent of police killings.

There are many complexities surrounding Native American interaction with the dominant culture, whose Declaration of Independence refers to them as “merciless Indian Savages” and whose history of mass killings has taken a staggering social toll. But the fact is that today’s avoidable tragedies of oppressed Indian lives and troubled deaths remain far too often in the shadows.

At this moment, when black Americans are speaking up against systemic police violence, and their message is finally being carried by virtually every major news source, it’s time we also pay attention to a less visible but similarly targeted minority: the people who lived here for many thousands of years before this country was founded, and who also have an unalienable right to respect and justice.

Part 4

Race Beyond Black and White: Four Reasons to Move Beyond the Racial Binary September 4, 2013 5:05 pm EmailPrint Scot Nakagawa by Scot Nakagawa

Lifelong political activist, community organizer, organization builder, and trouble-maker.

4 Comments TOPICS 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom 50th Anniversary March on Washington civil rights Immigrant Rights model minority myth Racial profiling richard aoki

I was recently featured as a guest on the National Public Radio program Tell Me More in the week leading up to the 50th Anniversary March on Washington, The interview was a discussion of a piece I wrote called Three Things Asian Americans Owe to the Civil Rights Movement. Close on the heels of that broadcast was the release of a video interview I did with GritTV’s Laura Flanders about the unique place of Asian Americans in our national civil rights history.

Too often, the history of race and rights in this country is a story told only in terms of black and white, as though the rest of us aren’t part of the plot. Getting some national coverage of an Asian American civil rights story was gratifying. It felt like a little bit of a victory.

But then the TV coverage of the 50th Anniversary March started airing and victory fell to a sense of defeat. Even in the face of rapidly changing U.S. racial demographics, driven in large part by Asian and Latino immigration, the story of race on television is still mainly just black and white.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I believe anti-black racism is the fulcrum of white supremacy. Failing to recognize the pivotal role anti-black racism plays in driving racism more generally in this country is a mistake. But to focus on the experience of black and white people to the exclusion of almost everyone else? That’s both historically inaccurate and politically dangerous.

With that in mind, here are four reasons to move beyond the black-white racial binary:

1. Ignorance of our multi-racial history is the enemy of civil rights.

Here’s an example. In the 1990s, the evangelical right rose to power in part through exploiting widespread homophobia. But, while they appeared to be narrowly targeting LGBT people, they were using those attacks on LGBT rights to simultaneously talk about civil rights more generally. They did so by contrasting LGBT people with blacks who they said have a “legitimate” claim to civil rights because, they argued, blacks were able to pass a litmus test of suffering and morality without which civil rights cannot be conferred. Therefore, civil rights are special rights.

The success of that argument relied upon the widespread belief among what we nowadays refer to as “low-information voters,” that civil rights are black rights, not American rights that have historically been withheld from black people. Right wingers exploited this confusion and doubled down on it, inciting anti-black racism by claiming these (black) rights were being taken too far by a civil rights lobby LGBT people wanted a piece of because it had captured control of Congress.

2. We are all profiled differently by race, but all of the different ways in which we are profiled serve the same racial hierarchy.

For instance, in the 1960s, just as the civil rights movement was cresting and black urban uprisings were dominating the news cycle, news stories appeared profiling Asian Americans as a model minority. That profile, which privileged Asians as a super-minority that was “out-whiting the whites,” claimed that Asians in the U.S. had managed to climb to success not through protest nor by way of “riots,” but through hard work and quiet cooperation with the powers that be.

This story of Asian success begged the question, if Asian Americans can do it, why can’t black people? The media provided the answer: blacks aren’t succeeding because they’re a “problem minority.” Ever since, the model minority myth has been used as a lever of racial injustice on the fulcrum of anti-black racism.

3. Race is central to the struggle over citizenship in America.

The contest over voting rights, for instance, is a fight about citizenship rights, who has them, and who gets to decide in the matter just as much as is the question of the right to citizenship of new immigrants, including those without documents. At the center of these fights is a struggle over nationality, power, and control that revolves around race.

We will never resolve these questions until we are able to grapple broadly with the issue of race and citizenship as regards all people of color. Until then, we are all just fighting different battles in the same war, but without the common cause necessary to build a winning coalition.

4. In order to achieve racial equity, we need to complicate our understanding of race. The black- white racial binary is as much a part of the fiction of race in America as dubious science about brain size and intelligence. The truth may not, by itself, set us free, but it might at least get us headed in that direction. As we head toward a “majority-minority” future, we’d do well to acknowledge the complexity of the story of race in America. Just ignoring it might be good for ratings, but it won’t make it go away.

Part 5

Abolish the police? Organizers say it’s less crazy than it sounds. Grassroots groups around Chicago are already putting abolitionist ideas into practice.

By Maya Dukmasova @mdoukmas Mothers Against Senseless Killings serves dinner daily on an Englewood corner that was once a hotspot for violence. “The only reason I know that we don’t necessarily need the police is because of what I do every day,” says MASK founder Tamar Manasseh. - DANIELLE A. SCRUGGS Mothers Against Senseless Killings serves dinner daily on an Englewood corner that was once a hotspot for violence. “The only reason I know that we don’t necessarily need the police is because of what I do every day,” says MASK founder Tamar Manasseh. DANIELLE A. SCRUGGS Until that moment on Fox News, Jessica Disu hadn't considered herself a police abolitionist. But on July 11, she was on national television, surrounded by 29 other people convened by Megyn Kelly to discuss the recent killings of Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and several Dallas police officers.

"I was under the impression that it would be a robust and productive conversation, even though it was Fox News," says 27-year-old Disu, who identifies herself as a "humanitarian rap artist and peace activist" and is involved with various organizations serving youth on the south side. She prepared her message before going on the show: "It should be against the law for an officer to shoot a civilian," she says. "That was what my message was supposed to be."

“Our police is not working—we need to replace it with something new. It’s more than a repair. We need something new.” click to tweet —ACTIVIST JESSICA DISU

Disu was seated in the front row, wearing a green dress, black blazer, and gold hoop earrings, her braids pulled up in a bun. Next to her was Ron Hosko, a former assistant director of the FBI. Also present at the forum: several retired NYPD officers, a "conservative voter," a black pastor from Baltimore active with Black Lives Matter, a black pastor from Los Angeles who said Black Lives Matter was "worse than the KKK," a civil rights attorney, a civil rights movement leader, a white woman who referred to Newt Gingrich's "beautifully" spoken comments on race relations, a black Trump supporter, a "Second Amendment advocate," and several unidentified others.

The discussion quickly turned raucous, with panelists shouting over each other as Kelly called on participants to answer polemical questions in quick succession. Disu sat quietly, occasionally rolling her eyes, scoffing, laughing, or nodding in agreement. "A lot of my buttons were triggered and pressed," she recalls. "This felt so comical to me—it felt like a minstrel show."

But then people began accusing Black Lives Matter activists of calling for the death of cops, and Disu couldn't hold her tongue

"This is the reason our young people are hopeless in America," she began, as other panelists bickered around her. She explained that her activism in Chicago focuses on intracommunity violence. "Here's a solution," Disu said firmly. "We need to abolish the police."

"Abolish the police?" came Kelly's incredulous response, as a clamor of boos and protests rose from the forum.

"Demilitarize the police, disarm the police," Disu pushed on, undeterred by the yelling. "We need to come up with community solutions for transformative justice."

"Can we all agree that a loss of a life is tragic?" she asked the forum, attempting to explain her vision.

"Who's gonna protect the community if we abolish the police?" Kelly asked, a this-must-be-a- joke smile spreading across her face.

"The police in this country began as a slave patrol," Disu managed to squeeze in before being engulfed by the noise.

The clips of Disu's calls for police abolition have garnered more than 31 million views in the month since they were posted online and sparked a virulent backlash.

"I've never been called a nigger in my life, until this time," Disu says. "I've been called a 'stupid nigger' by white people across this country, a lot of hate mail—everything short of death threats."

Jessica Disu didn’t always consider herself a police abolitionist. Now, she says, “our police is not working—we need to replace it with something new.” - DANIELLE A. SCRUGGS Jessica Disu didn’t always consider herself a police abolitionist. Now, she says, “our police is not working—we need to replace it with something new.” DANIELLE A. SCRUGGS Nevertheless, she stands by what she said. In light of relentless police violence against black people, she says it's clear that "our police is not working—we need to replace it with something new," she says. "It's more than a repair. We need something new."

Now that she's become an inadvertent national spokesperson for an idea she only recently began espousing, Disu says abolition has come to be the only way forward that makes sense to her.

"I'm sure when someone first said, 'We have to abolish slavery,' it was like, whoa, that's the stupidest idea, we're making all of this money off of free labor, and you're saying abolish? Like, that sounds ridiculous."

But Disu isn't alone in her embrace of the idea. Though Black Lives Matter and other groups have been vocally campaigning for police reform since 2014, the tone (and the banners) of demonstrations in Chicago this summer have become explicitly abolitionist.

On July 15, Assata's Daughters, a black feminist group often described as a radical version of the Girl Scouts, led an #AbolitionChiNow march across Bronzeville. On July 20, the #LetUsBreathe Collective, formed in the wake of Michael Brown's death, launched an occupation of an empty lot across the street from CPD's Homan Square facility in North Lawndale. The collective dubbed it "Freedom Square," publicized it as an experiment in "imagining a world without police," and called for the city to put its $1.4 billion police budget to other uses. Following the fatal police shooting of Paul O'Neal on July 28, young people made explicit calls for police abolition in front of CPD headquarters. And on August 7, several black teen girls organized a march for abolition that drew hundreds of supporters to the Loop.

It seems the city finds itself at the epicenter of a growing movement imagining and building a world without cops. And some grassroots groups, tired of waiting for top-down change from the very agencies they protest, have taken it upon themselves to start building the abolitionist society they want to live in.

The idea of police abolition can't be understood separately from the wider prison abolition movement, the intellectual seeds of which were sown by radical feminists in the 60s and 70s, including academic and early Black Panther Party member Angela Davis. Davis was herself incarcerated for 16 months while on trial for allegedly aiding a violent 1970 takeover of a California courtroom that ended with the death of a judge. Davis was acquitted in 1972, and later joined the faculty at the University of California, Santa Cruz, in the 90s.

Then and there a new movement for prison abolition began to gain traction, led in large part by queer women of color. In 1998 Davis coined the term prison industrial complex—a nod to the concept of the military-industrial complex popularized by President Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1961.

"[The work of maintaining incarceration], which used to be the primary province of government, is now also performed by private corporations, whose links to government in the field of what is euphemistically called 'corrections' resonate dangerously with the military industrial complex," Davis wrote in a famous 1998 article in the magazine Colorlines. "The prison industrial system materially and morally impoverishes its inhabitants and devours the social wealth needed to address the very problems that have led to spiraling numbers of prisoners."

“You can't just focus on what you don't want, you have to focus also on what you do want.” click to tweet —ORGANIZER MARIAME KABA

In 1997, Davis cofounded Critical Resistance, an organization that has since worked to dismantle the prison industrial complex. The group helped serve as a model for other abolitionist groups, including Incite!, founded in Santa Cruz in 2000 by radical feminists of color. These groups sought to bring attention to drug addiction, mental illness, and other social problems underlying mass incarceration through conferences and grassroots organizing. It has been gradual, painstaking work, they say, aimed at building community institutions whose presence they hope will one day make the police unnecessary.

Mariame Kaba came to Chicago for graduate school in 1995 and eventually joined the local chapter of Incite! Raised in New York in the 80s by her Guinean father and Senegalese mother, Kaba grew up in what she has called a "collectivist" and "black nationalist framework."

In Chicago nearly all current efforts at police and prison abolition can be traced back to Kaba. Her students and those influenced by her work are leading many prominent organizations at the forefront of police protests, such as Black Youth Project 100, Black Lives Matter Chicago, and Assata's Daughters. Her insistence that she isn't central to the movement is as constant as her students' attribution of her work as the inspiration for their own.

"I remember hearing this word 'abolition' and thinking it sounded absurd," says Page May, a cofounder of Assata's Daughters who first learned about abolition at Kaba's teach-ins. "But I would just go to everything that Mariame ran . . . everyone knew her and respected her, even if they didn't agree with her politics. And you couldn't work in the city around prisons or police without knowing her."

Kaba summarized her views in a recent interview with the AirGo podcast: "For me prison abolition is two things: It's the complete and utter dismantling of prison and policing and surveillance as they currently exist within our culture. And it's also the building up of new ways of intersecting and new ways of relating with each other."

When Kaba first arrived in Chicago, "there were no abolitionist organizations at that time in the city," she says. But by the early 2000s, Incite! began to convene national conferences that brought together organizers and intellectuals—including Davis and many other movement mothers—to ponder putting abolitionist ideas into practice. Kaba also began working with young people involved with gangs and the criminal justice system in Rogers Park, and in 2009 founded Project Nia, a group dedicated to ending youth incarceration.

"I had this notion of trying to create an explicitly abolitionist organization that would test that idea in a community setting," Kaba explains.

That's because Kaba, who recently moved back to New York after more than 25 years in Chicago, insists that abolition is not about destruction and anarchy—it's about building alternatives.

"You can't just focus on what you don't want, you have to focus also on what you do want," she says. "The world you want to live in is also a positive project of creating new things."

Drawing on indigenous traditions, participants in a Rogers Park peace circle use “talking pieces” to designate the speaker at any given moment. - APRIL ALONSO Drawing on indigenous traditions, participants in a Rogers Park peace circle use “talking pieces” to designate the speaker at any given moment. APRIL ALONSO For an example of one of these alternatives in action, look no further than the basement of a Rogers Park church. On a recent Wednesday night, 20 or so people—young, old, queer, straight, black, white, Latinx, Asian—are sitting in a circle. Strings of Christmas lights, paper lanterns, and candles give the room a yellow glow. And in the center of the circle there's a cluster of "talking pieces"—a chunk of driftwood, a green foam Hulk fist, a paper flower—objects

that have some powerful symbolic meaning for people in the group. One is passed around continuously to designate the speaker of the moment.

For nearly three hours, the people assembled share stories of times they've been hurt and those of times they've hurt others: A thin, black teen recalls being made fun of by a neighbor for appearing weak; an aging white woman talks about feeling excluded from her daughter's life now that she has moved out; a young white man expresses regret at having been rude to customer service reps on the phone; a tall, curvy black woman tears up as she discusses being objectified by men. The vibe is not unlike group therapy, only no one here is "the expert." (The church asked not to be named because its meetings are already at capacity.)

This is a peace circle—a style of community meeting practiced by indigenous peoples around the world (including some Native Americans) for centuries. The practice draws on the abolitionist notion that premodern methods of conflict resolution provide valuable alternatives to today's overreliance on police and prisons. The organizers argue that plenty of cultures successfully addressed harm and practiced nonviolent conflict resolution before the invention of policing in the 1800s.

This particular peace circle is a descendant of similar gatherings organized by Circles & Ciphers, a Project Nia leadership training and conflict resolution program for young men who've been in prison, jail, or a gang. Circles & Ciphers members also run peace circles to mediate violent situations, such as fights and shootings, but attendance at those is reserved for those affected—victims and perpetrators, their families and friends, and anyone else who might be directly impacted by the incident.

Circles & Ciphers began in 2010 as a space for teen boys living in a state-funded group home in Rogers Park.

"This narrative was being circulated that [the] group home was this blight on the community," says Ethan Ucker, a Circles & Ciphers cofounder. "The police were being called in spades and coming out to deal with issues that were happening in the house."

But the voices of the boys living in the house, many of whom were also caught up in the juvenile justice system, were conspicuously missing from neighborhood conversations about them, Ucker says. With Kaba's help, Ucker and fellow organizer Emmanuel Andre started monthly peace circles with the boys on the second floor of a Clark Street storefront. It was a safe space for them to discuss their conflicts with the community and with each other.

"What we started to see was that the space helped guys to process things that were going on, improve their relationships among their peers, and also improve their relationships to some of the staff who manned the home," Ucker says. "It doesn't mean there weren't conflicts; it just means there were other kinds of practices to address conflict when it came up."

Eventually, the community pressured the state contractor to close the home. (A spokesperson for the group that ran it wouldn't comment on the reasons for its closure, but said complaints against such facilities aren't unusual.) Some of the boys ended up in prison. However, some of the boys from the group went on to form their own peace circles, and today there are half a

dozen or so held at schools, churches, and community centers around Rogers Park and elsewhere in the city.

Ucker and other volunteer facilitators also make themselves available to help resolve conflicts for neighbors and friends seeking alternatives to calling the cops.

"There's another infrastructure here, there's another system here," Ucker says, contrasting peace circles to policing. "But it can respond just as effectively to harm."

Some people call this approach "restorative justice," where the desires of the people harmed are prioritized alongside accountability for those responsible.

Ucker illustrates the idea with an anecdote:

"There was a robbery at this store in the community. One of the people at the store whose stuff was taken said, 'Look, I don't want to call the cops. Is there anything we can do? . . . They found on Facebook that this young person was selling their stuff, and that young person happened to go to a school where we'd done some circles, so I knew a teacher at the school and could say, 'Hey, this is where we're at.' "

Eventually, he says, robber and robbed were brought back together.

"That young person ended up returning what he had that hadn't been sold, and then working at the shop in restitution for everything else," Ucker says. "Then it turned out he really liked working there, and after this agreement was over, he continued to go there and volunteer. There was a relationship built there."

Tamar Manasseh, left, has kept daily vigil at 75th and Stewart for more than a year. - DANIELLE A. SCRUGGS Tamar Manasseh, left, has kept daily vigil at 75th and Stewart for more than a year. DANIELLE A. SCRUGGS You may be thinking right about now: But what do I do if someone breaks into my house? Or if someone attacks me? How could peace circles possibly solve Chicago's rampant gun violence problem?

Kaba says these kinds of skeptical questions are normal.

"The options when harm comes to you in this country are what?" she asks. "Call the police and get somebody from the outside involved in your process, or figure it out on your own. Doing nothing is not a good option for a lot of people . . . you shouldn't have to choose between going to the state or doing nothing."

Kaba and other abolitionists aren't trying to talk people out of calling the cops in an emergency, she says. Instead, she asks communities to regularly gather and talk through alternatives to calling the police, even if they don't yet exist.

“People in Naperville are living abolition right now. The cops are not in their schools, they're not on every street corner.” click to tweet

—ORGANIZER MARIAME KABA

She and other organizers also point out that abolition on a larger scale is visible all around if one knows what to look for. Kaba says individually most of us practice abolition regularly, every time we address a conflict without involving the police. In many places community-wide abolition is also in plain sight.

"People in Naperville are living abolition right now," Kaba says. "The cops are not in their schools, they're not on every street corner."

And not all incarnations of abolition in Chicago intentionally conceive of themselves as such.

It's a sunny Tuesday afternoon and Tamar Manasseh is setting up a barbecue like she does every day, across from a liquor store on the corner of 75th and Stewart in Englewood. This intersection has been a hot spot of violence for years, and after another deadly shooting here last July, Manasseh decided it was time to intervene. For more than a year now she and a group of mothers have been carving out a small world without police, on what was once one of the most violent corners of the neighborhood.

"It's about cop watching, it's about people watching, but more than anything it's about being seen, being a presence in the community," Manasseh says of her daily barbecues. Around 5 PM hot dogs are ready, and kids stream over and line up with paper plates. A group of men wait patiently until all the children have been served before approaching. Seventy-five to 100 people come every day, "and they come in shifts," Manasseh says.

Manasseh calls her organization Mothers Against Senseless Killings. And although there have consistently been between one and three shootings in the vicinity of the intersection every summer since 2010, according to data compiled by DNAinfo, neighborhood residents have noted a palpable easing of tensions on the block, especially when the "army of moms" is around.

"Nobody wants to come through here shooting if they see 50 kids outside waiting to eat dinner," Manasseh says. Her own 17-year-old son is there too, tossing beanbags with younger children. "People always say, 'It's not like it used to be around here.' "

“The only reason I know that we don’t necessarily need the police is because of what I do every day.” click to tweet —MASK FOUNDER TAMAR MANASSEH

Jermaine Kelly, 22, was born and raised on the block and has been coming out to help Manasseh with her cookouts since last year. "Her presence definitely makes a big difference in our neighborhood—how we approach situations, how we approach each other," he says. "Bad situations get diffused very easily."

According to Kelly, even gang tensions have eased with Manasseh on patrol.

"We have our set of gangbangers here, but their opposition, their rival gangs, don't even ride past when she's here," he says. "It brings us back to the question: Which is better, to be loved or to be feared? And right now love is winning," Kelly says.

Over the last year Manasseh has devoted her life to this work, even quitting her day job as a real estate agent. MASK now has about 30 members and branches in Hyde Park and on Staten Island in New York. She doesn't see herself as a police abolitionist per se, but thinks of her work in the context of her Jewish faith.

"There's this Jewish principle called tikkun olam: it's repairing the world, and everybody has to do their part," Manasseh explains. "This is my part." Next year she'll be ordained as a rabbi.

Like Kaba, she stresses the importance of relationships. "If you build community, the violence stops," she says. "If you know your neighbors, you're far less likely to shoot them or rob them."

As a new song comes on her booming car stereo—and Manasseh yells for someone to skip it because it has lyrics inappropriate for kids—she recalls an unsettling recent event.

"We almost had an incident where a guy pulled a gun out here a few weeks ago. If we hadn't been here that would have ended so badly," she says. "We were able to diffuse the situation, no police had to come." Instead, she explains, a group of men talked down the one with the gun.

"There were so many people committed to stopping it from happening," she says.

According to Kelly, MASK's presence in the neighborhood also eases some of the stress caused by the police. He says he has been stopped and frisked by officers many times, especially when he's with a group of other black, male friends. Police ask about guns and drugs, he says, "until they unzip our book bags and see basketballs, gym shorts." Normally on this corner, the cops "might jump out and harass us, search us," he says. "But when [Manasseh's] here, they just ride past."

Just then a police SUV cruises by with the windows open, but the blond female officer at the wheel doesn't turn her head toward the corner or acknowledge Manasseh. "We're just trying to stay out of each other's way," she says.

Manasseh is encouraged by other initiatives such as Freedom Square, but insists that to make a difference participants must be in it for the long haul. "Stay the course, that's all I can say. Consistency is the key to change," she says. "You have to be more committed to changing things than everybody else is to keeping things the same. That's what I've learned. Consistency is the absolute key to everything."

At the Freedom Square encampment, organizers put their abolitionist ideals into practice by providing free food and education for the community. - DANIELLE A. SCRUGGS At the Freedom Square encampment, organizers put their abolitionist ideals into practice by providing free food and education for the community. DANIELLE A. SCRUGGS As calls to abolish police have intensified in Chicago, CPD and the Fraternal Order of Police (the officers' union) have stayed mum on the matter, uninterested, it seems, in engaging in that particular conversation or trying to justify their institutional existence to this degree. When the

Reader tried to contact FOP president Dean Angelo Sr. for comment, his assistant laughed, saying, "I doubt he'll want to comment on something so stupid." Minutes later she called back to confirm that Angelo would not be speaking about the issue. The police department didn't respond to requests for comment.

But an idea that still strikes many if not most in the mainstream as absurd is slowly gaining traction even within the world of criminal justice.

"The closer you get to it, and the more you work on it, the more you realize that the system is not fixable the way it is," says attorney Alan Mills, executive director of the Uptown People's Law Center, which has litigated civil rights lawsuits on behalf of Illinois prisoners for years. Mills knows Kaba and says her work has been influential in legal circles; after much heated discussion, prison abolition was adopted as a platform of the National Lawyers Guild last year.

Some people may be put off by the word "abolition" itself, Mills says, but he argues that many social causes actually fall under its umbrella. He points out that abolitionists in Chicago have championed reinvestment in community mental health care, and were behind the creation of the Community Bond Fund, which collects donations for bail bonds for people in pretrial detention at the Cook County Jail. The initiative has been endorsed by the Chicago Appleseed Fund for Justice and many legal aid groups.

"I think that you have to view it as a strategy and a goal rather than something that can be implemented tomorrow," Mills says of abolition. "When I listen to the abolitionists, what I hear is that it is possible to build a world without prisons or policing."

And, Mills adds, this world is closer than a distant sci-fi future.

"Germany and Norway have a different philosophy," he says. "The reason people commit crimes is because they've become disconnected from social networks." In the Norwegian model, "the role of prison is to rebuild those networks," he says.

But Kaba warns that America will need much more than just a tweaking of the way prisons operate—the abolitionist project in the city and the country will require much farther-reaching social transformation in the way we think about crime, punishment, property, and how we relate to one another.

"Abolition is not about changing one thing," she says. "It's about changing everything, together."