AFTERWORD

The end of the twentieth century seemed to many of my people like the beginning of the twentieth century. We still strained under the weight of an uneven, unequal, crushing society. You could hear our anger in our music. Hip-hop and urban rap that questioned and criticized America became the voice of a new, edgy, take-no-prisoners generation. We waded through the administrations of George H. Bush, William “Bill” Clinton, and George W. Bush, counting our “wins” and “losses.” In the end, race and income still divided the nation. Choked by unemployment, institutional racism, crime, and drug-infested communities, my people felt in our bones that America didn’t care.

It certainly didn’t seem to care in 2005 when the levees failed in New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Images of black bodies floating facedown in the city’s flooded streets, hundreds of my people stranded on rooftops waving frantically for help as they pleaded with dying loved ones to “hold on,” waiting for days in breathtaking heat for food, water, and supplies, exposed the America that my people had known since being brought against our will to these shores. We are her stepchildren, perhaps her unwanted children, whose worth and value she ponders every day.

At times, the twenty-first century brought a ray of hope. In 2007 Senator Barack Obama from Illinois declared his intent to seek the Democratic nomination for president in 2008. He was not the first African American to seek the party’s nomination for the nation’s highest office. But he was the first to galvanize a critical mass of people—across the color and generational lines—to believe, hope, and work for a better, more inclusive America. On January 20, 2009, my people witnessed what their forefathers could not even have imagined: a black man was sworn in as President of the United States. My people wept with joy, the young never doubting, the elderly thanking God that they had lived to see such a day. In 2012 President Obama won reelection, confirming the voters’ belief in his capability and sensibilities to lead this nation.

Electing an African American president twice, however, did not signal an end to racism, nor did it usher in a color-blind society. The acquittal in the shooting death of unarmed seventeen-year-old Trayvon Martin shocked and ignited the African American community. It spurred black activists Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi, to create #BlackLivesMatter, an organization to build local power to intervene in violence inflicted on the black community by state and vigilantes. #BlackLivesMatter produced a groundswell of support, with thousands of members or sympathizers taking to the streets demanding an end to police brutality and systemic racism.

In 2013 and 2014 African American men and women were gunned down by law enforcement or found dead while in police custody—not “new” news my people would argue; just news finally being televised. The shooting deaths of nine parishioners in Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston by an unremorseful young, white gunman, brought to our minds and hearts the verse, “God of our weary years, God of our silent tears…” as we mournfully asked, “Why?”

On January 9, 2016, Americans woke to news of the nation’s new president-elect. Millions naively believed that he couldn’t win. We scolded ourselves for not voting in numbers and eyed suspiciously coworkers or associates whom we believed had “crossed over” to the other side. In the following months, my people joined others marching in protest of election results and in support of righteous movements. Yet as night fell and marchers went home, my people found themselves again alone, again wondering how we would survive.

And then we remembered.

For more than 400 years we have toiled, struggled, died, rebelled, pushed back, demanded, and fought for true freedom in these United States. Our road has never been easy. America was built on the backs of our enslaved, unpaid, and underpaid labor. Still, each generation stood firm, stood defiant, and stood determined to hold our communities, families, and lives together as others sought to tear them apart. It’s magic—the way we have survived, loved, and thrived. It is more than magic; it’s our undying will, our faith in the future, our refusal to be trampled under and pushed aside that keep us fighting for our human and civil rights.

Lest We Forget: The Passage from Africa into the Twenty-First Century pays tribute to those who would not give up or give in. Through this work we say thank you to our heroes and sheroes, to those whose names we remember and those whose names have been forgotten. Your sacrifices and courage inspire us in our darkest moments. We owe it to you to journey on—until victory is won.