A Black History Tribute: ‘Thank You for Leading the Way’

Black History Month has to be more than a running list of “Did you know?” fun facts. It has to be more than regurgitated Instagram posts with red, black, and green borders or an opportunity for advertisers and TV stations to break out their dashiki-print art treatments.

Black history is everyone’s history. Just as there has never been humanity without Black people, there is no human history without Black history. This fact should fuel our desire to create space for a true celebration of Black history, one that goes beyond nostalgic remembrances of events from 50, 100, or 400 years ago through rose-colored glasses. The history of man cannot be told though pop quizzes about who invented the stop light or the pacemaker, and Black history has no right being told in this fashion, either.

It’s also important to remember that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. didn’t live his life in black and white. His life was lived in color, at a time when the vast majority of Americans looked upon him with distaste while questioning the peacefulness of his rallies, and the American government itself worked to cut down his character. It’s often easier to remember these figures as one-dimensional beings eternally suspended in the amber of their moment, but that can only happen if we fail to understand their full story, particularly if we’re fortunate enough to be around as their story is still being told.

Black history was made last century, last summer, last night. Right now, Black history is being made, always, perpetually fluid, influencing itself and creating new iterations upon itself. Black people being inspired by Black people constitutes Black history. Any person inspired by Black people constitutes Black history.

Complex has covered Black history for almost two full decades, and has done so by organically celebrating Black art in real time. For example, one day Young Thug may be viewed by many through the same black-and-white lens some use when remembering a titan like James Brown, with only those acutely familiar with his work or having lived through his career as it unfolded left to fully comprehend his impact. In some ways, an icon like Jay-Z is already viewed by some in this fashion. I personally consider it a privilege to work at a company dedicated to covering Black history, live, as it’s being made.

To that end, this Black History Month, we chose to celebrate figures—both current and historical—who have inspired us in some significant way. Each day in February, we will feature a “Thank You” letter to a Black person who has made history, penned by a Complex employee or by an artist, influencer, or other individual whom you may recognize. It’s our small way of shining a light on those who made us who we are, and paying homage to both the widely known and smaller-profile giants of Black history. —Maurice Peebles

Angela Davis

Angela Davis, your presence has been one of the most important in my life. I learned about you as a young Black teenager, wanting so badly to have been born into the decade of the Black Power movement. I’m not sure if it was the cadence of your voice or the way you raised your fist in the courtroom during the historical trial where you fought for your freedom—but your strength was always one that felt like a rumbling. A deep, deep rumbling, like the way a volcano rumbles. You always felt otherworldly. And then I met you. We met the first time in Berkeley and I was star-struck, thinking, “I get to meet my hero—Angela Davis.”

I remember opening up to you and crying as I talked to an audience of 1,200 people, describing the ways in which police violence had terrorized my life and my community, and how I was going to dedicate myself to the movement. Then you spoke and you galvanized the audience of 1,200 folks that came to see you and be reminded why we are in this movement. You are a big mentor of mine and I think about all the times that I have asked you ‘How do you keep hope?’ Your answer is always the same: “There is so much to be hopeful for.”

You lay out the many uprisings and revolutions that are happening across the world because you have never just cared about Black Americans. You make the connections between what is happening in Nigeria and what is happening in Los Angeles. You ride for all of us. For that I am grateful.

Thank you, Angela Davis. —Patrisse Cullors

Patrisse Cullors is an artist and author, as well as a co-founder of the Black Lives Matter Global Network.

Ava DuVernay

In a world where Black folk have to make Black Lives Matter a movement because our lives feel meaningless to America, we have to give acclaimed filmmaker Ava DuVernay her props.

As a director, she sees us. She saw the human story behind the “Central Park Five” scandal from the ’80s and detailed how hard it is for Black boys and men in the system so candidly that she named her series When They See Us. She saw Brother Martin and the folks who put shoes to pavement in 1965, walking from Selma to Montgomery, where Black people spoke up for the constitutional right to vote, and turned that momentous occasion into 2014’s Selma. Ava sees the struggle Colin Kaepernick has gone through since he knelt in protest of the Black lives that were taken (and continue to be taken) by police officers and a “justice” system that doesn’t feel built for us.

Colin entrusted Ava to tell his story, a humongous honor from someone who notoriously lets his actions speak for themselves. She also took the prison system to task with 13th, a documentary that highlights just how much the system of slavery is alive in our prison institutions. Ava even saw herself become the first Black woman to direct a film that earned $100 million at the box office with 2018’s A Wrinkle in Time, an ambitious Disney update to a timeless novel that put Storm Reid in the box office conversation.

With America being divided, and history ignoring the contributions of Black people, except for when it can benefit the ruling class, creatives like Ava DuVernay express our pain and our joy. Our stories matter just as much as our lives, and with Ava’s vision, we always look amazing.

Thank you, Ava DuVernay, for putting our people in front of the lens and telling the stories that need to be told now. We need to see them today, and our children’s children need to see them tomorrow. —Khal

James Baldwin

Thank you, James Baldwin, for helping us understand our sanity in an insane world.

I'm almost too embarrassed to admit that my first true introduction to Mr. Baldwin didn't come in the form of a novel or essay or short story or poem. It didn't come from learning of his ideals or debates or theories in school or from a parent taking me aside at some younger age to explain what great Black writing looks like. No. My first real introduction to James Arthur Baldwin came far too late in life via the great cultural equalizer of our time—Netflix.

Certainly his story and his work should've found its way into my world long before Netflix (or at least while Netflix was still mailing out DVDs), so I only make this confession because my suspicion is that many Americans are having a similar experience. I suspect James Baldwin, like so many other impactful figures throughout history, is someone a considerable number of people recognize by name but not by the details of his deeds. And it brings me far more shame than joy to admit my awakening to this literary colossus and all-time great American mind happened on the same platform where reality show contestants tried to win $100,000 by simply not having sex with one another.

I encourage anyone who has ever heard the name "James Baldwin" but knows little else about the man to watch the Academy Award-nominated documentary I AM NOT YOUR NEGRO, an adaptation of his unfinished manuscript Remember This House.

I encourage anyone—especially after the social awakening of summer 2020—who has ever felt like the entire game is rigged, has ever taken note of the American penchant for casual cruelty, has ever felt confused and confined by the paltry expectations for Black people in this country to consume an essay, interview, or poem from this incredible man.

I'm thanking James Baldwin because his words gave clarity to thoughts and frustrations I'd held for years. His explanations and observations continue to act as prescription lenses in these increasingly blurry iterations of America, and serve as proof that while We are indeed living in a madhouse, it is not We who are mad.

For that wisdom and perspective I am forever grateful. Thank you, Mr. Baldwin. —Maurice Peebles

Sheila Johnson

These last few years have been the most formative of my career and, frankly, my life. From negotiating a new collective bargaining agreement as WNBPA president to dedicating an entire season to Black Lives Matter and Say Her Name, I’ve learned so much about myself, this league, and the phenomenal women empowering our world—phenomenal women like Sheila Johnson. For this, Sheila, I thank you.

You are the only Black woman to own stakes in three professional sports teams, including the WNBA’s Washington Mystics, but your representation and contribution to history, culture, and change have not ended there. In fact, your contribution started well before that. In co-founding Black Entertainment Television, you defined, on your own terms, what it means to be self-made. As a pillar of Black American culture, BET birthed, nurtured, and reared Black stories and narratives for Black people by Black people in a country and time desperate for perspective, representation, and empowerment. For this, we thank you.

You’ve shattered glass ceilings, broken barriers, and left open doors that I have now had the opportunity to walk through. Success and accomplishment aside, in owning up to your worth, you’ve unyieldingly amplified the value of the Black woman and advocated for her to take up space, and unapologetically so. You’ve proven to history that a young girl seeking equal education in the depths of segregation can manifest self-made generational wealth and influence in the same lifetime. Against many orchestrated odds, your grace and resilience permeate your legacy. And for this, Sheila, the world thanks you. —Nneka Ogwumike

Nneka Ogwumike, a proud first-generation Nigerian­-American and Texas native, was the first overall pick for the Los Angeles Sparks in the 2012 WNBA Draft and currently serves as president of the WNBA Players Association.

D’Wayne Edwards

From the depths of my heart, thank you, D’Wayne Edwards, for inspiring me to help BIPOC creatives claim their dream careers.

Growing up in Baton Rouge, I was in love with sneakers and storytelling. While I was passionate, I’d never seen or heard stories about anyone who worked in the corporate sneaker industry. For a Black kid from the South, making it to major brands was nearly impossible. But as a Black man from Inglewood, you know that story all too well.

I first learned about you and your work with Jordan Brand and Pensole through my Adidas co-worker Sarah Sabino. One day after work, she invited me to a design showcase at your Pensole headquarters in Portland. I was instantly inspired by what I saw. These were young designers who had never worked at the established sportswear brands, yet here they were with prototypes of their own sneakers. I’d never seen anything like that before, especially from someone Black.

Fast-forward to the summer of 2019. I was inspired to create a podcast that demystifies careers in the sneaker industry. The pitch was a bit rough, but you believed in what I was trying to accomplish through conversations with BIPOC sportswear professionals. You believed so much that you put me onstage at the 2019 African American Footwear Forum. Your confidence and encouragement mean so much.

When you started the Pensole Academy in 2011, I’m sure it wasn’t for awards or to be considered a trailblazer. You probably were doing it because you saw it was necessary and you wanted to make things better for the next generation.

I’ve always wanted an example of success like the one you provide. While I didn’t know you when I was a kid sketching sneakers, I am happy to know you now as I embark on my own journey to help the kids who come from marginalized communities like ours.

D’Wayne, we appreciate you for all that you’ve done and all that you will continue to do. —Bimma Williams

Bimma Williams is the host of the Claima Stories podcast. Subscribe on Apple Podcasts.

Ta-Nehisi Coates

Honesty is rare and frightening. It takes a certain level of bravery to say the things that need to be said in the way they need to be delivered. I believe Ta-Nehisi Coates to be a master of honesty. I want to thank him, not only for inspiring me to become a journalist, but also because he was a pivotal figure in my understanding of integrity. No part of his expansive catalog—from his chronicling of the time he spent with the villain MF DOOM to his contextualizing of the insidious nature of redlining in The Case for Reparations—spoke more to me than Between the World and Me, a work of nonfiction framed as a letter to his son. Through that text, I learned how to embrace my Blackness completely.

I read Between the World and Me when I was a junior in high school, and what stuck with me the most was the way Coates described learning about Malcolm X in college. He loved Malcolm because Malcolm never lied. Because if he hated, “it was human for the enslaved to hate the enslaver, natural as Prometheus hating the birds.”

Those are some of the most powerful words I’ve read to this day. Coates taught me to lean into that honesty. It’s OK to be Black and angry, unapologetic, or wrathful in America. I carry these lessons with me every day, and have learned how to express myself through a pen because of him, and for that, I will be forever grateful. Malcolm X was one of his heroes, and Ta-Nehisi is one of mine. Thank you, Ta-Nehisi Coates. —Jordan Rose

Paul Robeson

Polymaths and multi-hyphenates are my people. A truly rare breed, like scholar-athletes. Or doctor-actors. Or lawyers who are also creatives. It’s the depth of knowledge and ability to use that knowledge across multiple disciplines for me.

Thirteen years ago, when I was just a music and French major writing my law school application, I couldn’t see my future clearly. Even as I wrote out my plan for what I was going to do with my degree, all I could think was, “Being a lawyer-singer-writer-creative? What an impossible dream.” And for the longest time, it was. That is, until I studied one of my idols, the consummate multi-hyphenate Paul Robeson.

He was the son of a runaway slave-turned-preacher. As an intellectual, Robeson earned a scholarship to Rutgers University and in 1915 became only the third African-American student to enroll. As a student-athlete at Rutgers, he was a two-time first-team All-American and four-sport letterman. He graduated as valedictorian. Robeson was later recruited to what would become the NFL, where he played for the Akron Pros and (after the league took on its current name) the Milwaukee Badgers while earning his law degree at Columbia University.

Ultimately, he left behind his football career, and a brief stint as a lawyer, for the arts. This is the part of Robeson’s life from which I draw inspiration. As a lawyer who sings soprano in a choir of lawyers, I am inspired by Robeson’s famed bass-baritone singing career. As an actor, his intentional choices to use his art as an example of what Black men could accomplish is both a worthy undertaking and the thing I admire about him the most.

As an activist, he was Colin Kapaernick before Colin Kapaernick. Robeson was once famously quoted as saying an “artist must take sides. He must elect to fight for freedom or slavery. I have made my choice. I had no alternative.” He took a side and he was nearly all but outcast for it.

So thank you, Paul, for being the blueprint—for not settling on the things you could do, but striving to showcase your talents where they could be most impactful. You made what seemed impossible a very real thing. —Nyasha Foy

Nipsey Hussle

Inspiration is a result of demonstration, both for the inspirational and the inspired. One of the most inspirational people in my life happens to be someone that I also have the privilege of calling a friend—Nipsey Hussle.

Nipsey, knowing you personally made it all the more iconic because I was able to recognize your big plan before the world discovered it. I was able to see how your humility became your strongest asset and unfortunately how your love became your demise. You were humble, you never wanted to be too far from the people because you knew it would dilute the message. And that was probably the most inspiring part.

You were Nipsey Hussle the Great, on Slauson and Crenshaw. You made the Crenshaw District a global Mecca for young Black visionaries like myself. I would call you The Rose That Grew From Concrete, but you were more like a cactus. Prolific. Sustainable. Dangerous. A leader for the community and a threat to the opposition. You let the world know to double-check their approach before stepping to someone from the Crenshaw District.

We shared a similar purpose, to inspire change. When my pops passed, I learned that to really inspire or to be inspired by someone is not proven verbally but by example. When he passed, you DM’d me a blue heart and a Marathon flag emoji, THE MARATHON CONTINUES.

I never imagined that, a few years later, I would be carrying that flag at your VICTORY LAP.

Nipsey, to see the world finally give you your flowers in your demise is bittersweet. But something about the way you lived your life makes me feel like you knew this part of your plan was coming sooner than I did. Sooner than we all did.

So if this is my opportunity to publicly say thank you for inspiring me, then I’ll hold on to that and just show you by continuing to be courageous, continuing to be humble, working hard, uplifting my community, and leading by example. I love you. —Mizzle

Gavin “Mizzle” Mathieu is the founder of Supervsn, lead architect behind the I Empower Project, and a Fairfax legend.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Before we lost Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., to an assassin’s bullet, he was just beginning to use his considerable spotlight to turn the nation’s attention to poverty in America. Specifically, Dr. King launched the “Poor People’s Campaign” to highlight economic justice and the intersectionality that—in this country—meant that you could tell a lot about someone if you knew their race and their zip code.

This hour in our nation demands a robust agenda to dismantle structural inequality— outcome-driven and evidence-based policies that direct vital assistance to vulnerable Americans. A guaranteed income is a key pillar of that agenda. We must rebuild communities decimated by cyclical poverty through direct investment in people and the intentional expansion of local economies to manufacture opportunity and generate generational wealth.

Thank you, Dr. King, for understanding that a guaranteed income floor, a basic standard of living, is essential for upholding human dignity and freedom.

In my city, Compton, California, we launched the largest city-based guaranteed income program, the Compton Pledge. Our initiative encompasses every segment of the community impacted by poverty, including the formerly incarcerated and the undocumented. This kind of intervention is what the American people expect, and it’s what we deserve. As Dr. King said, “There is nothing new about poverty. What is new is that we now have the techniques and the resources to get rid of poverty. The real question is whether we have the will.” —Mayor Aja Brown

Aja Brown is the youngest mayor ever elected in the City of Compton and is currently serving her second term in office.

Ruth E. Carter

I was only 10 when I watched Spike Lee’s Malcolm X for the first time. I remember being so enthralled with the costumes, early on, particularly in the scene where Denzel Washington, as Malcolm Little, and Spike, as his friend Shorty, were walking down the street in their Zoot suits. The colors were so vibrant—the color red and bold black stripes were so intentional in the establishment of Malcolm as “Red” in his early years. I remember being transfixed by Denzel’s transformation into the revered version of Malcolm X that we are familiar with and how the costumes were so pivotal to that evolution.

Then I discovered you, Ruth, and who you are and what you looked like. At the time, when you were only 27 years old, you reminded me of my cool older cousins and my young aunts. It was also at that moment I really learned what a costume designer does and that someone from my community, who was also a young person, was doing this esteemed job. I realized that this was a career that was a potential option for me as a young Black girl. I followed your career after this moment, and you have designed the costumes for so many of the films that influenced my generation, style, and pop culture as a whole.

What’s Love Got to Do With It, Meteor Man, Crooklyn, BAPS, Rosewood, and the upcoming Coming 2 America—shall I go on? I’m forever grateful to you, Ruth, for your contributions to the culture and for showing this Black girl that she, too, can make costume design a career. —Charlese Antoinette

Charlese Antoinette is a costume designer and stylist whose most recent work includes the highly anticipated film Judas and the Black Messiah, out Friday, Feb. 12.​​​​

William Dorsey Swann

In the 1880s and 1890s, a man named William Dorsey Swann, known by his friends as “The Queen,” participated in and eventually hosted legendary drag balls in DC. A formerly enslaved Black man, Swann is considered to be the first American activist to lead a queer rights and resistance group. He was also criminalized and incarcerated for his audacity to live fully and build community, and his denied request to be pardoned by the president makes him the first known recorded legal and political activist to defend queer rights.

William Dorsey Swann’s story highlights the extraordinary ways Black queer and trans people make choices every day to experience joy while building community and resistance in the face of the brutality of white supremacy and its associated systemic brothers, racism, homophobia, transphobia, the patriarchy, and xenophobia. This Black History Month, I am honoring both William Dorsey Swann’s story, our ancestors, and every Black queer and trans person’s courage to be, and live our lives with the spirit of defiance and embodied freedom, fully aware of the consequences of doing so. —Jonathan Jayes-Green

Jonathan Jayes-Green (they/them) is vice president of programs at Marguerite Casey Foundation and the co-founder of the UndocuBlack Network.

Wilson Smith

There is a common story shared among Black designers who joined Nike in the late ’90s and early 2000s. The story of a man who created an entire movement with one decision. A decision that was compelled by an ancestral leaning towards adventure and belief in self. The story of Wilson Smith.

Wilson—a descendant of pioneering Black settlers of the West who came by train, rather than horse and carriage—embodied and exuded the spirit of Creatio ex nihilo, or “Create from nothing,” when he decided to leave a career in architecture to join what was then an unproven footwear company in Beaverton, Oregon. With this divinely inspired decision, Wilson would become Nike’s first Black designer in 1983.

I was only 22 years old when I was told that I would be leaving Nike X-Training, after successfully designing the Monarch and the M7 logo for Michael Vick, to return home, to the place my career began—the Jordan Brand. As Nike’s first Black product design intern and Jordan Brand’s first design intern, I had hoped to work my way up the ladder and eventually return as a senior designer to work on the Air Jordan, a dream that I had carried with me since I was a little boy on the South Side of Chicago. However, as fate would have it, the man who was once an architect decided to once again lay out a plan based on faith and conviction.

Wilson Smith, in his most sincere tone, had asked that if he should be moved to lead Nike Tennis and its newly formed relationship with Serena Williams, that I and I alone should be the one to replace him. He once again followed a divine calling to serve others before himself, living up to the creed of Creatio Continua, or “God’s continuing creative activity.” I can never thank Wilson enough for listening to God’s gentle whisper. His desire to serve and his willingness to sacrifice for the advancement of others is the exact blueprint for my and, so many others’, success. We all honor you, Wilson, not just with our words, but with our actions. We love you dearly, and I hope that you are proud of what I have done with the gift you gave me those many years ago. —Jason Mayden

Jason Mayden is a sneaker industry veteran who spent 13 years at Nike. He continues to work on projects that are grounded in creation and innovation. He was recently named the president of Fear of God Athletics.

Alice Allison Dunnigan

Alice Allison Dunnigan, how can I even begin to say “thank you”? Did you have any idea while fighting racism and sexism in journalism that your legacy would go on to change the world? Did you know that your works would go on to inspire a woman of color like me to follow her media dreams? Your journey to becoming the first African American female correspondent to receive White House credentials, along with being the first Black woman allowed to sit in the Senate and House press room, I’m sure wasn’t an easy one. I want you to know you made it easier for me as a child to realize anything is possible.

You were a true visionary, a woman ahead of her time. Though many may not know your story, I do, and it changed the way I looked at things when I was younger. At the end of the day, you just wanted to do what you loved for a living, despite whatever roadblocks may have stood in your way, and I respect and identify with that.

Thank you for not giving up. Thank you for doing what they said couldn’t be done. Thank you for being a visual representation of what possibilities the future may hold. I just want to take this moment out to say THANK YOU! —Drea Oppan

Cord Jefferson

Thank you, Cord Jefferson.

You’re an imaginary friend before breakfast, a writing partner during my early morning walks, and it is all because I am inspired by your story. The reason for my gratitude is made very clear. In my life, words have meant more to me than they meant to others. I’ve always found myself in awe of how other stories can intersect, yet I was ignoring one in front of me that could help keep the gift of life that I was given.

Like your father, I was in need of a kidney. In 2017, my health was taking a serious turn and irreparable damage was happening to my body. I had limited options since my family was unable to get tested or, as was the case with my then-wife, was born with only one kidney. The following year, Anslem Samuel Rocque would donate one of his kidneys and save my life. I think back to a time in the ER, rewatching an episode of The Nightly Show, and I’m wondering how you used humor to help your father heal from his own transplant surgery.

Because of gratitude, I am alive. And your essay about the importance of health is something I will always cherish—especially on what is now my third kidneyversary (Jan. 31, 2018). Danke. Medaase paa. —Kevin L. Clark

RZA

When I first met the RZA, I was doing A&R at Jive. It was the summer before the release of Wu-Tang Clan’s stupendous debut. Because RZA demanded the infamous non-exclusive deal, I couldn’t sign them. When he shopped The Gravediggaz, his horrorcore group, I leapt at the opportunity. I remember the day clearly: the weather, what I wore, where we dined, what I ate. By the end of lunch, I thought, “That’s one of the smartest motherfuckers I’ve ever met.” I didn’t sign the group, but was determined to spend as much time around the Clan as possible.

As a Korean Canadian who majored in French lit and worked in hip-hop, I suffered from imposter syndrome when I started at Jive. Fortunately, I had friends in the community who eradicated that doubt. Then there was Wu-Tang, whose embrace of me was stunning and unprecedented. They made me feel like I’d been placed on a well-guarded throne. My neck, as it were, was uncommonly protected.

While writing my memoir, The Baddest Bitch in the Room, I realized the Clan was responsible for a number of critical firsts in my life, about which I quizzed RZA:

“Who was the first person to call me ‘family’”?

“Meth.”

“Who was the first artist to ask me to manage them?”

“Dirt.”

“Who was the first person to ask me to be the general manager of their label?”

“That’s easy, Soph: me.”

Due to the Clan’s influence, I started watching kung fu flicks, which I’d rejected in childhood as a yellow girl who wanted to be white. Then I started training with Shi Yan Ming, a Shaolin monk, whom I managed and with whom I fell in love and started a family. Thus, if it weren’t for Wu-Tang, I wouldn’t have experienced the mighty love of my life, started my 26-year practice of Shaolin kung fu, and, most importantly, had my raison d’être: my children, whose godfather is the RZA.

My name is Sophia Chang, and I was raised by Wu-Tang. Thank you, RZA. —Sophia Chang

Sophia Chang is a music matriarch, screenwriter, and author who founded Unlock Her Potential, a professional mentoring program for creative women of color.

Melvin Van Peebles

Thank you, Melvin, for teaching me how to be a rebel with a cause.

You see, I wasn’t allowed to watch your films when they came out. Not because I wasn’t old enough to, but because they scared the ish out of my Black parents. Your first film, Watermelon Man, stared at me like an elusive chanteuse, urging me to pop it into the VCR and watch with the sound off. I didn’t know about your time in Europe or how James Baldwin led a discussion after your short Three Pickup Men for Herrick was screened at Cinema 16. Never knew that you had your playwright and reporter cred, too, with stints at Mad Magazine and Hara-kiri.

All I knew was that after sneaking to read Dick Gregory’s Bible Tales, Watermelon Man was high on my must-see list. Subversive, satirical, and spot-on for the time of its release, it placed you in rarefied air in my book. Thank you for showing that without heart and truth, execution doesn’t mean a thing. After Watermelon Man, you paid for Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song; scripted, directed, and edited the film; introduced us to Earth, Wind & Fire; and developed a marketing cool still felt today. You proved to me that, as the saying goes, “pop culture is just expired Black culture,” and without your influence, I would be without a North Star when it comes to sharing my Blackness with others.

Thank you, Melvin Van Peebles, for always being true and never playing us cheap. —Kevin L. Clark

Assata Shakur

Towards the end of my first year in law school, my friend gifted me with your book The Autobiography of Assata Shakur. He knew that I had a heart for Black liberation and thought that this book could help to provide me with a solid foundation. I immediately felt seen.

Thank you, Assata, for seeing me. Thank you for being me. Thank you for chronicling Black girls’ and Black women’s reality. Zora Neale Hurston reminded us that “if we are silent about your pain, they will kill you and say you enjoyed it.” You reminded us that we have a right to fight for our freedom and win. Thank you for teaching me the importance of narrating my own story. Thank you for humanizing yourself and other Black women. Reading your autobiography was a life-changing experience.

I often tell people that your book is the parallel to The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Assata, your strength, vulnerability, and resilience are applaudable. It is not a coincidence that I would step into the life of a true activist just a few months after reading your book. I believe God and the ancestors had me read your story in preparation for my journey.

Since that time, I’ve been maced and tear gassed on the frontlines. I’ve witnessed white supremacist shoot protesters while the police watch nearby. I’ve been arrested for standing up for the life of Breonna Taylor. I’ve helped call out a presidential candidate, Senator Amy Klobuchar, which helped free our brother Myon Burrell, who was given a life sentence at 16 years old. I want to thank you for providing me with a foundation to do this work. —Leslie E. Redmond

Leslie E. Redmond became the youngest president for the Minneapolis NAACP at 25 years old. She is the founder of “Don’t Complain, Activate” and a civil rights attorney.

Fannie Lou Hamer

Growing up, I was most exposed to Black liberation by reading about it through a Black male lens. I had to do my own digging to learn about the beloved activist and orator Fannie Lou Hamer. But it shouldn’t have been that way when she was on the frontlines too.

She gave her life to service, which is what it takes to uproot this beast of a racist political system—it’s not a part-time job. Hamer was also resolute on challenging the status quo. When Mississippi sought to block voter participation in 1964, Hamer co-created the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party to challenge the state. Then she helped initiate Freedom Summer, a movement to register Black voters throughout the South. Hamer helped pave the way for the Black women whose on-the-ground work helped get Trump out of office last November.

The leaders within the system knew Hamer’s potential, which is why they barred her from running for the Mississippi House of Representatives. Undeterred, she opted to help people from outside the system, truth-telling all over the country and launching the Freedom Farm Cooperative in Sunflower County, Mississippi, giving Black people their own space to farm and create a local economic base.

There are Black theories that brilliantly articulate Black plight, and then there are simple adages like “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired” said by you, Fannie Lou Hamer. Reading about your life illuminated the possibilities for how marginalized people today can infuse the political structure with movement-based principles.

I feel like if more people read about you, they’d see that there were people who tried to do what they could within the political structure, without compromising their ideals, while creating their own Black initiatives. Your fire, shared by other freedom fighters, is an inspiration and a reminder that no matter how tired we are, the fight isn’t over until the next generation can rest. Thank you. —Andre Gee

Malcolm X

When I Found Malcolm X

By Kevin Powell

I shed tears the way a dam

bursts wide open when exposed

by an awful hurricane

that moment at age 18

after the first time I

hungrily ate the words of

The Autobiography of Malcolm X

because I did not

know a Black man

like him could even exist

I cried—hard—because they had

bowed and arrowed

bullet after bullet

into Malcolm the way

hunters murder

a defenseless lion or deer:

he was both a lion and a deer

a lion undaunted by

America’s naked jungles

a deer forever thirsty

about what is

underneath the there

they bamboozled

us into believing was freedom

I howled like an unwanted ghetto baby

dumped into the trash bag of history

because in his book

I was able to hold

and hug my own face

for the very first time:

a Black boy ruthlessly damaged

by abuse hate self-hate

mental illness racism

and that violence

we call poverty

I wailed as we had

wailed at those

bluer than blue

church revivals

as the preacher-man

like Malcolm’s daddy the preacher-man

made us believe

there was a heaven

for the holes of Black folks—

I went to school like Malcolm

was the Negro mascot like Malcolm

made un-safe love to the streets like Malcolm

was the prison waiting for myself

like Malcolm

I was there when he

was re-born, once more and once more—

I set that book

down and rolled and smoked

his speeches

the way I have been

smoking this joint called life

since my father told my mother

“he ain’t my son”

when I was eight years old

I puked fresh buckets

of Ivory soap and muddy waters

because in this dead

Black man

I had found

God-the holy ghost-and the father

I knew

would never forsake me

M-M-M-Malcolm

gave me what

I was missing

he instructed

me to posterize myself

to be nothing but a man

with a stainless-steel backbone

and legs locked into place

like Jesus’

on that march

to that cross

Monday, February 1, 2021

11:07AM

Kevin Powell is a poet, journalist, civil and human rights activist, and the author of 14 books, including When We Free the World, a new collection of essays plus one poem. His 15th book will be a biography of Tupac Shakur.

Oprah Winfrey

In a time when Black people and marginalized communities are disproportionately affected by COVID-19, it is even more critical to find ways to offer compassion and help one another rise above. In considering selfless Black icons, Oprah Winfrey, for me, is someone who has impacted innumerable Black lives—mine included.

Suppose you Google Winfrey; one of the words used to describe the multihyphenate is philanthropist. In 2004, nearly 300 cars were given to audience members during a taping of The Oprah Winfrey Show. Maintaining that charitable spirit, just last year, Winfrey announced she was donating $10 million to help Black communities ravaged by the coronavirus pandemic in Nashville, Chicago, and Milwaukee.

Her gifts, of course, are not limited to material possessions. Winfrey is an inspiration. Admittedly, the Mississippi-born talk show host influenced my career path in media and journalism. In the ’90s, there were few Black voices in the mainstream media. When I was a child, my mother habitually turned our television on to The Oprah Winfrey Show at dinner time. At the time, the show was one of a handful of nationally syndicated programs hosted by a Black person.

Winfrey’s talk show would become one of my favorites to watch. At 10 years old, I was intrigued by the conversations she’d have with guests. And while most TV programs opted to go the salacious route, Winfrey decided to emphasize a message of self-betterment.

The legend once said, “Doing the best, at this moment, puts you in the best place for the next moment.” To me, this means that everything we say and do should set us up for greatness. Not one minute should be taken for granted, as it could be instrumental in shaping our next big moment.

Thank you, Oprah Winfrey, for inspiring this Black kid from Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, to dream big and be kind. —Andrew White

Betty Chapman

Ever since I watched the classic movie A League of Their Own, I’ve wondered about the Black female baseball players who were left out of the film. That curiosity led me to one of the many disrespected women in sports history, Betty Chapman.

Chapman was a Black woman who played for the Music Maids softball team in the confusingly named National Girls Baseball League (NGBL). She integrated the Chicago-based league, which paid more, required fiercer athleticism, and focused less on feminine beauty, than others in 1951. Not only did she go where no other Black woman had gone, she debuted fabulously, hitting the softball each time it was her turn at bat.

The Betty Chapmans of the past paved the way for professional Black women like me, who work in white-male-dominated industries. I was certain Chapman’s experience was somewhere on the internet waiting for me to read, but, of course, sexism and racism ruin everything.

NGBL documentary filmmaker Adam Chu shared with me two pictures and a newspaper clipping that he uncovered. The 1951 headline read, “Minnie Minoso does OK with Music Maids.” The headline pegged Betty Chapman as the female version of Miñoso, the famous Black Cuban White Sox player, but failed to mention her actual name. Aside from this news clipping, I haven’t found any information on Chapman.

Miñoso died in 2015, which makes me wonder if Chapman could still be alive to tell her story. I can only imagine what she would share about her life and sports career during a time when white supremacists were violently rioting to keep Black families out of Chicago suburbs. Though I may never know her story, I’m thankful to know her name. Thank you, Betty Chapman, for showing up and shining in a space that didn’t always accept your greatness. —Manseen Logan

Elaine Welteroth

Elaine Welteroth, thank you for showing me that I can claim whatever space I want to occupy. Throughout your career, you’ve accomplished so much, including being named the youngest editor-in-chief in the history of Condé Nast.

After reading your book More Than Enough: Claiming Space for Who You Are (No Matter What They Say) in June 2019, I was positive that my goals were attainable. At the time, I dreamed of moving back to NYC and landing a full-time gig as a journalist. As fate would have it, I learned that you were having a meet-and-greet/book signing the night before I finished reading your book.

At the signing, you spoke about the challenges of being vulnerable, what it means to be a woman in the industry, standing for what you believe in, and so much more. I left that event feeling empowered and humbled, but, most importantly, grateful for the opportunity. In less than a year, I landed a job at Complex as an editor, doing what I love to do daily.

Thank you for showing women that it can be done. Thank you for not being afraid to walk away from certain situations that society tells women they are so lucky to have made it to. Thank you for living your life to the fullest, and with honesty. I aspire to achieve at least half of the things you’ve done throughout your career. One of my favorite quotes in your book reads, “When your dreams are bigger than the places you find yourself in, sometimes you need to seek out your own reminders that there is more. And there is always more waiting for you on the other side of fear.”

Continue shining always. —Dayna Haffenden

bell hooks

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.

These words, written by another legendary figure—Gwendolyn Brooks—lay the foundation for the book that introduced me to the woman I am jazzing about today, bell hooks. The title I’m speaking of is We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity, a self-described analysis. Its pages contain a critical dissection of the historical and cultural factors that have contributed to the development of the often toxic ideas we as Black men associate with masculinity. She speaks about the many ways in which traditional avenues of masculinity, such as fatherhood, protection, being a provider, etc. were systematically restricted from Black men through slavery, Jim Crow, and all forms of racist oppression, leading Black men to develop alternative forms of masculinity, i.e. “The Cool” (shoutout to Lupe Fiasco).

Through reading bell hooks, starting with We Real Cool and moving into The Will to Change, All About Love, and others, I learned about myself—why I have acted in the ways I have, how societal forces outside of myself have influenced my obsessions with violence and control, and how these false senses of manhood have developed over generations. It is a peculiar sensation to listen to a person explain your own behavior to you, analyze and contextualize your very values and fragile sense of self, and yet, this is how one can begin to grow—by being exposed to the light. bell hooks has taught me much about who I am, who I thought I was, feminism, freedom, and everything in between, and for that, I am forever grateful. —Vic Mensa

Rapper, songwriter, and activist Vic Mensa rose to prominence as a member of the eclectic hip-hop band Kids These Days and founder of the Chicago collective SAVEMONEY. His upcoming project drops next month.

Huey P. Newton

Like most Americans, I didn’t learn about you, the late Huey P. Newton, in grade school, but somehow I’ve always known about the organization that you co-founded, the Black Panther Party (BPP).

My early knowledge of the party was very superficial—like, Afros, black leather jackets, berets, and Black Power fists superficial. When I enrolled in college, I got the opportunity to meet the party’s living co-founder, who’s still alive today, Bobby Seale. A local Black Student Union hosted the event, and that date changed my life. That’s when I learned about who you were and the true meaning of power. For that, I am eternally grateful.

Up until that day, I had no clue that the Black Panther Party formed the free breakfast program, which many students across the US currently benefit from, or how the organization empowered Black people to know their rights and use the law as a leverage. Through further research, I even learned about how you evolved overtime and wrote an open-letter aligning yourself and the party with the gay rights and women’s liberation movements of the ‘70s. The more I learn about you and the party, the more I realize why you are omitted from US classrooms—because knowledge is power.

You, Bobby Seale, and other BPP members freely paraded around California with rifles and pistols—even through the California State Capitol building! You all showed Black people how to protect ourselves and learn about our rights. You were by no means a flawless man and you had your struggles, but your ability to empower Black people is praiseworthy.

I got the opportunity to shake Bobby Seale’s hand and thank him for his service to our people. Now I am honored to write this letter thanking you, Huey P. Newton, for giving “all power to the people.” —Manseen Logan

Norman Lewis

In November 2015, I was invited to see “Procession: The Art of Norman Lewis,” a retrospective at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Arts that included 90 works by the legendary Norman Lewis. Needless to say, I was amazed.

Seeing almost 40 years (1930-1970) of his paintings and drawings all in one room gave me the opportunity to observe his evolution from representation to abstraction all at once. It allowed me to experience firsthand his use of color and the ways he handled it on the canvas. Since I first started painting, I have been fascinated with color, especially bright and saturated colors.

Lewis began his painting career as a social realist in the 1930s and over time abandoned that style to pursue abstraction. I remember seeing his work made from this later period in his practice, including a deep blue canvas with a bright blue light that seemed to be emanating from the center, and another with a bright blue and orange existing together harmoniously. These canvases spoke to me, unraveling the ways in which color has the potential to emit depth and feeling. He arose from that era as the only African American among the first generation of Abstract Expressionist artists.

His paintings showed me that you can play around with bright colors, that they can work together, and the painting can be good. Thank you, Norman Lewis, for helping me open my eyes to the possibilities of what colors can be and do within a painting. —Arcmanoro Niles

Arcmanoro Niles is a Brooklyn-based artist best known for his vivid, brightly hued paintings. Niles will debut a new suite of paintings in an exhibition opening on June 3 at Lehmann Maupin New York.

James Hardaway

Thank you, James Hardaway, for defining what it means to lead with creativity, collaboration, and respect for product, for your guardianship of Reebok history, for your loyalty and friendship, and for paving a path for people of color and the next generation looking to find their way.

It takes great versatility to succeed in this industry as a product manager. Over his near-30-year career, James has become a spearhead at the confluence of designers, developers, and retailers from all over the globe. It’s a complex role that demands excellence in collaborative leadership and a commitment to career-long learning.

People have historically credited me a great deal with Reebok’s foray into hip-hop, but it was also James, starting in the late ’90s, who’d fly out to hand deliver sneakers to the likes of New Orleans’ Hot Boys and other rising hip-hop groups. As a young Black man getting his feet wet in the industry, he had a great eye and passion for that cultural intersection—we wouldn’t be here without people like James putting Reebok into those spaces.

We used to do these big global marketing presentations where I’d bring him up onstage to share his expertise and excitement for our new products. He just has this energy about him that helps people feel present. We’d then head to account meetings where he’d surprise us all by rap-style pitching those same product stories to potential buyers. It was so unconventional, but in those moments, you could feel the energy shift in the room.

Beyond that, what’s most inspiring about James is his desire to educate—to leave a legacy not for the next, but within them. He’s recognized as the company historian because very few people know the Classics business quite like he does, and even fewer share the same passion for paying it forward.

Thank you, James Hardaway, for setting the bar. —Todd Krinsky

Todd Krinsky is a 28-year Reebok executive. He is currently the brand’s senior vice president and general manager for product.

Allen Brown

That once young, fearless entrepreneur has become a seasoned sports marketer who can deal with agents, players, teams and lawyers all at once, operating with minimal resources, often in absolute autonomy. He’s become a symbol of humble self-confidence, commitment, and reverence.

Thank you, Allen Brown, for your loyalty, your 24/7 efforts to maintain Reebok’s relevance in basketball, your contagious positivity, and for exemplifying what it means to be a challenger in profession and in life—what it means to rise up and achieve, against all odds, as a Black man in America.

“AB” has rarely had enough money to negotiate compared to the other guys, but whether it was hustling to get a new PE to Allen Iverson in time for a game, signing a new athlete, or building an impactful partner-led campaign, he’s always had this innate ability to get things done with so much less. In fact, on countless occasions recently, we’ve been amazed to see many non-Reebok athletes wearing our sneakers, but then we remember that it’s AB, doing his work—he’s just optimistically realistic.

For so long, he’s shown young people and people of color at Reebok and across the industry that, if you’re solution-oriented and honest with yourself and with others, you don’t need a huge check book to make an impact.

I’ve worked with AB on basketball partnerships for a span of nearly 20 years, during which Reebok has represented the underdogs and visionaries, always punching above our weight and asking our employees to do the same. But, again, AB is fearless.

In his early days, he was a wide-eyed executer always on the go, running to photo shoots and bringing pairs to players. It’s because of him that Reebok has gained the trust of so many athletes over the years. Allen Iverson has reiterated to me numerous times how much he’s appreciated AB’s honesty and friendship.

We aren’t who we are without AB. Thank you, Allen, for everything. —Todd Krinsky

Todd Krinsky is a 28-year Reebok executive. He is currently the brand’s senior vice president and general manager for product.

Carter G. Woodson

Thank you, Dr. Carter G. Woodson, for championing the beauty of Black life.

In 1875, at the height of the first civil rights movement, when you were born, the soil was rich in trauma that could’ve killed your spirit to create change.

Yet you perservered.

Just after the abolition of slavery in the United States, there was an explosion of ingenuity, art, commerce, posterity, and fortuitous change that benefited the Black community. Places like Durham, North Carolina, with established avenues for commerce (M&F Bank), and Harlem, blessed with a literary and artistic movement, were tilled grounds ripe with tremendous power. You ensured that the artifacts created, the sounds expressed, the love experienced, the laughter shared, and the evidence left of Black people in American culture would be preserved.

The phrase “a luta continua,” a rallying cry of those warring for independence, still applies now, Dr. Woodson. We continue to march the streets and ride for each other through good and bad times. The multigenerational lineage and populace produced by Africa have improved life for all in this country. So much so that your creation, “Negro History Week,” which was first celebrated in 1926, is expressed by many as only to be celebrated “24/7 and 365.”

Because Black is forever beautiful.

Thank you for doing the work. You believed that there was just one history, not a separate history that omits our accomplishments and accolades. You went about the brass tacks of correcting the record. One that continues to be set right by folx like Paris McKenzie and Mikaila Ulmer, and by organizations like Cancer Who? and Transparent & Black.

No matter what February it is, the Black community continues to exemplify the tenets you established when you chose the second week of the month to mark the birthdays of Frederick Douglass and President Abraham Lincoln.

There are those in America who called us 3/5, but you knew that that other 2/5 were God-designed.

For that, I thank you for being a change agent that made history cooler than most. And on behalf of all those honoring this year’s Black History Month, I’d like to say—in the words of DeRay Mckesson—“I love my Blackness and yours.” —Kevin L. Clark