What Is My Response To The World?

Raoul Peck had the privilege of organizing some of James Baldwin’s unpublished notes, essays, and writings. “I Am Not Your Negro” is what he entitled the compiled work, and it exists as both a book and documentary.

What an honor.
To hold the thoughts of a man whose words would change all who read them.

It brings me hope and sadness each time I dive in.

In this compilation, we get to witness this intimate dialogue Baldwin had with himself. If you’ve read any of his work, you probably know this feeling, but there is one section that stands out to me more than the others.

Baldwin is writing about the men he knew, admired, and even called friends: Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, and Medgar Evers.

Each masterfully fighting for the rights, freedoms, and dignity of Black people.
Each a husband and father.
Each uniquely equipped.
Each assassinated.

Baldwin writes:

“I was to discover that the line which separates a witness from an actor is a very thin line indeed; nevertheless, the line is real.

I was not, for example, Black Muslim, in the same way, though for different reasons, that I never became a Black Panther: because I did not believe that all white people were devils, and I did not want young black people to believe that.

I was not a member of any Christian congregation because I knew that they had not heard and did not live by the commandment ‘love one another as I love you,’ and I was not a member of the NAACP because, in the North where I grew up, the NAACP was fatally entangled with black class distinctions, or illusions of the same, which repelled a shoe-shine boy like me.

I did not have to deal with the criminal state of Mississippi, hour by hour and day by day, to say nothing of the night after night. I did not have to sweat cold sweat over decisions involving hundreds of thousands of lives.

I was not responsible for raising money, for deciding how to use it. I was not responsible for strategy, controlling prayer meetings, marches, petitions, or voting registration drives. I saw the sheriffs, the deputies, the storm troopers more or less in passing.

I was never in town to stay. This was sometimes hard on my morale, but I had to accept, as time wore on, that part of my responsibility — as a witness — was to move as largely and as freely as possible, to write the story, and to get it out.”

“Accepting my responsibility.”

That’s the part that got me.

These intimate thoughts helped me in my time of wandering.

I was able to move away from trying to do it like this person or that person and begin realizing that both my BEING and my DOING were not just good enough, but essential.

I had always asked myself, “How?”

How would I give to the cause that so many before me had given themselves to?
Those who tirelessly sacrificed for the sake of generations they would never know.
Those who understood that our freedom was tied to our ability to see ourselves clearly and recognize what we are capable of.

So how would I lean in?

I would do my own dreaming.

I would dream about what was possible for me.
A man with a very particular set of skills.
Whose greatest contributions are discernment and tenacity.
Who is a builder with a history of building meaningful things.
Who understands that I have a role to play in continuing the legacy of Black liberation and advancement.

I would create Thrive.

A place where what I cared about and what I was good at could make a difference.
A place where I was free to be a background singer for as many artists willing to create life by having the courage to not just dream, but to do.

An organization that envisions a world where Black visionaries are connected, resourced, and positioned to flourish.

Visionaries like Martin, Malcolm, Medgar, and Baldwin, who likewise would not have been possible without the support of strategists and builders aligned with their vision.

And that’s exactly what Thrive exists to help create.

Now, together, we have what it takes to carry their legacy while creating our own.

Like them, something greater than ourselves.
Something that connects us more than it separates us.
Something that reminds us that the future is ours if we would only grab hold of it.