[News] Did the Death of a Mississippi Mayor End a Great Experiment in African American Liberation?
Anti-Imperialist News
news at freedomarchives.org
Thu Apr 14 10:18:12 EDT 2016
*http://www.vice.com/read/free-the-land-v23n2*
Did the Death of a Mississippi Mayor End a Great Experiment in African
American Liberation? | VICE | United States
By Nathan Schneider <http://www.vice.com/author/nathan-schneider>
April 18, 2016
On February 21, 2014, 49 years to the day after Malcolm X's earthly form
fell to assassins' bullets in Harlem, Chokwe Lumumba, the mayor of
Jackson, Mississippi, came home to find the power out. The outage
affected only his house, not any others on the block. He phoned friends
for help, including an electrician, an electrical engineer, and his
longtime bodyguard—each in some way associated with his administration.
They couldn't figure out the problem at first. They called the power
company, and waited, and as they did, they talked about the strange
notions that had been circulating. At the grand opening of Jackson's
first Whole Foods Market a few weeks earlier, a white woman said she'd
been told at her neighborhood-association meeting that the mayor was
dead. He'd been coughing more than he should've maybe, and his blood
pressure was running high, but he was very much alive. He gave a speech
at the grocery store that day.
In a time of outcry for black lives across the United States, Lumumba
had come to office in a Southern capital on a platform of black power
and human rights. He built a nationwide network of supporters and a
local political base after decades as one of the most radical, outspoken
lawyers in the black nationalist movement.
Earlier that February, Lumumba had given an interview to the progressive
journalist Laura Flanders, host of GRITtv. Flanders pressed him on his
goals on camera, and the mayor was more forthcoming than he'd been since
taking office that previous July. He discussed the principle of
cooperative economics in Kwanzaa, Ujima, which guided his plans for
upending how the city awarded its lucrative infrastructure contracts; he
wanted to redirect that money from outside firms to local worker-owned
businesses. He also spoke of the idea of the Kush District, starting
with 18 contiguous counties with large black populations around Jackson,
which he and his closest allies wanted to establish as a safe homeland
for African American self-determination. Jackson was to be its capital.
Implied in this kind of talk was a very tangible transfer of power from
the white suburbs to the region's urban black majority.
At the time, Black Lives Matter was still nascent, more a hashtag than
an on-the-ground movement, and DeRay Mckesson
<http://www.vice.com/read/baltimore-son-v23n2>—the activist now running
for mayor of Baltimore—was still working for the Minneapolis Public
Schools between sending off tweets. But those paying attention were
coming to see Jackson as a model, the capital of a new African American
politics and economics, a form of resistance more durable than protest.
Four days after the outage at Lumumba's home, he phoned his 30-year-old
son, Chokwe Antar Lumumba. He felt tightness in his chest. Chokwe Antar,
an attorney like his father, was in court, but he rushed over to the
house, eased his father into the car, and drove him over Jackson's
cracked and cratered roads to St. Dominic Hospital. There were tests,
and there was waiting. Nurses brought Lumumba into a room for a
transfusion around 4 PM. They weighed him. After they finished, he
leaned back on the bed, cried out about his heart, shook, trembled, and
lost consciousness. Less than eight months after he had taken office,
Lumumba was dead.
As word of what had happened began to spread through city hall, Kali
Akuno made calls. Akuno had been one of the mayor's chief deputies. He
set in motion the local and national security protocol of the Malcolm X
Grassroots Movement, the organization to which he, Lumumba, and many of
the others in the administration belonged. He saw clerks rummaging
through the mayor's office, and downstairs the city council was already
jockeying to fill the power vacuum. The administration, together with
Akuno's job, was already all but over.
"I'm glad he's dead," Akuno remembers hearing someone say the day Mayor
Chokwe Lumumba died. "I don't know what the hell he thought he was
doing. He was trying to turn this place into Cuba."
That evening, Akuno himself started feeling something strange in his
chest. He'd been having heart problems of his own, a clotting issue. He
checked himself into St. Dominic near 10 PM and was taken not far from
where the mayor's body lay. As Akuno waited to be seen for whatever was
happening in him, he heard voices down the hall.
"I'm glad he's dead," Akuno remembers hearing. "I don't know what the
hell he thought he was doing. He was trying to turn this place into
Cuba." There is a way of doing things in Mississippi, and Lumumba wasn't
playing along. There are lines you don't cross, and he was crossing
them. One county supervisor wondered aloud on TV what a lot of black
people in Jackson were thinking: "Who killed the mayor?"
Louis Farrakhan helped pay for an autopsy by Michael Baden, who had also
performed autopsies on Michael Brown in Ferguson and the exhumed body of
Jackson's most famous martyr, Medgar Evers. Supporters had their
suspicions of foul play, but the cause of death was an aortic aneurysm,
likely enough a consequence of the mayor's tendencies for overwork and
undernourishment. He had been trying harder than was healthy to make the
most of the opportunity, to do as much as he could with the time he had
left.
As Akuno, off camera, watched Lumumba give his interview with Flanders
that February, he felt like his boss was ready to stop playing nice with
the Establishment, as he had been so far. The honeymoon was over; the
gloves were coming off.
"Mayors typically don't do the things we're trying to do," Lumumba said.
"On the other hand, revolutionaries don't typically find themselves as
mayor."
***
At the center of Jackson's civic district, Mississippi's former capitol
building looms over Capitol Street, which has been subject to a variably
successful renovation effort seeking to replicate the urban revival that
has lately been sweeping hollowed-out cities across the country.
Intersecting Capitol Street to the north, the segregation-era black
business district, Farish Street, now stands nearly empty. Historical
signs are more plentiful than pedestrians. The Old Capitol Museum
presents slavery and Indian removal—the city was named after Andrew
Jackson, in gratitude for his role in the latter—as quandaries to be
pondered rather than obvious moral disasters. After all, these were law;
there were treaties and contracts. The same could also be said of the
predatory mortgages that, in the Great Recession, wiped away what gains
civil rights had brought to African American wealth, especially in
places like Jackson.
Capitol Street changes abruptly after crossing the railroad tracks on
the west end of downtown as it heads toward the city zoo. Lots are empty
and overgrown, right in the shadow of the refurbished King Edward Hotel.
Poverty lurks; opportunity for renewal beckons. And right there, at the
gateway of this boarded-up frontier, is a one-story former day-care
building newly painted red, green, and black: the Chokwe Lumumba Center
for Economic Democracy and Development. Standing guard against the
gentrification sure to come, this has become the most visible remnant of
the mayor's four-decade legacy in the city.
Lumumba first arrived in Mississippi when he was 23 years old, in 1971.
He had been born Edwin Finley Taliaferro in Detroit, but like many who
discovered black nationalist movements in the 1960s, he relinquished his
European names and took African ones—each, in his case, with
connotations of anti-colonial resistance. While at Kalamazoo College, in
southwest Michigan, he joined an organization called the Republic of New
Afrika (RNA). Its purpose was not to achieve integration or voting
rights, but to establish a new nation in the heartland of US slavery,
one where black people could rule themselves, mounting their own
secession from both the Northern and Southern styles of racism alike.
This quest was, to its adherents, a natural extension of the
independence struggles then spreading across Africa.
Local authorities did not prove welcoming. That August, the RNA endured
a shootout at a house they were occupying in Jackson. Police officers
and FBI agents came armed with heavy weapons and a small tank; the
resulting confrontation left an officer dead. Lumumba himself wasn't
present that day, but supporting his comrades kept him in Jackson a few
years longer. A 1973 RNA document in the archives of the Mississippi
Sovereignty Commission—the state's segregationist Gestapo—records him as
the republic's minister of justice. The document calls for reparations,
in this form: "We are urging Congress to provide 200 million dollars to
blacks in Mississippi for a pilot co-op project to make New Communities,
jobs, training, fine free housing, and adequate food and health for
thousands."
Lumumba soon returned to Detroit, where he graduated from law school at
Wayne State University in 1975. Malcolm X wished he could become a
lawyer; Lumumba's aspiration, he'd later tell his son, was to be the
kind of lawyer Malcolm X would have been. He defended Black Panthers and
prison rioters. For Mutulu Shakur—who was facing charges of bank
robbery, murder, and aiding the jailbreak of Assata Shakur—Lumumba
unsuccessfully argued that Shakur was entitled to the protections of the
1949 Geneva Convention as a captured freedom fighter. (He would later
also defend Mutulu's stepson, the rapper Tupac Shakur.) He became
renowned to some, and notorious to others. A federal court in New York
held him in contempt for referring to the judge as "a racist dog." Then,
in 1988, he persuaded his wife, Nubia, a flight attendant, to move with
their two children back to Mississippi. He wanted to continue what he
and the RNA had started years before.
The change that came over Jackson after Lumumba's first sojourn in the
1970s was a cataclysmic but also entirely familiar story of American
urban life. ("As far as I am concerned, Mississippi is anywhere south of
the Canadian border," Malcolm X once said.) The advent of civil rights
inclined most of the city's white residents to flee for the suburbs,
while maintaining their hold on political power and the economic
benefits of city contracts. To many of them, the city's subsequent
decline was a case in point. To Hollis Watkins, a local civil rights
hero, the story of the city's transformation after white flight was
simple: "intentional sabotage."
Lumumba had helped found the New Afrikan People's Organization, in 1984,
and the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement grew out of that in 1990. MXGM,
whose first chapter was in Jackson, set out to bring black nationalism
to a new generation of activists; adults organized and strategized,
while kids joined the New Afrikan Scouts and attended their own summer
camp.
Safiya Omari, Lumumba's future chief of staff, came to Jackson in 1989.
At rallies, they chanted the old RNA secessionist slogan, "Free the
land!"—three times, in quick triplets with call-and-response—followed
by, in dead-serious unison, its Malcolmian addendum, "By any means
necessary." Their names and message were foreign to local black folks,
and scary to many whites, but as years passed, they became part of the
landscape.
***
Since Lumumba's passing, Kali Akuno has become the chief spokesman for
what remains of their movement. As I sat with Akuno at his makeshift
desk at the Lumumba Center's large multipurpose room last summer, he
described his world as a confluence of "forces." In a generation whose
radicals tend toward impossible demands and reactive rage, he is the
rare strategist. He thinks in bullet points, enumerating and analyzing
past mistakes as readily as future plans, stroking the goatee under his
chin as his wide and wandering eyes look out for forces swirling around
him.
Akuno came of age in California—Watts of the 1970s and 80s—immersed in
the culture of black pride and power, descended from Garveyites and New
Afrikans. "Akuno" came later in life, but his first name was Kali from
birth. People he grew up around talked about cooperative economics,
about businesses controlled democratically by the people they serve.
They talked about Mondragón, the worker-owned conglomerate co-op in the
Basque Country that arose under the thumb of the Franco dictatorship. In
college at UC Davis and after, Akuno drifted from one experiment in
cooperative living and organizing to another. After Lumumba and his
comrades founded MXGM, Akuno gravitated to its Oakland chapter. He would
become one of the organization's chief theorists.
Hurricane Katrina brought him down to the South. When it became evident
how the storm had devastated black neighborhoods of New Orleans, and the
government response only made matters worse, MXGM mobilized. Lumumba's
daughter Rukia, then in law school at Howard, began flying down every
chance she could to organize volunteers. Akuno moved from Oakland and
took a position with the People's Hurricane Relief Fund.
"We were trying to push a people's reconstruction platform," said Akuno,
"a Marshall Plan for the Gulf Coast, where the resources would be
democratically distributed." But mostly they had to watch as the
reconstruction become an excuse for tearing down public housing and
dismembering the public schools. It was not rebuilding; it seemed more
like expulsion.
"Katrina taught us a lot of lessons," Rukia Lumumba said. The group
started to think about the need to control the seats of government, and
to control land. "Without land, you really don't have freedom."
Lumumba proposed a "critical break with capitalism" through three
concurrent strategies: assemblies to elevate ordinary people's voices,
an independent political party accountable to the assemblies, and
publicly financed economic development through local cooperatives.
Akuno and MXGM's theorists around the country began working on a plan.
What they developed would become public in 2012 as The Jackson-Kush
Plan: The Struggle for Black Self-Determination and Economic Democracy,
a full-color, 24-page pamphlet Akuno authored, with maps, charts,
photographs, and extended quotations from black nationalist heroes. It
calls for "a critical break with capitalism and the dismantling of the
American settler colonial project," starting in Jackson and
Mississippi's Black Belt, by way of three concurrent strategies:
assemblies to elevate ordinary people's voices, an independent political
party accountable to the assemblies, and publicly financed economic
development through local cooperatives. Each would inform and reinforce
the others.
By 2008, the scheming led to talk of running a candidate. MXGM had been
organizing in Jackson for almost two decades, and it had a robust base
there. Akuno suggested that MXGM should run Lumumba and begin training
Chokwe Antar—who was then finishing law school in Texas—to run for
office in the future. Both father and son were reluctant, but Lumumba
came around.
In 2009, he ran for a city council seat in Jackson, and with the help of
MXGM's cadres and his name recognition as an attorney of the people, he
won. On the council, he cast votes to protect funding for public transit
and to expand police accountability. But it became clear that, in
Jackson, the real power—in particular, power over infrastructure
contracts—lay with the mayor's office. Those contracts were still going
largely to white-owned firms in the suburbs. Black people had long been
the majority of Jackson's population, but the MXGM felt its land wasn't
really free until it benefited financially, too.
Few among Jackson's small, collegial elite bothered to notice the
Jackson-Kush Plan when Lumumba ran for mayor in 2013. He was just one in
a crowded pool of candidates. And the plan was still little more than a
series of ambitions. The co-ops didn't exist; the assemblies, when they
actually happened, were small and populated mostly by true believers.
Yet Lumumba understood his role as an expression of the popular will,
which the co-ops and assemblies would someday represent. At important
junctures, he would often say, "The people must decide."
The mayoral race was a testament to what Lumumba had built in Jackson
and elsewhere. Rukia Lumumba gathered support from MXGM supporters
across the country. The $334,560 raised in 2013 by Jonathan Lee, the
young black businessman Lumumba faced in the runoff vote, was still much
more than the $68,753 Lumumba's campaign raised that same year. Lee,
however, was mostly unknown in town, except to his friends on the
state's chamber of commerce. MXGM's organizing efforts, combined with
Lumumba's long-standing reputation, resulted in a landslide. On May 21,
he won 86 percent of the Democratic primary vote, guaranteeing him the
mayoralty. The Lumumba campaign's slogan, "One city, one aim, one
destiny"—an homage to an old Garveyite saying—seemed to be coming true.
"The spirit behind Chokwe was high," said Walter Zinn, a local political
consultant. "It was probably the highest it had been in twenty years."
Not everyone was on board, however. "I remember getting all these calls
when he was elected mayor from white business owners—they were
terrified," City Councilman Melvin Priester Jr. told me. "They were
afraid that he was going to treat them like they had treated a lot of
black people, like a Rhodesia situation."
***
For Lumumba and his new administration—full of MXGM partisans—the first
order of business was damage control. The city's roads and pipes had
been allowed to deteriorate to the point of disfunction. An EPA consent
decree loomed over the crumbling wastewater system. Funds needed to be
raised for repairs; perhaps, afterward, the money could be used to seed
cooperative businesses for doing the necessary work. Lumumba used the
political capital he'd won in the election to pass, by referendum, a 1
percent sales tax increase. He raised water rates. Practical exigencies
won the day.
"We didn't win power in Jackson," Akuno said. "We won an election. It's
two different things."
To pass the 1 percent tax, Lumumba had to accept oversight for the funds
from a commission partly controlled by the State Legislature—a
concession that not even his more conservative predecessor would accept.
He hoped that, later on, he could mobilize people in Jackson to demand
full control over their own tax revenues, but the city was in an
emergency, so for the moment the commission would have to do.
From his new position, as director of special projects and external
funding, Akuno tried to keep the Jackson-Kush Plan on track. However
long the administration would last, he wanted to set up structures that
would outlive it. He drew up plans for a $15 million development fund
for cooperatives, using money from the city, credit unions, and outside
donors. He wanted to create worker-owned co-ops for all the city's
needs—for collecting garbage, for growing the food served at schools,
for taking on the plentiful engineering challenges. To help, Lumumba
called for rules to direct more contracts to local businesses. And there
were plans to roll out a participatory budgeting process, based on
experiments in Brazil and New York, through which Jacksonians could
decide how to allocate public funds directly.
Ben Allen, president of the city's development corporation, started
getting to know the new mayor, and he was pleasantly surprised. When he
invited Lumumba to a garden party at his country club, the mayor made an
appearance. "Our fears were gone," remembered Allen, who is white. "He
wanted to work with us."
Jackson's troubles, by 2013, were more than black and white. An
investment firm in Santa Monica had bought up more than half of the
private buildings downtown. Israelis and Chinese were getting in on the
action, too. Far from the RNA's old secessionist strategy of the 70s,
Lumumba was forming coalitions where he could, with whoever would work
with him. Co-ops and assemblies took a backseat to balancing the budget,
at least as far as official business went.
Two miles from downtown along Capitol Street, however, just blocks from
the entrance to the zoo, another germ of the Jackson-Kush vision was
beginning to sprout. In early 2013, MXGM members Nia and Takuma Umoja
moved with their children from Fort Worth, Texas, into a small wooden
house next to the local junkyard. Slowly befriending their new
neighbors, they started clearing the garbage away, replaced it with
raised soil beds, and declared an eight-block section of the
neighborhood the Cooperative Community of New West Jackson. They began
putting their neighbors, many of whom grew up as sharecroppers, to work
on a construction crew and growing food. Discreetly, they bought up more
and more property within the territory, intending to transfer it to a
community land trust. They renovated abandoned houses and painted them
with bright colors. It was all part of the plan—the same plan that put
their old friend Lumumba into office. And, like the mayor, the Umojas
were making new friends as well.
They started building relationships with power brokers in town,
including developers, pastors, and politicians—people who had their own
plans for sprucing up the area around the zoo. Back in Fort Worth, the
Umojas' community center fell victim to eminent domain, and they didn't
want to see anything like that happen again. As renewal progressed
around them, they would need powerful supporters. But where they saw
necessity, Akuno saw an effort to swallow up the movement.
"Our enemy saw an opportunity," he said. Both the mayor and MXGM's
flagship cooperative project were teaming up with the likes of Ben
Allen. If divide and conquer was the intent, it succeeded; a rift
between Akuno and the Umojas deepened until they were acting more like
competitors than comrades. According to Allen's email signature,
"Downtown redevelopment is like war." (Last month, Allen was indicted
for embezzlement of his organization's funds.)
"We knew, when we got here, what we'd have to do to make sure that we're
at the table when decisions about development are being made," Nia Umoja
told me. "Our folks are never at the table."
The forces that have kept #BlackLivesMatter trending are not exactly
what one might expect from the headlines of black men killed by police.
In reality, it's primarily a queer- and women-led movement. It is also
only marginally interested in whether cops wear body cameras. Its
leaders are not afraid to use the word "capitalism," and they do so
derisively. (That slogan, "Black Lives Matter," originated with Alicia
Garza, an organizer of domestic workers.) They feel that black lives
will not matter in this society until it adopts a different system for
determining what and who matters. In this movement, as in so many
movements before, only a tiny sliver of its variform lifeblood gets into
the news.
The civil rights struggle of the 1960s was no exception, for it was
never about civil rights alone. Malcolm X preferred to speak of "human
rights," and it was in those terms that he wanted to bring a case
against the US before the United Nations. Martin Luther King Jr. marched
for "justice and jobs"; he died supporting sanitation workers. "Black
power," "black liberation," "black lives"—these betray demands more
comprehensive than either headlines or mythic hindsight allow. And they
were never far from economics.
Cooperatives have a long history in black American life. There were
co-ops for sharecroppers seeking better markets for their produce,
co-ops for townspeople who wanted better prices for basic commodities,
and cooperative communes that tried to create a new world apart from
white supremacy.
Twenty years ago, Jessica Gordon Nembhard, a political economist at the
John Jay College of Criminal Justice, began to notice a hidden economy
at work in African American life. Again and again, people were
organizing themselves in creative forms of cooperative enterprise,
democratically owned and managed by those who took part. Starting with
the co-ops listed in W. E. B. Du Bois's 1907 book Economic Cooperation
Among Negro Americans, she began reconstructing a history, eventually
published in her 2014 book Collective Courage: A History of African
American Cooperative Economic Thought and Practice, that, before, had
only been told in bits and pieces, passed down through families but
rarely seen as significant. There were co-ops for sharecroppers seeking
better markets for their produce, co-ops for townspeople who wanted
better prices for basic commodities, and cooperative communes that tried
to create a new world apart from white supremacy. Where white banks
wouldn't lend money, credit unions arose. These efforts faced sabotage
and repression. But they were always around. "There's really no time in
US history when African Americans were not doing cooperative projects,"
Nembhard told me.
In the mid 1960s, Black Power first became a force among a group of
landowners and co-op members in Lowndes County, Alabama, before
expanding to the country's urban centers. "The Black Power concept came
into being because of those farmers who were independent in and of
themselves and understood the value of collective organizing and
collective ownership," Wendell Paris, a civil rights activist and
cooperative developer in Alabama and Mississippi at the time, told me.
In cities, the movement took the form of the Black Panthers'
rifle-toting demonstrations, along with their food, housing, and health
programs.
For years, Paris traveled around the South helping black farmers hold on
to their land and build wealth cooperatively. Black farmers in Louisiana
weren't getting paid fairly for their sweet potatoes, so they started a
sweet potato cooperative and found their own markets—in many cases up
north. In Alabama, farmers who were getting a raw deal on fertilizer
formed a co-op to buy it in bulk from elsewhere. Paris assisted in
forming the Federation of Southern Cooperatives in 1967. Black activists
during that period visited co-ops in Africa and Israel. After years of
agitating for voting rights, Fannie Lou Hamer organized the Freedom
Farm, a cooperative meant to secure the gains of civil rights with—to
use the now-fashionable term—food sovereignty. Today, this tradition is
in a period of renaissance.
"Since the Great Recession, there has been a huge amount of interest,"
Nembhard told me. "Everybody's figuring out that there's not a lot for
them in the main economy and that they need to find some viable
alternatives." Cooperatives, she has found, can thrive at the economy's
margins, at the sites of market failure and exclusion. Their
participant-ownership structure keeps wealth in local communities and
acts as a bulwark against financial crises. "Co-ops can address almost
every economic challenge we have," Nembhard said.
Elandria Williams is an organizer at the Highlander Center in Tennessee,
a historic base camp for agitators and activists. (A photo of King at
Highlander, with a caption describing it as a "Communist Training
School," became a notorious piece of anti-civil rights propaganda.)
Williams studies examples like the Emilia-Romagna region in Italy, where
co-ops enjoy tax benefits and have flourished in sectors from
agriculture and handicrafts to high-tech industry. Cooperatives don't
just happen one business at a time; they require an infrastructure to
thrive, an ecosystem. That's why she has been working to create the
Southern Reparations Loan Fund, an investment vehicle for the new
generation of co-ops.
"We're trying to figure out what an economy would look like, not just
what enterprises look like," Williams told me. That's part of why
Lumumba's election mattered so much.
"When we thought we had the mayor in Jackson, and that we were going to
have a real example of a black municipality that was embracing the
totality of a cooperative commonwealth, we were really excited,"
Nembhard told me. It encouraged black-led co-ops around the country.
For instance, followers of the late James and Grace Lee Boggs have been
planting a network of cooperative enterprises on the abandoned lots of
Detroit. In New York, the city government is investing $3.3 million in
creating new worker cooperatives alongside the existing ones in
industries like home care and catering. A cooperative security company
has started in a Queens housing project. Charles and Inez Barron,
longtime movement friends of Lumumba's, want to use their positions in
the state assembly and the city council in New York State to set up
co-ops in some of New York City's poorest neighborhoods.
Cooperatives take time, and this new economy is coming along too slowly
for those who need it most. The generation of farmers that organized
under the Federation of Southern Cooperatives in the 1960s and 70s is
aging out of existence, and the new generation of black co-ops is still
emerging. The story of black cooperatives, as much as it is one of
"collective courage," in Nembhard's words, is a story of loss. The loss
once came in the form of Governor George Wallace's Alabama state
troopers pulling over a truck full of cucumbers until they turned to
mush in the summer sun; then it was a police raid with a tank; then an
aortic aneurysm.
***
When Chokwe Antar first looked at his father's body in the hospital
room, he made the decision to finish what had been begun. He didn't say
anything; there still had to be discussions in MXGM about the next move.
His wife was pregnant. Some still felt he wasn't experienced enough, but
ultimately, the movement's decision echoed his own, and he ran on a
promise to continue what his father had started. Throughout the country,
MXGM members mobilized again. But by the time of Lumumba's death, the
Jackson-Kush Plan was secret no more, and the city's business class was
better prepared to oppose it.
Socrates Garrett is Jackson's most prominent black entrepreneur. He went
into business for himself in 1980, selling cleaning products to the
government; now, he and his nearly 100 employees specialize in
heavy-duty environmental services. The story of his success is one of
breaking through Mississippi's white old-boy network, and to do that his
politics have become mainly reducible to his business interests. He is a
former chairman of the chamber of commerce and serves on the boards of
charities. He's a self-described progressive who supported the last
Republican governor, Haley Barbour. He became a political force—by
necessity, and with less ideological freight than the partisans of MXGM.
"I had to have relationships with politicians," Garrett told me. "If
you're not doing business with the government, you're not in mainstream
America."
Garrett became a Lumumba supporter when it became clear who was going to
win the election, but he grew disillusioned quickly. The MXGM-led
administration didn't play his kind of politics. "They started putting
people in from different walks of life," he recalled. "They had a lot of
funny names, like Muslim names." He was informed that he should not
expect special treatment. Safiya Omari, Lumumba's chief of staff,
insisted that he was being treated like any other contractor, but
Garrett perceived it as a snub—right when the militant black mayor
seemed to be bending over backward to assuage the White Establishment.
"Here you are, a black man—you start from scratch and work your way up,
thirty years out here struggling—and there's something wrong with my
business model?" he said.
Garrett couldn't wrap his head around how cooperatives were going to
take on big city contracts, with all the bonding and hardware such work
requires. Mississippi law doesn't even have a provision for worker or
consumer cooperatives; those that do exist must incorporate out of
state. "In my opinion, it was going to produce chaos," he said. He set
about looking for a new mayor to raise up, and before long came upon
Tony Yarber, a young bow-tied black pastor and city council member from
a poor neighborhood. (Yarber's LinkedIn profile still lists his
profession as a motivational speaker.) What he lacked in age and
experience was more than made up for in his willingness to collaborate.
Garrett and Yarber quietly set out to organize a run against Lumumba in
2017, but when the mayor died, their chance came sooner than expected.
The white business class that had tolerated and even liked Mayor Lumumba
wasn't ready to risk his young and little-known son. Jackson Jambalaya,
a straight-talking conservative blog, ridiculed him as "Octavian."
Chokwe Antar's posters, between plentiful exclamation points, made
promises of "continuing the vision"; Yarber, for his part, told the
Jackson Free Press, "I don't make promises to people other than to
provide good government." Garrett was his top individual donor.
The result was a reversal from the election a year earlier. Jackson's
population is 80 percent black, and Chokwe Antar won a solid majority of
the vote in black neighborhoods. But the white minority turned out in
droves, urged by last-minute canvassing in more affluent areas, which
voted 90 percent for Yarber. Narrowly, on April 22, Yarber won.
Yarber removed almost all the members of the previous administration.
Even Wendell Paris, who'd been working part time to develop community
gardens on city land since before Lumumba's administration, was
dismissed. When I visited city hall a year later, Yarber's sister, a
police officer, was sitting by the metal detector at the entrance,
pecking on the same iPhone that was once issued to Lumumba.
"The whole sense that we're going to do something great has sort of
dissipated," Safiya Omari told me.
Sitting on his front porch, wearing a faded T-shirt from the first
mayoral campaign and a black cap with Che Guevara inside a small red
star, Akuno tried to explain to me the experience as he slathered his
two small children in natural bug repellent. With the 1 percent tax and
the water-rate hikes, they'd alienated part of their base. But
capitalism didn't leave them a choice. He was following the news of
Syriza, the leftist party in Greece, as it tangoed with the Troika. "I
feel like I know exactly the conversations they are having behind the
scenes," he said. "I've been there."
Across town, Garrett was feeling blessed. Mayor Yarber put things back
to what he was used to. "Every time, God sends an answer," he told me.
"But I can assure you that that movement is alive and well. And I can
assure you that unless Yarber is razor sharp, they'll be back."
In May 2014, just months after Lumumba's death, hundreds of people came
to the Jackson State University campus from around the country and the
world for a conference called Jackson Rising. They learned the history
of black-led cooperatives from Nembhard and took stock of what might
have been in Jackson—and what might be. Lumumba's image appeared on the
cover of the program, and on the first page, he spoke from the grave
with a signed-and-sealed resolution from the mayor's desk. "Our city is
enthused about the Jackson Rising Conference and the prospects of
cooperative development," it said, as if nothing had changed. In fact,
city hall's expected support for the event lasted no longer than
Lumumba's tenure.
MXGM was meanwhile hatching a new organization, Cooperation Jackson, to
carry on the work that had been started. Akuno enumerated a four-part
agenda: a co-op incubator, an education center, a financial institution,
and an association of cooperatives. Plans were soon underway to seed,
first, three interlocking co-ops: an urban farm, a catering company
named in honor of Lumumba's wife, Nubia, who died in 2003, and a
composting company to recycle the caterers' waste back into the farm.
Akuno raised money from foundations, entertainers, and small donors, and
the Southern Reparations Loan Fund would be pitching in as well.
Cooperation Jackson started buying up land for its own community land
trust. Its members restored and painted what would become the Lumumba
Center.
Jackson's hot summer seemed especially apocalyptic last year. In South
Carolina, Dylann Roof had murdered nine African American worshipers in a
Charleston church; day after day, there was news of black churches
across the South burning. Calls were mounting to take down the
Confederate battle flag flying over the South Carolina Capitol, but
comparatively few were talking about the stars and bars that still cover
a substantial portion of the Mississippi state flag everywhere it
appears. The Supreme Court declared same-sex marriage the law of the
land, overturning the Mississippi Constitution's marriage amendment, and
the preachers who heavily populate the radio spectrum in Jackson
declared the United States of America definitively captive in the talons
of the devil. In the Lumumba Center's backyard, Cooperation Jackson's
Freedom Farm consisted of a few rows of tilled earth, and in the
kitchen, Nubia's Cafe was having its first test run. Akuno and others
were planning a trip to Paris for the UN climate summit. Down the road
at the Cooperative Community of New West Jackson, Nia Umoja and her
neighbors had bought 56 properties for their land trust. "We've taken
almost all the abandoned property off the speculative market," Umoja said.
Socrates Garrett was Jackson's most successful black entrepreneur when
Lumumba became mayor. "Here you are, a black man—you start from scratch
and work your way up, thirty years out here struggling—and there's
something wrong with my business model?" he said.
In the wake of Roof's shooting spree, Chokwe Antar helped organize a
rally at the state capitol to demand changing Mississippi's flag,
alongside local politicians, activists, and hopefuls. The actress
Aunjaune Ellis, flanked on either side by guards in black MXGM T-shirts,
called for "rebranding our state" and "a different way of doing
business." Chokwe Antar led a chant: "Stand up, take it down!" "Free the
land!" followed. Then, of course, "By any means necessary."
Chokwe Antar's name was in the national news a week later. In Clarke
County, a police officer stopped Jonathan Sanders, a black man with a
horse-drawn buggy, and he wound up dead after the cop put him in a
chokehold. Chokwe Antar took the case. The incident became a possible
flash point for the Black Lives Matter movement's roving attention, but
the story soon faded, and in January, a grand jury declined to indict
the officer. The rebel flag still flies over Mississippi. The state,
also, has been vying to wrest control over Jackson's valuable
airport—another blow to self-rule for the black-majority city. And the
decision has been made: Antar will run for the mayor's office again in
2017.
The flag campaign was the subject of conversation over grilling
vegetables and chicken for dinner at the Lumumba Center in late June.
Akuno, pacing back and forth over the grill, led the discussion. "I
think with some of this Confederate stuff—that's a distraction," he
said. "Is that really our agenda? Did we define it, or did the media
define it, saying that this is within the limits?" He'd been saying as
much to Chokwe Antar. Akuno wanted to keep the focus on the co-ops and
the assemblies and elections—real counter power, backed by
self-sufficiency.
"Nothing don't change, whether the flag comes down or not," said New
Orleans housing activist Stephanie Mingo, from the other side of a
picnic table. "There's still going to be red, white, and blue."
"I'm not a fan of the Black Lives Matter thing—because, to be honest
with you, they don't," Akuno went on. "Your life did matter, when you
were valuable property. You were very valuable at one point in time.
We're not valuable property anymore." His pacing took him and his gaze
back to the grill, where he flipped over a hunk of chicken.
"My argument is to tell other black folk, let's start with the reality."
/This article appeared in the April issue of VICE magazine
<http://www.vice.com/magazine/23/2>. Click HERE
<https://checkout.subscriptiongenius.com/vice.com/> to subscribe./
--
Freedom Archives 522 Valencia Street San Francisco, CA 94110 415
863.9977 www.freedomarchives.org
-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://freedomarchives.org/pipermail/news_freedomarchives.org/attachments/20160414/884f352e/attachment.htm>
More information about the News
mailing list