By Crystal M. Hayes
I must have re-read more than a dozen of my dad’s letters that night, but I eventually found just what I needed. As I poured over old letters, I was reminded of something. My father often signed his letters to me with the revolutionary rallying cry from Mozambique’s movement for independence: “A Luta Continua,” Portuguese for “The Struggle Continues.” I haven’t talked to my father in a long time, but his words and his message about freedom struggles mean everything to me after this verdict.
“A Luta Continua” – The struggle continues
My father, Robert ‘Seth’ Hayes, is a former Black Panther Party member, and a political prisoner. He’s been incarcerated for 40 years—nearly my entire life. I don’t think I ever really paid much attention to “A Luta Continua” before now, but there those words were reminding me once again that freedom is worth it. His words were like a wave of tough love and hugs that pushed me to think critically past my pain. My father was always good for helping me to find my own power. Like all the other “behind the wall” parental teachings I’ve learned about life from him, this lesson felt special and particularly powerful in a moment when I was feeling extremely demoralized and helpless. His letters reminded me that we all have a responsibility to “do something” productive and meaningful about the senseless killing of Trayvon, and the entire system that refuses to hold his killer accountable.
I know my father’s letters are the only reason I am even here today. Through my father’s example I grew up confident knowing that I am built to overcome struggle; and I have. I am so grateful that he drilled into my head that no matter the challenges headed my way—and there have been plenty—what really defines our lives and gives us meaning is our willingness to push hard past our fear, and fight for the projects of justice and freedom in this country. He’s done this better than anyone I know, and if I’ve learned nothing else by watching his tireless fight over the past 40 years, I’ve learned that fear is more dangerous than any prison, and some are living in their own self-constructed cages.
My dad’s life and example help me to cope with my sadness about a world that discards Black and Brown children so fast that there’s no time to even mourn or remember their names before it happens again. I keep reminding myself that no matter how painful it is right now, we’re “built and equipped” to struggle and make it through together. As the daughter of an incarcerated parent, I had to learn very early how to push past my rage, come face-to-face with evil, and do so with my humanity intact. Transforming ourselves and our communities into a place where our children are protected and not policed depends upon it. This is the real revolution that Black and Brown children fight everyday when they struggle to become more than the despised images that they see reflected at them in a world that denies all of their goodness and their complex humanity. This is not the world my father sacrificed 40 years in prison for without his family, and this is not the world we should settle for either.
The future of racial justice work
We need to begin the work ahead of us with a genuine willingness to talk honestly and openly about race, racial bias, and the systems that perpetuate and support it. We have a very long history of racial wounds and trauma in this country that keep scabbing over but never truly heal. How can we prevent another Trayvon Martin or Marissa Alexander when the first Black President can’t even say the word “Black”?
If we don’t start having substantive, courageous conversations about systemic racism and change our antiquated thinking that still buys into the idea of boogey men and monsters, nothing will ever change. The fight my father’s generation fought was a racial battle that looks a little different today. We have to stop trying to use those same tools and thinking to address 21st century racial issues. The conceptualization of new approaches to systemic problems is the work of my generation. Future racial justice workers will surely see the absurdity in a system that would hold someone more accountable for a racial slur than it would for killing another human being. It would also change our laws to reflect implicit racial bias not just conscious intent.
As a social justice activist and college educator, when I teach or run workshops on racial justice one of the first things that I do is talk about unconscious bias. In fact, in my social justice class, one of the first assignments I give my students is the Harvard Implicit Association Test or IAT, which measures our subconscious feelings and thoughts. The IAT data is pretty clear on racial bias. More than 70% of whites and 40% of Blacks hold anti-Black racial bias. I use this test to talk about that and what it means to live in a world saturated in stereotypes, prejudice, and biases outside of our control. It’s not easy, because we’re so conditioned to believe that someone or something can only be racist when an overt act is committed that most “good” people would condemn as wrong, like using the N-word. This is how our culture can blame Trayvon Martin’s death on a hoodie while defending George Zimmerman’s action as justifiable.
I don’t know Zimmerman, but my guess is that he’s not unlike most of the country. He’s probably a regular guy who loves his family and believes that everyone should be treated “equally.” Unfortunately, the night when Zimmerman saw a Black kid he didn’t know, none of this mattered. Zimmerman made a set of assumptions that led to the death of another unarmed Black man. In his own words, Trayvon was a “punk” and “up to no good.” Zimmerman, like all of us, lives in a culture that conditions us to devalue and dehumanize Black lives everyday. We’re all walking around with unconscious racial biases, that when allowed to go unchecked and unexamined in a country addicted to its guns, and dangerous policies, like “stand your ground” laws it can turn even the most law abiding citizen into the monsters we condemn. The only monster to fear today is the hidden one of racial bias and it’s hiding out in our interactions, policies, politics, and practices.
My father was right. We must use our collective pain and grief to transform our communities and our culture into a world that values the complex humanity of all children and people, no matter their race, ethnicity, faith traditions, who they choose to love, or the borders they crossed to get here. The one thing I know for sure is that, if my father can continue to fight for his freedom after 40 years of being behind bars, we can all fight for the freedom to live in a racist-free world. We just have to find the moral and political will to do it. We’ve buried and incarcerated enough Black men and women. For now, the first thing I plan to do is write my father a letter to thank him for teaching me how to fight and for staying strong for the both of us even when I wanted to give up.
“A Luta Continua”
Crystal is a Clinical Assistant Professor in North Carolina. Follow her on Twitter at @motherjustice.