Why Black America Is Resisting the Resistance

The Black Freedom Struggle has been a powerful force throughout American history from the anti-slavery movement of the mid-19th century to Reconstruction to the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s that helped ignite the Chicano, Native American, womens’ and gay rights movements. In Donald Trump’s first term, Black Lives Matter protests brought more than 20 million people into the streets following the May 2020 police murder of George Floyd.

In his latest essay, Nicholas Powers explores the tension in Black history between whether to fight an oppressive state or to escape from it. He also looks at why many Black Americans are “quiet quitting” on politics and protest after Kamala Harris’ defeat and whether they can afford to do so given what’s at stake as Trump and MAGA try to consolidate an authoritarian white nationalist state.

“The dream of escape is part of us; it’s part of our history and imagination,” Powers writes. “The where and how changes. During slavery, it was the Underground Railroad. After slavery, it was the Back to Africa Movement led by Marcus Garvey. Later, Rastafari called for a return to Zion. The Nation of Islam told us to return to our “true” religion. The Black Panther movies dazzled us with a beautiful two-hour dream of Wakanda, an escape into fantasy to feel, briefly, free.”

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Under Trump 2.0, Most Black Americans Have Nowhere to Run
By Nicholas Powers

To listen to our Indypendent News Hour interview with Nicholas Powers about his article, click here.

The police watched us. The march leaders chanted, “Tell me what democracy looks like!” We answered, “This is what democracy looks like!”

Ducking under signs and umbrellas, I saw us, the left, grim-faced and determined. The gray sky and rain added a heaviness. I pivoted and noted the absence of Black New Yorkers. Where were we?

I left the march, carried my sign on the A-train, then Brooklyn. A neighbor saw me. He is a tall brotha, rocks a fluorescent work jacket. “Mr. Activist! I saw the protest.” We stood on the corner, and I asked why he didn’t go. “White people made this problem.” He theatrically wiped his hands. “They can fix it.”

It’s the unofficial-official position of Black America. They can fix it. I hear it online. I hear on phone calls. I read it on group chats. I hear it on the stoop and on the corner. They can fix it. Right after comes “and I’m getting the fuck out. Why stay? We did what we could. Amerikkka is a dead-end. Let’s leave while we can.”

Brothers. Sisters. Elders. Artists. Churchgoers. Hustlers. Homeowners. The just-getting-by. Everyone pulled back from politics. Sure, a fraction will move overseas. The risk is that by abandoning political struggle, we let American fascism build momentum. If it does, the vast majority of us, who can’t leave, will be attacked by a white-supremacist federal government. Even more than before. When the Trump administration implodes, it will take years to repair the damage.

We know this, but we are trapped in dreams of escape. Whether it’s going full expat or retreating into personal life. Wherever we go, there is no real escape. First, we look in the mirror and ask a hard question: Did we cause this? Did our support for neoliberal Black Democrats lead us here? Second, our backs are against the wall. Millions of us can’t just up and leave. We have to fight.

All God’s Children Had Wings

We dream of escape. We always have. At home, I stand at the bookcase. I can hear voices seeping from the pages. Slaves and freed echo across time. I take the Norton Anthology of African American Literature off the shelf and flip to the folklore “All God’s Children Had Wings.” It tells of slaves brutally beaten until an African elder tells them in the past they could fly but lost the gift when they forgot their true language. When a pregnant woman is whipped, he tells her the lost words; she awakens and flies away. Eyes wide, her family repeats the words and flies, too. The Africans soared upward as the slave owner cursed and yelled.

Closing the book, I imagine this being told centuries ago, around a fire as a griot holds enslaved friends spellbound. The reflection of the flames dances in their eyes. When he’s done, they go to sleep except a young woman who stares at her hands. The next day, she stops picking cotton and looks up, closes her eyes and recites new sounds. Wind rustles. An overseer shouts. A horse whinnies. She can’t hear them as she stands on her tip-toes in the middle of the field, reaching for sky.

The dream of escape is part of us; it’s part of our history and imagination. The where and how changes. During slavery, it was the Underground Railroad. After slavery, it was the Back to Africa Movement led by Marcus Garvey. Later, Rastafari called for a return to Zion. The Nation of Islam told us to return to our “true” religion. The Black Panther movies dazzled us with a beautiful two-hour dream of Wakanda, an escape into fantasy to feel, briefly, free.

And there was Obama. The brother’s election as president was a seismic shift in our imagination. For a few years, some, not all but a lot of us shed the dream of escape for the American Dream. It is as if we no longer listened to the old griot saying remember your true selves. We painted the stars-n-stripes on our souls. We wore the mask as if it was our real face. We became as respectable as possible. We let go of revolutionary politics to be good Democrats.

Our folktale was replaced by the ancient Greek myth of Icarus. Daedalus and his son Icarus escaped from the king’s prison. The father made them wings but warned his son not to fly near the sun, which of course he did. The wax holding his feathers melted. He plummeted into the sea. We, like Icarus, flew to the American Dream, bright and beautiful in the sky. We got closer and closer, then Trump got elected, twice, and we saw the truth. America is a big lie. We flapped our disintegrating wings. We fell. We are still falling.

Quiet Quitting

“The street is not hot,” I said to my friend. “Yep”, she said, “We’re done. We’re doing mutual aid now, preparing for the recession. I mean this…” she waved at America. “Were’ done. We. Are. Fucking. Done.”

She is Black, an activist and healer. She says what’s been said online, on the radio, on TV, on the stoop, on street corners, at barber shops and on the phone. Black America is quietly quitting politics. We haven’t shown up at protests. We haven’t been filling Black Twitter with our creative call-outs. We haven’t really given a shit.

When the United States shifted rightward, we took a step back. Those who mused about life overseas are filing for visas to Canada, Mexico and West Africa. Those who can’t leave are Netflix-vanishing into the strobe light of the screen. Those who love God are churching hard, shutting the doors to the outside world. A lot, just a lot, never cared to begin with unless someone they knew cared.

My friend and I say goodbye. Walking through the park, I see neighbors and, knowing Trump is coming for them, worry for their safety. Will my tatted Mexican homie at the bodega be deported without due process? Will the sick single mom whose son plays with my son lose her Medicaid? Will free food for the Section 8 families and schools be cut? Will kids go hungry? What about young activists handing out pamphlets about Israel’s genocide of Gaza — will they be arrested?

Wherever I turn, everyone I know is going to be hurt by the new authoritarian regime. When I tell people about it, I get the we-survived-slavery-we’ll-survive-this lecture. It drives me fucking mad.

Back home, I stop at the bookcase. I add what we say now to what the ancestors said. We want to escape America. They did too. Outside, children play in the yard. The contrast is that our ancestors made clear the freedom we demand is never meant for us. It is meant for those who are not born. The beautiful ones, the ones who will know how to fly.

Take These Broken Wings

“No, I don’t want no scrub,” TLC sings from a passing car. “A scrub is a guy that can’t get no love from me.” The song echoed down the street.

My bestie and I watched the car turn as she pulled on a cigarette. We sat on the stoop. Her cinnamon tone, arrow-shaped face cracked an evil smile. “America can’t get no love from me.” She sang her version of TLC’s hit. “Poor ass whites on the passenger side of a rich man’s ride, waving the flag at me.”

“Wow,” I say. “Tell me how you really feel.”

She held out her hands like double-pan scales. “You had Trump, an oafish buffoon,” she said. “And a smart sistah — whatever her limits, she was up to the job. We’re just a hundred days in, and this piece of shit president nearly destroys the world economy.” She jabs her cigarette like a torch at a wild animal. “Racism. Sexism.”

I’ve known her for years, and I see in her eyes the pieces of broken hope. She can’t look at Trump and not feel pain. At times, it turns inward. She asks, “What else could we do? Don’t we prop up the Democrats? Don’t we do the work?” Other times, she lashes out. “So white people would rather destroy America than share it!” she will yell. “Fine, let it crash. When America is gone, then they’ll know how it feels to be vulnerable.”

I look at her in silence, weighing words. Vice President Kamala Harris’ loss is an open wound. Some words are salt rubbed in.

“Yes, racism. Yes, sexism.” I nodded. “I wanted to vote for Kamala Harris, but she was not on the ballot.” She turned and stared a hole through me. “The real Kamala was replaced by a poll-tested, Republican-lite Kamala.” I turned to her. “She chose to be a puppet. Why? Our political imagination is limited by what we think white people will accept. It’s why we didn’t fuck with Obama until he drew large white crowds. It’s why our elders in South Carolina chose Biden over Bernie. And it’s why Harris ran as a Republican-lite.”

“That’s not fair,” she stubbed out the cigarette and pulled back her braids. She shook her head, no no no.

“The core the Black Freedom Struggle is democratic and communitarian,” I lowered my voice. “We want freedom from fear and poverty, We want freedom from bigotry. We want the freedom to choose how to define freedom. And we want that for everyone else.” I opened up my hands like flowers. “Maybe we need to support leaders who share our values.”

“America isn’t ready for that,” she slapped her hands, ready to leave. “This country hates us. Always has. Always will.”

I tried to say something, but she stepped down and walked away. The sun was setting, and long shadows filled the street. The slave folktale flashed in my head. Can we fly again? I watched her, and for a moment, I swear, her silhouette looked like bird with folded wings.

Nicholas Powers is the author of five books including Black Psychedelic Revolution: From Trauma to Liberation (North Atlantic Press, 2025).