From SBA to SIA: A Great And Mighty Walk

By John Henrik Clarke

On January 1, 1915 when I was born in Union Springs,
Alabama, little black Alabama boys were not fully
licensed to imagine themselves as conduits of social
and political change. I remember when I was about
three years old, I fell off something. I do not know
what it was but I remember Uncle Henry putting some
water on my head and I really do think that instead of
the "fall" knocking something out of me, it knocked
something into me. In fact, they called me "Bubba" and
because I had the mind to do so, I decided to add the
"e" to the family name "Clark" and changed the
spelling of "Henry" to "Henrik," after the
Scandinavian rebel playwright, Henrik Ibsen. I liked
his spunk and the social issues he addressed in "A
Doll's House." I understood that my family was rich in
love but would probably never own the land my father,
John, dreamed of owning. My mother, Willie Ella Mays
Clarke, was a washerwoman for poor white folks in the
area of Columbus, Georgia where the writer Carson
McCullers once lived. My mother would go to the houses
of these "folks" and pick up her laundry bundles and,
pull them back home in a little red wagon, with me
sitting on top. At the end of the week, she would
collect her pay of about $3.00. My siblings are based
in the varied ordering and descriptives that
characterize traditional African diasporic families.
They are Eddie Mary Clarke Hobbs, Walter Clarke, Hugo
Oscar Clarke, Earline Clarke, Flossie Clarke
(deceased), and Nathaniel Clarke (deceased). Together,
in varied times and forms, we have known love. My
loving sister Mary has always shared the pain and
pleasure of my heartbeat in a unique and special way.
We have sung our sad and warm songs together. But, we
have all felt the warm rains of Spring, and felt the
crispness of the fallen leaves in Fall together. As
the eldest son of an Alabama sharecropper family, I
was constantly troubled by a collage of North American
southern behaviors and notions in reference to the
inhumanity of my people. There were questions that I
did not know how to ask but could, in my young,
unsophisticated way, articulate a series of answers.
My daddy wanted me to be a farmer; feel the smoothness
of Alabama clay and become one of the first blacks in
my town to own land. But, I was worried about my
history being caked with that southern clay and I
subscribed to a different kind of teaching and
learning in my bones and in spirit.

I am a Nationalist, and a Pan-Africanist, first and
foremost. I was well grounded in history before ever
taking a history course. I did not spend much formal
time in school-I had to work. I caddied for Dwight
Eisenhower and Omar Bradley long before they became
Generals or President, for that matter. Just between
you and me, Bradley tipped better than Eisenhower did.
When I was able to go to school in my early years, my
third grade teacher, Ms Harris, convinced be that one
day I would be a writer. I heard her, but I knew that
I had to leave Georgia, and unlike my friend Ray
Charles, I did not go around with Georgia on My Mind.
Instead, my best friend, Roscoe Hester use to sit with
me spellbound, as I detailed the history of Timbuktu.
I soon took a slow moving train out of Georgia because
I did not want to end up like Richard (Dick) Wright's
Black Boy. I came to New York, via Chicago and then I
enlisted in the army and earned the rank of Master
Sergeant. Later, I selected Harlem as the laboratory
where I would search for the true history of my
people. I could not stomach the lies of world history,
so I took some strategic steps in order to build a
life of scholarship and activism in New York. I began
to pave strong roads toward what I envisioned as a
mighty walk where I would initiate, inspire and help
found organizations to elevate my people. I am
thinking specifically of The Harlem's Writers Guild,
Freedomways, Presence African, African Heritage
Studies Association, Association for the Study of
Negro Life and History, National Council of Black
Studies, Association for the Study of Classical
African Civilization. I became an energetic
participant in circles like Harlem Writer's Workshop,
studied history and world literature at New York and
Columbia Universities and at the League for
Professional Writers. And, much like the Egyptians
taught Plato and Socrates what they eventually knew, I
was privileged to sit at the feet of great warriors
like Arthur Schomberg, Willis Huggins, Charles
Seiffert, William Leo Hansberry, John G. Jackson and
Paul Robeson. Before I go any further, let me assure
you that I always made attempts at structuring a
holistic life. My three children are products of that
reality. My oldest daughter, who kind of grew up with
me, became a warm and wonderful young woman.
Unfortunately, she preceded me in her passage. Part of
my life's mission has been to deliver a message of
renewal, redemption and rededication for young people
all over the world and I hope the walk has afforded me
that claim. So, now and in my traditionally fatherly
way, I appeal to my two younger children, Sonni Kojo
and Nzingha Marie to appreciate my commitment to them
and the rest of the world. Sonni, in forming your
identity, I called upon the spirit of Sonni Ali, the
great Emperor of the Sudanic Empires to anoint you;
and Nzingha, my second daughter, I reached back for
the spirit of the warrior Queen Nzingha to lay her
hands upon you. I have always felt blessed by the many
nieces and nephews who have surrounded me: John H.
Clarke, Charlie Mae Rowell, Walter L. Hobbs, Lillie
Kate Hobbs, Wanda D. McCaulley, Angela M. Rowell,
Maurice Hobbs, Vanessa Rowell, Calvin T. Rowell,
Michael J. McCaulley, Madalynn McCaulley and a host of
other extended family and friends. Lillie, I have
always loved and needed the special touches of our
relationship; without you this walk would not have
been completed-I have not left you.

When the European emerged in the world in the 15th and
16th centuries, for the second time, they not only
colonized most of the world, they colonized
information about the world, and they also colonized
images, including the image of God, thereby putting us
into a trap, for we are the only people who worship a
God whose image we did not choose! I had to respond to
this behavior. I could not live with this nonsense and
contradiction and I challenged these insidious
concepts and theories. While I have not finished my
work and I remain worried about who will replace Dr.
Ben and me, I am not displeased of my progress of 83
years. As we all would agree, the struggle is
continuous. I have utilized several avenues: I wrote
songs and while most of you are familiar with the Boy
Who Painted Christ Black, I wrote some two hundred
short stories. I question the political judgement of
those who would have the nerve to paint Christ white
with his obvious African nose, lips and wooly hair. My
publications in the form of edited books, major
essays, and book introductions are indeed important
documents and number more than thirty, Africa, Lost
and Found with Richard More and Keith Baird, and
African People at the Crossroads are among the major
publication used in History and African American
Studies disciplines on college and university
campuses. I am also honored to have edited books on
Malcolm X and Marcus Garvey. Through the United
Nations, I published monographs on Paul Robeson and
W.E.B. DuBois; and, to clarify the historical record,
I was compelled to publish a monograph on Christopher
Columbus and the African Holocaust. One of my latest
works, Who Betrayed the African Revolution?, was a
very painful project, indeed. And, when I think of
William Styron's error with Nat Turner and our
response to it, I feel convinced that Nat was able to
return to his rest in peace. Among the paths of my
journey, I have had a chance to engage in dialogue at
the major centers of higher education throughout North
and South America, Africa and Europe. I am humbled by
these opportunities and, I have been blessed as the
recipient of a number of honorary degrees. My
professorships at the Africana Studies and Research
Center at Cornell University (where my portrait hangs
at the artistic genius of Don Miller) was very
important for the young men and women I taught there,
and the work that I did with African and Puerto Rican
Studies at Hunter College between 1965 and 1985 was
highly significant. I have walked majestically with
kings and queens and presidents and other heads of
states. My special destiny with Africa, early on in
this walk, afforded me the opportunity to mentor Kwame
Nkrumah when he arrived in the United States as a
student. The reciprocity of our relationship was
manifested in my sojourn to post independence Ghana as
a young journalist. Without question, my walk has been
sweeter because I have shared the path with Kwame
Nkrumah, Betty Shabazz and Malcolm C. Zora Neal
Hurston, Jimmy Baldwin, Martin Luther King Jr.,
Richard Wright, Julian Mayfield, John G. Jackson,
Cheikh Anta Diop, John O. Killens, Hoyt Fuller,
Chancellor Williams, Drucella Dundee Houston. Well,
what do you know, I am transitioning with all of these
giants now and the process is much easier because all
of you are here with me. This walk has been anointed
by God and the list of walkers is endless, and all of
you have touched me deeply. I humbly acknowledge
Dorothy Calder, Diane James, Doris Lee, Adalaide
Sanford, Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis, Barbara Adams, Judy
Miller, Gil Noble, James Turner, Howard Dodson, Mari
Evans, Haki Madhubuti, Selma White, William and
Camille Cosby, Irving Burgess, Pat Williams and others
too numerous to mention. As all of you must know, I
made an early commitment to transfer my library to
Black institutions in an effort to demonstrate my
unlimited trust and respect to the black community.
So, it is to the Atlanta University Center and to the
Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture where I
have donated the majority of my books and documents. I
entrusted this task to members of the Institute for
African Research, the Foundation which will perpetuate
those objectives for which I dedicated my life. This
has really been a long marathon and there have been
caregivers at my dehydration stations that kept vigil
and in the spirit of love and devotion, I thank you
for your deeds. Ann Swanson and Barbara True, your
work with me has been unconditional and I ask you now
to accept my gratitude and know that my spirit will
always be your protective shield. Chiri Fitzpatrick
and Derrick Grubb, you are very familiar with the
parameters of this run and with me; you are of
long-distance caliber. Jim Dyer, Andy Thompson, Les
Edmond, and Debbie Swire, I thank you for walking in
step with me and bracing me with your strength. In you
I observed the ingredients of African kings and
queens. Iva Elaine Carruthers and Bettye Parker Smith,
I know that I have raised you the right way and you
must now move with winds of my spirit wings. You know
my literary agenda and you are obligated to manage
that knowledge. The ancestors have stretched out their
arms and I see them beckoning now at a distance. And,
like Langston Hughes has known rivers, I have known
love and bliss. Sybil Williams Clarke, whom I have
known for over fifty years and now my wife of ten
months and my companion and friend eleven years, has
made this journey with me and made my life complete.
But, Sybil, your loving touch, notwithstanding, your
arms were not long enough to box with the eminent
moment. But, while I must make this physical
departure, spiritually, I will not leave you and God
will take care of you. When you feel a cool breeze
blow across you face every now and then, just know
that it comes from the deep reservoir of love that I
hold for you. Oh, by the way, Christ is Black; I see
him walking at distance with Nkrumah: I think they are
coming over to greet me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My feet have felt the sands
Of many nations,
I have drunk the water
Of many springs.
I am old.
Older than the pyramids,
I am older than the race
That oppresses me,
I will live on...
I will out-live oppression.
I will out-live oppressors.

"DETERMINATION"
July 16, 1998