Am I My Brothers' (And Sisters') Keeper?

The principle for the third day of Kwanzaa is Ujima, or "collective work and responsibility". 

The metaphorical jury in my head is still out on whether any random Black person has some larger responsibility to Black peoples everywhere, to "give back" to communities s/he may or may not have been raised by, to represent "the race" in a "positive" light, or (and I struggle with this last bit) even to associate with the larger "community". A year ago, I would have unequivocally said yes to all of those statements, but since then my understandings of personal freedom, choice, and statements about what anyone "should" or "should not" be/do have grown immensely, and I'm no longer comfortable putting restrictions or regulations on anyone's sense of self and personal responsibility. Who am I to say what anyone else should do or be? I claim no authority over others.

So how can I talk about doing things collectively as a principle? How does this principle even sit with me? Well, firstly, doing work for and of Black peoples is important to me. Though I don't know if I HAVE to, I do feel a responsibility for talking about Blackness as a personal and a collective experience, which broadens into a feeling of responsibility for tackling issues pertaining to experiences of Blackness, person-of-color-ness, womanness, non-dominant-sexual-orientation-ness, and other minority experiences in this country. It would make me happy if everyone felt this need to tell their own stories and the stories of those who are often left out. To me, it seems that would be our collective responsibility as human beings, that all our brethren and all their struggles might be recognized as legitimate and significant. I'm not demanding selflessness, and maybe this is just a product of having been raised in a Judeo-Christian society, but I just can't see excessive greed as a productive means of life in modern society. I can't say that people of any certain race have a responsibility to other members of that same race, but I think it's pretty obvious that we as humans are responsible to humanity. Let's work on that.

For a long time I've been wanting to write about music

and what one might call the spiritual connection we humans have to it: its ability to get deep down into your soul and compel you to act, whether that action be singing along at the top of your lungs, or dancing, or crying, or lipsyncing, or tapping your foot, or sighing. Music acts as this great equalizer, because even though people from certain backgrounds are more likely to enjoy certain kinds of music over others, a good love song, regardless of genre, can make anyone say "I want that" or "I remember that." A good song about pain can elicit from anyone this sense of "Yes, I hear you. I have been there too." In my humble opinion, you'd be hard pressed to find anything else so profoundly social, anything else that brings people together like that--concerts are one place where, even in 2011, you can find evidence of Emile Durkheim's concept of collective effervescence. Anyway, there are lots of things I want to say about music, but I found this via my friend N's tumblr last night, and I'm not sure I've ever read a blog post that has more truth in it than this:

" On Music And Melancholy

Aug. 1, 2011

By Tasha Frost Over at ThoughtCatalog

Music is a strange animal. There are the songs hit your spine like a lightning bolt, earthing themselves in your feet, forcing you to dance, laughing through the sweat at the simple joy of being moved by a beat until you collapse of exhaustion. Then there are the songs that can reach straight into you, grab that taut thread of emotion and go twang. Sometimes so hard that it snaps, softly, and suddenly you’re crying over something or someone that you had most certainly forgotten by now. The voice isn’t singing to you, but singing the words that you wish you had said. Not just the words, but the harmony and melody too. This is exactly

how you felt, feel, thought but never what you articulated. The chaotic buzz of emotion is given order, and thus made understandable.

These singers sound like they put a little piece of themselves into every note. The force of their personality powers the key changes that make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The harmonies are invested with an emotion so personal, it’s inevitable that the listener picks up the feeling as if it’s contagious, whether melancholy, regret or exhilaration. They really mean every word and trill.

And then you have to sing along. It’s primal, it’s beautiful. But you know you’ll never hit the notes and probably won’t be in time. You don’t care. There’s the urge to shout me too within the safe confines of the song. Not just “me too”, but “us together” and, most importantly, “I understand”. It’s so easy to feel close to singer/songwriters who seem to reach right into your head and project all of this onto a ten-foot tall billboard. Sing yourself hoarse.

This is the song that says it all – you need to strap that person down and say, “Sit still. Stop struggling, you won’t get free. Listen. This is what I need to say to you. But I’m not articulate enough, brilliant enough, or brave enough.” Bravery is what it comes down to. Songs that can touch raw emotion are also a remarkable display of vulnerability; the writer puts his or her innermost thoughts out for the world to listen to. It must be incredibly scary to commit your memories to the recording studio, but also freeing. And, if you do it well, satisfying.

More than writing, music is able to pull at the loose threads of the patchwork of memory and feeling; it can approach its audience with the eloquence of the written word and so much more. A beautiful harmony, the rise of a crescendo and the skilful use of an occasional silence that forces attention. Certain songs are able to hotwire your inner circuit board, take you for a spin and burn out the brakes. Music can hit you straight in the vulnerables when you least expect it.

I take refuge in ambiguity and vagary; it’s safer and easier. You can’t pin down fog, and fog has a great deal more consistency and substance than the nonsense I throw around on a daily basis. It’s easier to work with people you don’t like if you don’t express it explicitly. It’s easier to say, “I’m busy” than “I’m miserable, and I keep having dreams that I’ve forgotten how to breathe.” Much of the time, I’m not brave enough to say exactly what I’m thinking. It is a major downfall. I’ve known brave people, loved them, hated them, and been incredibly hurt by them occasionally. But at least they said what they thought. Of course, there are consequences to always speaking your mind, so perhaps a degree of self-censorship is a good thing.

But I wish that I could express myself with the fluency and efficiency of my favorite songs. It’d be so much simpler. Unfortunately, my vocal range is more suited to a rendition of ‘Smellycat.’ Maybe it’s time to give good old-fashioned talking a go."