On June, Dylan Ruth walked into a Charleston, South Carolina church and shot and killed nine black churchgoers. This racist terror attack was meant to spark fear in the hearts of black folks, to say you weren't safe even in your houses of worship. Ten days later, Bree Knewsom scaled the thirty foot flagpole at the South Carolina Statehouse and unhooked the Confederate flag in that moment, high above the police presence growing below her. Bree says she wasn't even afraid if she was about to be arrested. She didn't care. It was just like, yes, taking me to jail. But what people didn't see is the planning behind that act. How many people were on the scene during the I was not nine of us. Okay, so there's a whole group of you that did this together. Oh yeah, it was coordinated. Brees says the act was actually the result of the coordinated efforts of a team of organizers. A team on the ground in South Carolina laid the groundwork in the week's brier. They knew whoever was chosen to climb the flagpole and whoever was chosen to stand guard were risking arrest. That iconic viral image of Brion Latin. The flag only tells a snippet of a story and the spark that led us to that moment. I'm brigittad. You're listening to Afropunk Solution Sessions. Afropunk is a safe place, a blank space to freak out in, to construct a new reality, to live our lives as we see fit while making sense of the world around us. Here at afro Punk, we have the conversations that matter to us, conversations that lead to solutions. In this episode, we're exploring the spark that drives activism and social movements. Activism is like an iceberg. Sometimes the end result, that galvanizing moment that makes headlines is only the tip you can see peeking out of the ocean. It's the result of a churning as sum play line of strategists, organizers and volunteers, all ignited by our respective spark from within, coming together to do the organizing work towards a shared goal good. Our co host Eves and I went to the Civil Rights Center in Atlanta, a living archive of global human and civil rights, where that reality of activism is on full display. We often think of activists as these larger than live figures who put their lives on the line for huge causes, and they do, but we have to remember that even the smallest contributions help in sight change well, not only that they're necessary. There was a room full of doctor King memorabilia, his hamwritten speeches, letters to him, the briefcase he carried the day he was assassinated, and there was this letter of supplies. This list is so powerful because you sort of realize the logistics and the real that he have this kind of work that you know, it seems very mythical and mystical sometimes, but then you know, people need baby food, people need vinegar, people need you know, salt and baking ZDA. And this list of the things people need it is compelling, a good reminder that these are real human people doing actual work and yeah, you know fairy tales, Yeah I think so too, And just seeing it in a hard copy like this, it's just it's so powerful. It makes it that much more tangible to see how much specificity and care was put into it too, taking it in you know, all at once, I guess, just knowing that he was holding up in and running on this paper. To see it right in front of me, um just makes it that much more real. And I really this isn't that like profound or anything, but I'm really really into how intense these scratch marks are. Like that wasn't the right word, and it wasn't the right word at all. It's not it's not just one line through it. It's like he's really deliberate with what he's saying. You know, I'm all about reminders that our civil rights leaders were human and that they dance and playpool and drink and partied and wrote and all the things that we do they do and they were complex people. I think reminders that remind us of King's humanity are visit important. Afro Punk is a hub of expressions of black activism and culture. People come to see bands, but it's not just about the performances. It's about every aspect of our identities, our clothes, our hair, our art to express the spirit of resistance and the ways that black joy can be radical. Our correspondent Corey Oliver asked attendees about how activism shows up in their lives at afro Punk Atlanta. Do you consider yourself an activists? Uh? Do you how how important do you think activism is to like young black people? All, Well, I feel there's a lot of different levels of activism, and so I'm happy for the people who are political. I'm happy for the people are like, you know, into the legislative process. I'm happy for the marchers. I'm more aggressive. It's so like I always say, just call me when we started shooting, I'll be there. I'll show up for that. Let's take a quick break. So there's this concept called the story of self, and it was one of the first things I ever learned when I was just sort of getting started as an activist and an organizer. And basically this concept is all about getting really really clear about why it is that you're interested in social change. So maybe it's something that happened to you. Maybe it's something that you know it was part of your upbringing, or something that you witness as a child, or that felt really unfair, it made you feel really angry. So what was that thing that spark that really made you want to act? I'm wondering, bridget Um, what was that moment for you? Do you have a story of self? Uh, you're giving me flashbacks. It was one set of training a story of self training, and I had thought about what my story of self was going to be, and when it came time to share, I was like, I guess I don't have one, and my trainer was very disappointed. I've had a couple over the years. The one that I come back to again is tough because I've heard so many good stories of self over the years doing social change work, and oftentimes they are stories that make the person telling them sound very valiant or very you know, empathetic, or it presents a very good version of who they are. And my story of self it's a time or I did not feel like I lived my values. So I went to college in the South. I went to East Carolina University, and it's a college that is if you know North Carolina, it's kind of exactly what you're thinking, you know, lots of guys and cargo shorts and pastel colored you. So I'm like you, you're thinking that fondly right now. It was a tough four years. I was I had to be I had to be drunk the entire time, clearly, UM to deal with it. And I'll never forget um. You know how when you go to college You're sitting in the common room of the dorms watching TV. And this is when her Kane Katrina just happened. We were all sitting in the common room of the dorm watching this unfold on TV. And it was families, it was women, it was kids, was people losing everything, it was people dying. It was this the kind of thing that I probably never thought I would see happening in this country. I mean, I was very young. It was like I was watching a horror movie, you know, That's how I felt. I felt like I was watching something fictional. I thought, this, this can't be happening. This can't be happening. And there was this one image of a of a mother clinging to her baby, and the look on her face is just pure agony. You can feel it in that image. And I was thinking, you know, fun, like, this is our country, this is a situation. And I was so horrified. And I was listening to these guys talk in the common room and one of them said to the other, they're just niggers. And he said it like it was the most casual thing in the world, as if, of course, this has to be exactly exactly and you know, it was just a comment that he made, But in that moment, it was clear to me that he was sort of pathologizing these people in a kind of way, that of course this is happening to them, like it was no big deal, and that they kind of way brought it on themselves. And you know, adult me looks back on that moment and thinks, I wish I would have done this. I wish I would have stormed over there, slapped that fucking baseball hat off of his head and said something. But I didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. I just sort of gasped and I said nothing. And it was a moment where I was presented with a choice and I chose wrong. And I think about that moment quite a bit. I think about why I didn't say anything, why I didn't do anything, why I chose not to live my values, And I think it was a lot of things. I think it's being young. I think it's being you know, in a new place and sort of wanting to fit in and not wanting to be the person who you know is always calling out racism um. And I sort of made a silent pack with myself that I would never not live my values again, and that even if it meant I was going to always be that weird black girl who had something to say, and I was never popular and no one ever want to go out with me, and all of those things, I didn't care that I was never going to feel like I felt in college, frozen, feeling guilt and shame and fear and all of these horrible, horrible, horrible feelings all linked up inside of me in the pit of my stomach. I was never going to feel that way again. And when I'm doing social change work, that's what I think. I think, if I get that feeling like I have to say something, I say it, and I think back to the version of me who couldn't say it, and I say it for her. You know, listening to a lot of stories of self, something that comes out is so many of us have dealt with really, really big, intense stuff in our lives. I've heard people share their story of self and it's about being undocumented and what that's like. I've heard people tell their story of self and it's about being abused and all of this really really traumatic, heavy stuff, and that's very real. But I also think that it's important to remember that the thing that drives you to be interested in social change can be something commonplace and every day. It can be something very big and very real and very scary and very traumatic, but it can also be that small thing too. It's good to know that you didn't blame yourself afterwards, and you use that kernel, and you use that moment and turnedness is something that was really inspiring and encouraging and positive, and you used it to go in a good direction. And I think it's great to hear you say that's because a lot of people may look back and say, like, Ship, I funked up, like I wasn't good enough, I didn't do the right thing. But it's like we've been dealing with this for centuries. We have centuries of this this burden laying on our backs of having to be the person with more integrity, the person who always does the right thing, the person who always called somebody out. But it's not our fucking job, you know, it's not our job. So I'm really glad to hear that's what your story of self was, because it's a good reminder that that you don't necessarily have to be this superhero. You don't have to wear a cape, when you find your voice when you're marginalized. Sometimes the thing that draws you to activism is as simple as just trying to exist. I never would have thought that, you know, I'd be on the front lines of the new flax deborations, that you might know Patrice Kan Colors from her work with Black Lives Matter. My name is the Truth, can Colors. I am one of the co founders a Black Lives Matter and founder of a local organization of upsends with called Dignity and Felling Out. I grew up in a small suburb, working class suburb outside of the inner city Van I, California. And unless you grew up the month Denders, you probably don't know where that place is. But it was um in the eighties and nineties and early two thousands, a neighborhood that was mostly people of color, mostly working class um UH, mostly Mexican and Mexican immigrants, and we were one of two black families on the block, and the neighborhood super over police. Lots of helicopter policing for this small town, this small submers lots of security just policing UM and also a lot of folks being arrested and and homes being raided, and so this was very my early childhood memories of my neighborhood. It was against that backdrop of surveillance and over policing that young Patrise experienced the moment that made her perfect down. I was eighteen years old, I think that's just graduated from high school. I was in the park with my girlfriend at the time. We were totally kissing and making out, and then this guy ran upon us, is over gentlemen and curse about you know, pulls. We were freaks and and it was totally humiliating, and I just remember feeling terrible, but really quickly I was like, we have to protest it, and I called on my friends. You know, was pre social media, so so I made phone calls and I think there was six people showed up to the house on a Sudday and we um they signed and they signs, and we walked down to that park at that same part and totally like held a little protest, and it was well small, and I didn't necesarily have a target. There was something about showing up for myself and I'm not allowing that demand to have the last word about what I do with my body. And my girlfriends. What was that moment about for you? It definitely was about reclaiming of a public space, but it was also reclaiming of my dignity. I was humiliated by him. I was already young and really battling my own internalized homophobia, and I needed to kind of feel like I wasn't doing something bad or wrong. And part of that was showing up again and being like, this is my I deserve to be here too, I matter too. And I think that's where the courage, you know, my courage came from. It's like, no, I did nothing wrong. I'm in love with this person. I get to show the world and if I want to, and I get to be in this part that I've been going to since I was a child. Following in the tradition of famed civil rights activist Ella Baker, who championed a decentralized leadership style, Patrice's work is very much rooted in her intersecting identities and building movements that don't need to rely on one leader to be powerful, but rather they reflect the power of the collective coming together to push for a shared vision. How do you feel like your identity as a black queer woman has gone on to impact the work that you do. Obviously it was very central. How does it show up now? I think my queerness, my blackness, my woman miss, the fact that I was raised for all of that contribute to how I build this movement. Um, I think there's this movement wouldn't be the way it is right now that wasn't for this sort of leadership and vision of black queer women many of us raised for. I think it's our labor and work that has created a movement that is the centralized as economents. That is, you know, doing the everyday work of building, um what el Baker was building group centers, you know, readership, building a movement that didn't need a charismatic into the jeweling there. Like a lot of people who do movement work, Patrice doesn't even necessarily see yourself as an activist. If an activist is the face of a campaign or movement, an organizer is the one doing the work behind the scenes. They're making sure folks are trained, They're bringing others into the movement, and while it can be a lot less exciting, it's the lifeblood of social shape. That was definitely an activist, but very quickly I turned into an organizer. And this actually comes from one of my mentors, Eric Man, who I joined this organization when I was sevyteen years old, and the first thing he said is you're an organizer and your job is to bring more people into the movement. An activist signs the petition, they show up to the march, but an organizer is organizing that march. The organizers the one who figured out the petition and why we do the position, and an organizer is building the power of those most directly impacted, most marginalized by this system. Social change is key to who Patrice is, but she also sees the ways that black women are burdened by being the ones that have to do the work of teaching others while not getting a lot of support in return. It's a role that can sometimes be a bit thankless. I think what this challenges to people is to actually not forced black women to have to carry everything the emotional labor. Be the ones who are the campaign strategists, Be the ones who are raising the children, Be the ones who are fighting for their children after they've been killed or murdered or incorporated. Right, what end up happening is black women end up bearing the burden of the world. And so that's the challenge for us. I don't think black woman should stop teaching people. We just shouldn't have to be the one holding everything, and folks should show up and be present. And part of that showing up and being present is needing a culture shift. We did change the culture in which black women become the end all, be all for everything. And this burden on black women isn't just in the US, it's global. That's Mariel Franco and you're listening to the last public speech she ever delivered. She spent years advocating against state violence in Brazil. While sitting in her car following this speech about police killings, she was shot and killed. Her death sparked waves of protests in Brazil, and her murderers were not caught. Many agree that Mariel was assassinated in Marielia Alia, secuted by the states and police forces were vary to make her way into politics and vary to speak out there. That they consign of Marielli by her voice in her fine who were only multiplied. You're gonna make sure it does. Brazil has a powerful movement um specifically against the police and being led by black people. The unfortunate death of Mariem who was a city council member in Brazil, black woman, out and queer and was fascinated by the police about the government. But their movement is sovigorating all throughoutlantin America and Buddhas and the movement with black books and indigenous people for patrice, activism and shared struggle or what unite black folks no matter where they live. Yeah, black people around the world, I mean are just doing some incredible, credible works, and even in America with the presidential administration that's hell bent on criminalizing, surveilling under my and destabilizing Black communities here and abroad. It's these shared goals and struggles that keep a trice going. I think there are some clear goals, especially under this current administration, which are how do we make sure that we are building the power of Black communities, most marginalized communities. And I want to make sure that we're changing the material conditions for our communities. You know, That's what I think about every single day when I wake up. Am I changing the material conditions for Black people? Am I making more space and room so that we could be free and we could be freer. And I think that's the work to them, and that's the work for all of us to be doing. Um, whether you're black, white, not the next a Asian indigenous, we should be thinking about how we change the material conditions for those most marginalized. We'll hear more solution sessions after this quick break. Algiers is a band from Atlanta. Like Patrise, they're interested in building bridges, putting global movements and struggles in conversation with each other. They do it through music, like when they perform songs about resistance at Afropunk Atlanta. The band says that nam al Jeers is about colonialism, specifically the resistance to white colonialism that led to the Algerian Revolution. The Black Panthers were inspired by the Algerian Revolution. People in Palestine or inspired by the Algerian Revolution. Radicals in the US were inspired by the Algerian Revolution. For Algiers, this represents a kind of intersectional unity, the connection of global struggles, a meeting of the minds across oceans and ideologies. There's unity in difference, but there's also unity and antagonism against something that brings politics to our door. They point out whether it's rising up against Trump and creeping fascism in the United States or against global capitalism. Algeria represents meeting oppression with unity and antagonism. This unity is something that Frank, the band's vocalist, tries to represent through music and callbacks to cultural touchstones. You know, those are things that we espouse as a band and as individuals, and that's something that I think is too greater or less extent was reflected by the afropunk postegal music exposed to meats through politics. So punk rock and the reason why afropunk was important for me is because I was in up punk rock and I was in a hardcore band and all that kind of stuff, and it was exclusionary. It was hye, m mail and macho, and it was very much uh herod, heteronormative and everything That's Ryan. If you can't tell Ryan is white, he plays bass in Lgiars. Ryan was raised in Atlanta with Frank, where they grew up playing music. Music, Ryan says, is what helped to become politically and socially aware. When afropunk came along, it really kind of exposed a lot of things. I remember the documentary in two thousand seven eight, and it was really exposed in quite a lot about the scene itself, and I thought this is important because this this taught me about politics, has taught me about racism, has taught me about sexism and homophobia and everything else that was involved, the same way that Patrice's activism was a rooted in claiming space for herself, Ryan says music is would helped him want to claim space and incite important conversations like this is this is also a politics on a mascot that's talking about mass movement, is talking about claiming your own space. I remember in that video, the Fight the Power video, you know, public gonna be Fight the Power video. It's incredible. It's like this is claiming a space. It's like we own the street and we're actually a descendants of the Black Power movement. And this is music as well. This is what music is. Music actually represents society and it's something that can for once of a better word of power. Listen, if you're missing y'all swinging while I'm swinging, Hey, no more about knowing while the black bands swinging in the river ro rowing what we want, y'all us what we need? I don't let's freed them up there. We got to fight the powers that be the power. What advice would you get for someone out there who's listening, who wants to follow in your footsteps and do the kind of work that you do. Um a few things. One, what's your lane? What are you look excited about? Are you excited about the arts? Are you excited about you know, the operation side of things? Are you excited about all the things that are related to ending police violence? Just think about what's your lane? What's your lane in this? And then go look for an organization to be a part of. I don't think we need to build a bunch of organizations. I think doing like cool projects and debating them and said organizations aren't necessary. What do you feel like no organization is doing what you want to be doing or what you think is a great need. Then change it and start your own organizations. Who am I? And what am I called to you? These were the questions between left us with If you want to make social change, that first step isn't necessarily to show up at a value or event. It's to look within for the answers to these questions. Who are you? What do you stand for? Who is your community. What do you want to build together? What makes you fucking angry? How can you harness that anger for action instead of apathy. We can all be activists because we all have that spark inside of us telling us to fight back. We just have to find it. What's the solution, Bridget. Prioritize your well being. What's the solution? Bridget? Don't be afraid to start your own organization. What's the solution? Bridget? Take action in a way that moves you. What's the solution? Bridget? Find what ignites you. Afropunk Solution Sessions is a co production between Afro Punk and How Stuff Works. Your hosts are Bridget Todd and Eve's Jeffcote. Executive producers are Julie Douglas, Jocelyn Cooper, and Kuan latif Hill. Dylan Fagan is supervising producer and Kathleen Quillian is audio engineer. Many many thanks to Casey Pegram and Annie Reese for their production and editorial oversight, and many thanks to her on the ground Atlanta Crue, Ben Boland, Corey Oliver, and Noel Brown. The Underside of Power is performed by Al Jeers. Connect with us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram at afropunk and thanks to the Center for Civil and Human Rights in Atlanta, Georgia.

On June, Dylan Ruth walked into a Charleston, South Carolina church and shot and killed nine black churchgoers. This racist terror attack was meant to spark fear in the hearts of black folks, to say you weren't safe even in your houses of worship. Ten days later, Bree Knewsom scaled the thirty foot flagpole at the South Carolina Statehouse and unhooked the Confederate flag in that moment, high above the police presence growing below her. Bree says she wasn't even afraid if she was about to be arrested. She didn't care. It was just like, yes, taking me to jail. But what people didn't see is the planning behind that act. How many people were on the scene during the I was not nine of us. Okay, so there's a whole group of you that did this together. Oh yeah, it was coordinated. Brees says the act was actually the result of the coordinated efforts of a team of organizers. A team on the ground in South Carolina laid the groundwork in the week's brier. They knew whoever was chosen to climb the flagpole and whoever was chosen to stand guard were risking arrest. That iconic viral image of Brion Latin. The flag only tells a snippet of a story and the spark that led us to that moment. I'm brigittad. You're listening to Afropunk Solution Sessions. Afropunk is a safe place, a blank space to freak out in, to construct a new reality, to live our lives as we see fit while making sense of the world around us. Here at afro Punk, we have the conversations that matter to us, conversations that lead to solutions. In this episode, we're exploring the spark that drives activism and social movements. Activism is like an iceberg. Sometimes the end result, that galvanizing moment that makes headlines is only the tip you can see peeking out of the ocean. It's the result of a churning as sum play line of strategists, organizers and volunteers, all ignited by our respective spark from within, coming together to do the organizing work towards a shared goal good. Our co host Eves and I went to the Civil Rights Center in Atlanta, a living archive of global human and civil rights, where that reality of activism is on full display. We often think of activists as these larger than live figures who put their lives on the line for huge causes, and they do, but we have to remember that even the smallest contributions help in sight change well, not only that they're necessary. There was a room full of doctor King memorabilia, his hamwritten speeches, letters to him, the briefcase he carried the day he was assassinated, and there was this letter of supplies. This list is so powerful because you sort of realize the logistics and the real that he have this kind of work that you know, it seems very mythical and mystical sometimes, but then you know, people need baby food, people need vinegar, people need you know, salt and baking ZDA. And this list of the things people need it is compelling, a good reminder that these are real human people doing actual work and yeah, you know fairy tales, Yeah I think so too, And just seeing it in a hard copy like this, it's just it's so powerful. It makes it that much more tangible to see how much specificity and care was put into it too, taking it in you know, all at once, I guess, just knowing that he was holding up in and running on this paper. To see it right in front of me, um just makes it that much more real. And I really this isn't that like profound or anything, but I'm really really into how intense these scratch marks are. Like that wasn't the right word, and it wasn't the right word at all. It's not it's not just one line through it. It's like he's really deliberate with what he's saying. You know, I'm all about reminders that our civil rights leaders were human and that they dance and playpool and drink and partied and wrote and all the things that we do they do and they were complex people. I think reminders that remind us of King's humanity are visit important. Afro Punk is a hub of expressions of black activism and culture. People come to see bands, but it's not just about the performances. It's about every aspect of our identities, our clothes, our hair, our art to express the spirit of resistance and the ways that black joy can be radical. Our correspondent Corey Oliver asked attendees about how activism shows up in their lives at afro Punk Atlanta. Do you consider yourself an activists? Uh? Do you how how important do you think activism is to like young black people? All, Well, I feel there's a lot of different levels of activism, and so I'm happy for the people who are political. I'm happy for the people are like, you know, into the legislative process. I'm happy for the marchers. I'm more aggressive. It's so like I always say, just call me when we started shooting, I'll be there. I'll show up for that. Let's take a quick break. So there's this concept called the story of self, and it was one of the first things I ever learned when I was just sort of getting started as an activist and an organizer. And basically this concept is all about getting really really clear about why it is that you're interested in social change. So maybe it's something that happened to you. Maybe it's something that you know it was part of your upbringing, or something that you witness as a child, or that felt really unfair, it made you feel really angry. So what was that thing that spark that really made you want to act? I'm wondering, bridget Um, what was that moment for you? Do you have a story of self? Uh, you're giving me flashbacks. It was one set of training a story of self training, and I had thought about what my story of self was going to be, and when it came time to share, I was like, I guess I don't have one, and my trainer was very disappointed. I've had a couple over the years. The one that I come back to again is tough because I've heard so many good stories of self over the years doing social change work, and oftentimes they are stories that make the person telling them sound very valiant or very you know, empathetic, or it presents a very good version of who they are. And my story of self it's a time or I did not feel like I lived my values. So I went to college in the South. I went to East Carolina University, and it's a college that is if you know North Carolina, it's kind of exactly what you're thinking, you know, lots of guys and cargo shorts and pastel colored you. So I'm like you, you're thinking that fondly right now. It was a tough four years. I was I had to be I had to be drunk the entire time, clearly, UM to deal with it. And I'll never forget um. You know how when you go to college You're sitting in the common room of the dorms watching TV. And this is when her Kane Katrina just happened. We were all sitting in the common room of the dorm watching this unfold on TV. And it was families, it was women, it was kids, was people losing everything, it was people dying. It was this the kind of thing that I probably never thought I would see happening in this country. I mean, I was very young. It was like I was watching a horror movie, you know, That's how I felt. I felt like I was watching something fictional. I thought, this, this can't be happening. This can't be happening. And there was this one image of a of a mother clinging to her baby, and the look on her face is just pure agony. You can feel it in that image. And I was thinking, you know, fun, like, this is our country, this is a situation. And I was so horrified. And I was listening to these guys talk in the common room and one of them said to the other, they're just niggers. And he said it like it was the most casual thing in the world, as if, of course, this has to be exactly exactly and you know, it was just a comment that he made, But in that moment, it was clear to me that he was sort of pathologizing these people in a kind of way, that of course this is happening to them, like it was no big deal, and that they kind of way brought it on themselves. And you know, adult me looks back on that moment and thinks, I wish I would have done this. I wish I would have stormed over there, slapped that fucking baseball hat off of his head and said something. But I didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. I just sort of gasped and I said nothing. And it was a moment where I was presented with a choice and I chose wrong. And I think about that moment quite a bit. I think about why I didn't say anything, why I didn't do anything, why I chose not to live my values, And I think it was a lot of things. I think it's being young. I think it's being you know, in a new place and sort of wanting to fit in and not wanting to be the person who you know is always calling out racism um. And I sort of made a silent pack with myself that I would never not live my values again, and that even if it meant I was going to always be that weird black girl who had something to say, and I was never popular and no one ever want to go out with me, and all of those things, I didn't care that I was never going to feel like I felt in college, frozen, feeling guilt and shame and fear and all of these horrible, horrible, horrible feelings all linked up inside of me in the pit of my stomach. I was never going to feel that way again. And when I'm doing social change work, that's what I think. I think, if I get that feeling like I have to say something, I say it, and I think back to the version of me who couldn't say it, and I say it for her. You know, listening to a lot of stories of self, something that comes out is so many of us have dealt with really, really big, intense stuff in our lives. I've heard people share their story of self and it's about being undocumented and what that's like. I've heard people tell their story of self and it's about being abused and all of this really really traumatic, heavy stuff, and that's very real. But I also think that it's important to remember that the thing that drives you to be interested in social change can be something commonplace and every day. It can be something very big and very real and very scary and very traumatic, but it can also be that small thing too. It's good to know that you didn't blame yourself afterwards, and you use that kernel, and you use that moment and turnedness is something that was really inspiring and encouraging and positive, and you used it to go in a good direction. And I think it's great to hear you say that's because a lot of people may look back and say, like, Ship, I funked up, like I wasn't good enough, I didn't do the right thing. But it's like we've been dealing with this for centuries. We have centuries of this this burden laying on our backs of having to be the person with more integrity, the person who always does the right thing, the person who always called somebody out. But it's not our fucking job, you know, it's not our job. So I'm really glad to hear that's what your story of self was, because it's a good reminder that that you don't necessarily have to be this superhero. You don't have to wear a cape, when you find your voice when you're marginalized. Sometimes the thing that draws you to activism is as simple as just trying to exist. I never would have thought that, you know, I'd be on the front lines of the new flax deborations, that you might know Patrice Kan Colors from her work with Black Lives Matter. My name is the Truth, can Colors. I am one of the co founders a Black Lives Matter and founder of a local organization of upsends with called Dignity and Felling Out. I grew up in a small suburb, working class suburb outside of the inner city Van I, California. And unless you grew up the month Denders, you probably don't know where that place is. But it was um in the eighties and nineties and early two thousands, a neighborhood that was mostly people of color, mostly working class um UH, mostly Mexican and Mexican immigrants, and we were one of two black families on the block, and the neighborhood super over police. Lots of helicopter policing for this small town, this small submers lots of security just policing UM and also a lot of folks being arrested and and homes being raided, and so this was very my early childhood memories of my neighborhood. It was against that backdrop of surveillance and over policing that young Patrise experienced the moment that made her perfect down. I was eighteen years old, I think that's just graduated from high school. I was in the park with my girlfriend at the time. We were totally kissing and making out, and then this guy ran upon us, is over gentlemen and curse about you know, pulls. We were freaks and and it was totally humiliating, and I just remember feeling terrible, but really quickly I was like, we have to protest it, and I called on my friends. You know, was pre social media, so so I made phone calls and I think there was six people showed up to the house on a Sudday and we um they signed and they signs, and we walked down to that park at that same part and totally like held a little protest, and it was well small, and I didn't necesarily have a target. There was something about showing up for myself and I'm not allowing that demand to have the last word about what I do with my body. And my girlfriends. What was that moment about for you? It definitely was about reclaiming of a public space, but it was also reclaiming of my dignity. I was humiliated by him. I was already young and really battling my own internalized homophobia, and I needed to kind of feel like I wasn't doing something bad or wrong. And part of that was showing up again and being like, this is my I deserve to be here too, I matter too. And I think that's where the courage, you know, my courage came from. It's like, no, I did nothing wrong. I'm in love with this person. I get to show the world and if I want to, and I get to be in this part that I've been going to since I was a child. Following in the tradition of famed civil rights activist Ella Baker, who championed a decentralized leadership style, Patrice's work is very much rooted in her intersecting identities and building movements that don't need to rely on one leader to be powerful, but rather they reflect the power of the collective coming together to push for a shared vision. How do you feel like your identity as a black queer woman has gone on to impact the work that you do. Obviously it was very central. How does it show up now? I think my queerness, my blackness, my woman miss, the fact that I was raised for all of that contribute to how I build this movement. Um, I think there's this movement wouldn't be the way it is right now that wasn't for this sort of leadership and vision of black queer women many of us raised for. I think it's our labor and work that has created a movement that is the centralized as economents. That is, you know, doing the everyday work of building, um what el Baker was building group centers, you know, readership, building a movement that didn't need a charismatic into the jeweling there. Like a lot of people who do movement work, Patrice doesn't even necessarily see yourself as an activist. If an activist is the face of a campaign or movement, an organizer is the one doing the work behind the scenes. They're making sure folks are trained, They're bringing others into the movement, and while it can be a lot less exciting, it's the lifeblood of social shape. That was definitely an activist, but very quickly I turned into an organizer. And this actually comes from one of my mentors, Eric Man, who I joined this organization when I was sevyteen years old, and the first thing he said is you're an organizer and your job is to bring more people into the movement. An activist signs the petition, they show up to the march, but an organizer is organizing that march. The organizers the one who figured out the petition and why we do the position, and an organizer is building the power of those most directly impacted, most marginalized by this system. Social change is key to who Patrice is, but she also sees the ways that black women are burdened by being the ones that have to do the work of teaching others while not getting a lot of support in return. It's a role that can sometimes be a bit thankless. I think what this challenges to people is to actually not forced black women to have to carry everything the emotional labor. Be the ones who are the campaign strategists, Be the ones who are raising the children, Be the ones who are fighting for their children after they've been killed or murdered or incorporated. Right, what end up happening is black women end up bearing the burden of the world. And so that's the challenge for us. I don't think black woman should stop teaching people. We just shouldn't have to be the one holding everything, and folks should show up and be present. And part of that showing up and being present is needing a culture shift. We did change the culture in which black women become the end all, be all for everything. And this burden on black women isn't just in the US, it's global. That's Mariel Franco and you're listening to the last public speech she ever delivered. She spent years advocating against state violence in Brazil. While sitting in her car following this speech about police killings, she was shot and killed. Her death sparked waves of protests in Brazil, and her murderers were not caught. Many agree that Mariel was assassinated in Marielia Alia, secuted by the states and police forces were vary to make her way into politics and vary to speak out there. That they consign of Marielli by her voice in her fine who were only multiplied. You're gonna make sure it does. Brazil has a powerful movement um specifically against the police and being led by black people. The unfortunate death of Mariem who was a city council member in Brazil, black woman, out and queer and was fascinated by the police about the government. But their movement is sovigorating all throughoutlantin America and Buddhas and the movement with black books and indigenous people for patrice, activism and shared struggle or what unite black folks no matter where they live. Yeah, black people around the world, I mean are just doing some incredible, credible works, and even in America with the presidential administration that's hell bent on criminalizing, surveilling under my and destabilizing Black communities here and abroad. It's these shared goals and struggles that keep a trice going. I think there are some clear goals, especially under this current administration, which are how do we make sure that we are building the power of Black communities, most marginalized communities. And I want to make sure that we're changing the material conditions for our communities. You know, That's what I think about every single day when I wake up. Am I changing the material conditions for Black people? Am I making more space and room so that we could be free and we could be freer. And I think that's the work to them, and that's the work for all of us to be doing. Um, whether you're black, white, not the next a Asian indigenous, we should be thinking about how we change the material conditions for those most marginalized. We'll hear more solution sessions after this quick break. Algiers is a band from Atlanta. Like Patrise, they're interested in building bridges, putting global movements and struggles in conversation with each other. They do it through music, like when they perform songs about resistance at Afropunk Atlanta. The band says that nam al Jeers is about colonialism, specifically the resistance to white colonialism that led to the Algerian Revolution. The Black Panthers were inspired by the Algerian Revolution. People in Palestine or inspired by the Algerian Revolution. Radicals in the US were inspired by the Algerian Revolution. For Algiers, this represents a kind of intersectional unity, the connection of global struggles, a meeting of the minds across oceans and ideologies. There's unity in difference, but there's also unity and antagonism against something that brings politics to our door. They point out whether it's rising up against Trump and creeping fascism in the United States or against global capitalism. Algeria represents meeting oppression with unity and antagonism. This unity is something that Frank, the band's vocalist, tries to represent through music and callbacks to cultural touchstones. You know, those are things that we espouse as a band and as individuals, and that's something that I think is too greater or less extent was reflected by the afropunk postegal music exposed to meats through politics. So punk rock and the reason why afropunk was important for me is because I was in up punk rock and I was in a hardcore band and all that kind of stuff, and it was exclusionary. It was hye, m mail and macho, and it was very much uh herod, heteronormative and everything That's Ryan. If you can't tell Ryan is white, he plays bass in Lgiars. Ryan was raised in Atlanta with Frank, where they grew up playing music. Music, Ryan says, is what helped to become politically and socially aware. When afropunk came along, it really kind of exposed a lot of things. I remember the documentary in two thousand seven eight, and it was really exposed in quite a lot about the scene itself, and I thought this is important because this this taught me about politics, has taught me about racism, has taught me about sexism and homophobia and everything else that was involved, the same way that Patrice's activism was a rooted in claiming space for herself, Ryan says music is would helped him want to claim space and incite important conversations like this is this is also a politics on a mascot that's talking about mass movement, is talking about claiming your own space. I remember in that video, the Fight the Power video, you know, public gonna be Fight the Power video. It's incredible. It's like this is claiming a space. It's like we own the street and we're actually a descendants of the Black Power movement. And this is music as well. This is what music is. Music actually represents society and it's something that can for once of a better word of power. Listen, if you're missing y'all swinging while I'm swinging, Hey, no more about knowing while the black bands swinging in the river ro rowing what we want, y'all us what we need? I don't let's freed them up there. We got to fight the powers that be the power. What advice would you get for someone out there who's listening, who wants to follow in your footsteps and do the kind of work that you do. Um a few things. One, what's your lane? What are you look excited about? Are you excited about the arts? Are you excited about you know, the operation side of things? Are you excited about all the things that are related to ending police violence? Just think about what's your lane? What's your lane in this? And then go look for an organization to be a part of. I don't think we need to build a bunch of organizations. I think doing like cool projects and debating them and said organizations aren't necessary. What do you feel like no organization is doing what you want to be doing or what you think is a great need. Then change it and start your own organizations. Who am I? And what am I called to you? These were the questions between left us with If you want to make social change, that first step isn't necessarily to show up at a value or event. It's to look within for the answers to these questions. Who are you? What do you stand for? Who is your community. What do you want to build together? What makes you fucking angry? How can you harness that anger for action instead of apathy. We can all be activists because we all have that spark inside of us telling us to fight back. We just have to find it. What's the solution, Bridget. Prioritize your well being. What's the solution? Bridget? Don't be afraid to start your own organization. What's the solution? Bridget? Take action in a way that moves you. What's the solution? Bridget? Find what ignites you. Afropunk Solution Sessions is a co production between Afro Punk and How Stuff Works. Your hosts are Bridget Todd and Eve's Jeffcote. Executive producers are Julie Douglas, Jocelyn Cooper, and Kuan latif Hill. Dylan Fagan is supervising producer and Kathleen Quillian is audio engineer. Many many thanks to Casey Pegram and Annie Reese for their production and editorial oversight, and many thanks to her on the ground Atlanta Crue, Ben Boland, Corey Oliver, and Noel Brown. The Underside of Power is performed by Al Jeers. Connect with us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram at afropunk and thanks to the Center for Civil and Human Rights in Atlanta, Georgia.