Free The Michael Eric Dyson Reader by Michael Eric Dyson

the folk. They’re the folk. So my preservation of connection is through the immediate context of preaching, teaching, and activist politics, as well as hanging out in the ’hood and going to the barber shop and the barbecue joint and hanging with “the niggas.” And not for ethnographic titillation or anthropological voyeurism, but as a legitimate participant in vibrant black folk culture, the kind from which I sprang and in which I feel most comfortable.
    I can’t tell you how many black folk I’ve met who’ve said, “Brother, we read your book, keep on writing,” or, “We saw you on TV, keep on speaking.” And these are ordinary, average people, the so-called folk from whom ostensible grassroots gatekeepers attempt to divide us, almost by ontological fiat, as if we’re a different species of people. These black folk say to me, “Man, you’re speaking to white folk, you’re speaking to black folk, you’re keeping it real on a level we often don’t see.” That makes me feel good, when black folk say I’m speaking brilliantly, insightfully, intelligently. But that doesn’t mean I can’t disagree with what the majority of black folk think, that I’m somehow locked into a rigid perspective because I am committed to their amelioration. I love black folk, which is why I ain’t afraid of them. I’m not afraid to disagree with mass black opinion, to call into question beliefs, habits, dispositions, traditions, and practices that I think need to be criticized. I seek to speak truth to power in love, as the Bible suggests. I seek to address the high and low, those on the inside and those locked out. That’s my obligation and lifelong objective.
    Interview by Lana Williams
Durham, North Carolina, 1997

Two
LETTER TO MY BROTHER, EVERETT, IN PRISON
    Soon after I arrived in Chicago in 1989 to teach ethics, philosophy, and cultural criticism at the Chicago Theological Seminary, I learned that my younger brother Everett was arrested and charged with murder. Of course, such a revelation deeply wounded my family. But we rallied to Everett’s defense as we concluded, after intense investigation, that he was innocent. As the only college-educated son among five brothers at the time— though still four years from my Ph.D.—it fell to me to generate money to aid in Everett’s expensive criminal defense. The process of securing legal counsel, as well as keeping up the family’s morale, was genuinely harrowing. In order to raise funds, I took to lecturing, preaching, and writing for a variety of scholarly and popular venues. These efforts lead in large part to the material collected for my first book in 1993, Reflecting Black. During my brother’s trial—he was eventually convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to twenty-five years to life in prison—the family dog in Detroit was killed and the family house was shot at, presumably in retaliation for my brother’s alleged crime. This prompted my mother to leave her job and house and live with me in Chicago for nearly two years before returning home. Everett has now been in prison for fifteen years. He has converted to the Moorish Temple Muslim faith, changing his name to Everett Dyson-Bey. I visit him regularly and continue to work for his release. This open letter to him, though painful to write, was both emotionally cathartic and morally clarifying, helping me to sort through critical domestic and social issues in both our lives.
    Dear Everett:
    How are you? I suppose since we’ve talked almost nonstop on the telephone over the last five years, I haven’t written too often. Perhaps that’s because with writing you have to confront yourself, stare down truths you would rather avoid altogether. When you’re freestyling in conversation, you can acrobatically dance around all those issues that demand deep reflection. After five years, I guess it’s time I got down to that kind of, well, hard work, at least emotionally and spiritually.
    I’ve been