Chuck King's Black August Reflection of Kulanshi George Jackson

The Letters We Never Received

My brother, I cannot fully relate to the constraints you endured during your time on earth, yet your reflection and spirit stretched far beyond those bars — and continue to fly today. I remember being thrown behind those same walls, the tightening of the cuffs meant to constrain my message since they could not constrain my voice. I remember feeling like a piece of property, a possession of the state itself. These were my earlier years, when I was arrested for protesting.

I believe that was when the journey — the urge for self-knowledge — began. I was filled with questions, but more importantly with a hunger for solutions. This fire was fueled by something we both share: a love for our people, a need to see change. Not simply a want, but a necessity. Only recently have I begun to put my words and thoughts on paper and relay them to our people.

For this reason, I consider it both an honor and a privilege — and most importantly, a learning opportunity — to share this stage with you.

The System

You were able to expose the systemic oppression of the state to the people right under their noses. It is no secret that fascism — whether enforced militantly or politically — exists to keep the powers that be in control. If you did not believe in reform then, one can only imagine where we stand now. The so-called democratic efforts continue to fall on deaf ears, offering only false sympathy. Too often we are baited into savior hopes, like Dr. King’s dream — which, if you were wondering, never came true and may be farther away today than it was then.

The belief and hope in reform has caused this generation to fall into a whirlwind of “hope,” paired with prayer that becomes an excuse, restraining us from real action. Rather than trying to restructure a system that was never framed for us in the first place, my passion has sprouted from the examples of self-sufficiency advocates. Marcus Garvey often pointed to the over 20 million in the diaspora during the 1920s and their potential. That number has multiplied more than tenfold today, and yet we remain unaware of our power and opportunity to achieve without reliance on outside sources.

This truth extends to the hood, to impoverished Black communities, to rural towns — anywhere potential exists but examples of work turned into reward are hidden from view. Inward lies the numbers and the resources to forge the solutions, justice, and future we demand today. The question remains: what are we all doing toward the ultimate goal? How can we selflessly commit ourselves to the greater whole?

This action, this mindset, is the first step toward reclaiming pride in our race. When one selfless person is joined by another, the results double — and so forth — until change becomes inevitable, occurring without needing to be seen, but impossible to be denied.

Militancy and Defense

Militancy and discipline go hand in hand. I learned that from the influence you had with the brothers locked inside with you. The so-called violent savages, according to outside society, showed and promoted uniformed unity in the face of oppression and control. However, that only came through education. The mind is the first tool of militancy — the ability to make informed decisions built upon thought rather than emotion. Though the loss of you and your strong-willed brother saddens me, the tools you left behind still lie in the hearts and minds of militants today.

Kobrani, the sacred art of defense in Tokanji culture, was built off of the principles of Kulanshi ancestors like yourself. Our core centers around the protection of the Black family, which has been the target in every attempt to destroy our existence. Broken homes, lost bloodlines through slavery, systemic operations — all have played a role in weakening the Black family’s impact on our survival today. Kobrani is how we turn the wheel back in the right direction, our feet pressed firmly on the gas. It is the sacred duty to prepare and, when the moment demands, to protect our bloodlines at all cost.

This begins with our men but must operate through us all. We must ignore the stereotypes that culture has branded on our skin. Black men must recommit themselves to the protection of Black women and child. A part of that responsibility is that every Black man must be armed and experienced in his tools. Not only because it is our legal right, which we must express openly, but to show visual examples to our community — proof of self-sufficient protection. Moments where our people can once again feel safe among themselves.

The protection of the collective does not stop there. Every woman — and yes, every child once of proper age — must be trained in the art of protection. This begins as a sacred responsibility taught in childhood and passed down through generations to ensure the past never repeats, and if it does, that we are prepared. Young men, though society sees them as children, must be molded into manhood in their teen years. Young women must learn the art of protection, trained in militant techniques while still maintaining their motherhood character — nurturers to our society. This is not just change — this is growth. Growing the mind into a state of love among each other again, no longer seeing someone who looks like us as an opp or enemy, but accepting the duty of the collective. That if a threat should intrude, they must get through the men, the women, and, if necessary, even the child. Our commitment becomes so deep in compassion to our ancestors — ancestors like you, and the ones who sacrificed.

To remain in the best position of defense, one must learn, practice, and educate ourselves daily. As the world grows, we must grow. Remaining comfortable keeps us behind, never in front. Protection is something we must always remain ahead in. Never let society paint the picture for us. Kulanshi ancestors like yourself, Robert F. Williams, Huey P. Newton — you were all labeled as violent for your stance on protection and defensive strategies for our people. But in truth, it was Kobrani — the sacred duty, the sacred task upon us all.

Unity Amongst the Walls

As we recap from the sacred duty of protecting the Black family — something we both considered sacred — I must express to you the need for the unity you established then, for today. The unity among Black men that continues to appear only when they are placed in chains, placed behind walls, with no other choice.

Selfless leadership is the best leadership, the one that truly works. Too often we as a people get caught up in titles or recognition. When you were caged at eighteen, your only concern was the people themselves and your urge to bring change for them. People followed you out of respect rather than demand, yet you still kept structure and order. That loyalty and commitment brought unity among the brothers themselves, uniting them around one common cause, one purpose, one set of principles. Though your letters flew beyond the prison walls with this same message, the unity among our people then seemed much stronger than now.

The systems that be have placed us in an internal war, and I cry to the Kulanshi for assistance. Gangs that were formed as resistance to protect our people now ultimately destroy our people. This is not an attack on the gang member himself, but even they must face the reality of what has become of us. We kill, take, and steal from each other because all other options have been stripped away. And then, when we end up behind the wall, when the sentences come down like hammers and judgment is placed on our lives — only then do we learn about you, if we are lucky. Education is the key moment where we continue to miss the ball. Education must begin at birth. Behind the wall, opposing enemies who have spilled blood against each other, who carry hate and long-term vengeance, must even then place differences aside and commit to the mass. Why must this form of unity only come when they lock away the keys?

This is a bridge we must cross with high urgency. If not, there will be none of us left. What I have learned through experience is the priority of healing. There can be no unity outside the walls until we present healing stations for our people to take on this work and mindset. Inside, stripped of life by the prison system, we are forced to heal or suppress — forced into survival instincts to simply “fall in line.” Outside, we too suppress and fall in line in a different survival mode. It is unorthodox for our people to heal — we have never healed. Yet through healing, through our own conception, through confronting systemic oppression, we can turn the wheel of our internal war — which I describe as genocide.

The sense of Black pride, of brothers standing in unity, of large cookouts and Black love filling the streets — all of this has been replaced by drive-bys at those cookouts, where youth and innocents become the unattended targets. Fear now walks our streets, fear to show love on them, fear even of our skin itself. So today, unity is needed more than ever before.

You were right about the target group that can bring this unity the fastest and in its purest form: the hood itself, the streets, the same ones committing the acts. They are the keys to unlock the doors of the change we need, the change we declare will come by any means necessary. I refuse to be a victim who accepts this is the way it will always be. Through the work of the ancestors and our efforts today, things will change. And there is no time better than now.

Prisons and Fatherhood

For everything you gave the people, I think of everything they stole from you. Being caged at eighteen, you were never granted the opportunity to have children to continue your bloodline. So we carry your bloodline in our hearts everywhere today. Yet you were able to generate and establish strong Black men — men who took on and accepted responsibility and accountability. These are the essence of Black fatherhood, the core principles of our grandfathers. The same prison system that was your residence stripped fathers out of the home one by one. Then systems and agencies came disguised as assistance, removing our role of importance as Black fathers and replacing it with dependency on the very system that entraps us. But this becomes possible when our educators do not look like us, hence my strong stance on why education must begin at birth, by us ourselves, as the collective.

Today, as each generation passes, the number of active Black fathers decreases. We still have fathers fighting to keep existence on two fronts: those blessed to be in the home, leading with their Queen, and those who co-parent, refusing to be ghost fathers though not actively with the mother of their seed. This is the reality, and I must be transparent in our discussion. Society will tell you that Black fathers do not exist at all. Many Black women pride themselves in being in survival mode, raising sons and daughters alone, often without the presence of their own fathers to set the example. Many fathers, themselves byproducts of single mothers, abandon their responsibilities, continuing the cycle like a cancer that grows from within our people. This is the battlefield of the Black family today. Like being dropped in Vietnam, a Black man with nothing familiar around him, but everything against him — where is the purpose he serves?

But we few still hold the line, and like others in life’s work, we fight to restore the presence of Black fatherhood. That starts with recognizing ourselves and our bloodlines as sacred. What happened to your bloodline before you is not within your control. But after you — all is in your hands. Black men must understand this responsibility. When fatherhood arrives or has arrived, we must jump headfirst into the calling, for our survival depends on it. We must fill the gaps of inexperience with brotherhood. This builds a bond through work, a sacred bond. Elder fathers can mentor younger fathers, and young fathers can learn and build from each other. In this sacred duty, presence alone is half the battle. It is where we tear down the stereotype of absence with presence.

Black women must do their own work in the restoration of Black fatherhood. This includes healing from the absence of their fathers or from the conditions with the father of their bloodline now. You are the creators of us ourselves, and there can be no restoration without you. This is the sacred work of Tanzafoka — a Tokanji principle meaning turning distortion into power. Everything that was built or labeled against us must be turned into fuel, into power for the better. The stereotypes alone among Black men and women surrounding parenthood should be enough to start a resistance.

Fatherhood must be formed into collective work — brothers uniting to carry the load of absent fathers. The village must be built first; this is the construction stage. We cannot rely on women alone to build strong Black men. We ourselves have a commitment to our brotherhood, to our legacy.

Black on Black Violence

I regret to report to you that a war has definitely started amongst we ourselves. As I write this, there are probably young Black men plotting to take each other’s lives, or already carrying out the act itself. So hear my cries as this paper bleeds, the same way our sacred blood bleeds onto the streets.

I believe not only you, but all the Kulanshi cry for the war our people endure now. And if there are heaven’s gates, then the lines are backed up with our youth — youth who should be having families, raising children, and experiencing life. But this is our reality, and I must be transparent. Your efforts once brought unity against the state, against the systems of control that created the conditions we are forced to survive in. Yet those messages have been buried, hidden away like the tombs of Egypt.

When the drill wave came, at first I thought it was just music. But no one realized it was the war horns of a genocide. Young artists began making music about hurting each other as far back as the 90s, but in the 2000s it became normalized. And now? Now it is the staple, the heartbeat of our musical culture — followed by actions in the streets. Our youth aren’t killing each other for territory, or for money. They are killing for a name, for street clout, with no one there to warn them of the consequences until it is too late. No father to give discipline and guidance. The streets themselves have even lost control — no structure, just chaos masquerading as survival, if you even want to call it survival. I wish I could say I was exaggerating the extent of these circumstances, but I am not. And to make it worse, we do not even own the music that fuels this cycle of violence. The system profits off of Black death. This is the battlefield as it stands.

But I cannot deny the truth — the music is a part of our culture today. I refuse to deny what shapes our identity. Across the diaspora, music has always been more than violence: it is therapy for a brother or sister under stress, it is the sound of family events, the soundtrack of friends spending time, the rhythm that binds us. Through struggle we have always turned our assets into survival, and history proves we have always made beauty out of pain. But it is our responsibility to define the meaning of our culture. We must stop allowing narratives to be forced on us and begin to tell our own stories. The businessman, the nurse, the social worker listens to Boosie just as much as the streets do — so is it the music itself, or is it the collective? This is truly another form of Tanzafoka — taking what was meant to destroy us and using it as fuel to build us.

Music must become the building bridge of what the Bloodline is destined to be. Instead of destroying bloodlines, restoring them. English words of hate and violence carried over rhythmic beats must be transformed into Tokanji conversations of love, unity, and fellowship among our people. Especially during sessions of 808náshira, where we create space to play this music, praise and connect with our ancestors — uncensored, unbiased, unfiltered. This becomes the new norm, where we can freely exist as ourselves.

I know some Kulanshi would close their ears and shake their heads if they saw our culture today. But I urge you to inquire about our principles, our standards, and our meaning. Because this way works — this way is authentically us. The culture is the culture, but it does not mean we must live out the destruction within it. This is where we turn the wheel. If we show visible examples of unity through our culture, rather than hate, we can restore bloodlines. And this alone is sacred work.

Resistance from Birth

We are behind the ball in the eyes of the ancestors who paved the way. As a result, resistance must begin earlier — from birth itself. The first form of this resistance is restoring the village, creating a natural habitat for our youth that resembles us again. Before colonization gets its chance to grab hold of our lineage — which it most definitely will — our children must already be prepared and ready. It is each family’s responsibility to make this readiness through education.

We should not be hearing the names and roles of our Kulanshi ancestors, like yourself, for the first time in our forties. Our children should be learning these names at four, five, and six. Resetting mindsets will begin to reset generations. This sacred duty can only be accomplished by us ourselves. Outside influences have always shown themselves capable of destroying, diluting, or diminishing our identity. The construction stages of rebuilding our communities must be done from the inside out — relying on the principle of Zanáfamu to once again do our part for the greater goal. To see our part, no matter how big or small, as sacred duty rather than just a task or volunteer hours.

The stages of resistance never have to be large. If everyone does a little, a lot gets accomplished over time. Our younger lineage deserves protected and safe spaces to learn and educate themselves about their culture before being handed over to modern society. If school begins at a primary age, then for us resistance must begin at birth.

Digital Education

Your letters will always be powerful, carrying a message that still weighs heavy on the hearts of our people today. Yet in this ironic time, where media is consumed in 15–30 second TikTok videos, our approach must go far beyond pen and paper.

The first requirement is to reclaim our stake in the ranks of national identity by race itself. Whenever one of us claims to be focused on our race, or prioritizes a Black focus above all, we are attacked — often called racist ourselves or accused of being self-serving. How ironic, I must say. In your time this unapologetic tone was the norm. Tánari is the sacred work of bringing that aura back. Black to be exact — across the diaspora — an unapologetic sense of identity and pride.

Digital media is the first battlefield. It is where we must restore the shows that once represented us but were stripped away. Cartoons that look like us. Heroes with our eyes and our nose shapes. Stories, news, and history told from our lens and distributed to the masses as the standard. Our children not only have the right but the privilege to grow up with these models. For when they do not, the models placed before them subdue an unconscious tone that robs them of confidence. Tánari is the sacred work in Tokanji to ensure that confidence never fades, but remains unshakable in the glow of our skin.

Religion and Unity

I am sure that behind the walls, within your core set of comrades, different religions existed. Some may have been Christian, some Muslim, and for others their only religion was the sacred duty owed to our ancestors and to our people.

But in order for Zanáfamu to work, religion must be placed aside in the matter of unity. It has long been a devastating and divisive mark amongst our tribe. Tánari prioritizes Black over all religious standings. If your religion requires you to place anything else above the existence of our people itself, then I urge you to question that religion genuinely.

The Bloodline itself is woven from our grandmothers’ prayers, from the mosque teachings where Malcolm X stood, from the Catholic temples of Garvey’s Orthodox church — all in one. And it leaves a safe space for those who choose to decide their own path. Because in the end, we all share the same glow of melanin. Our ancestors have bled the same blood since the beginning of time, and we have all faced the same or similar challenges.

This again is where we must turn the wheel. To refuse classification by anything less than Black is Tánari. It is our reclamation of identity. No other nation has one single religious background, but we are the only ones who have allowed it to divide us from the ultimate goal. Tell me, how has that worked for us thus far?

We Will Still Write Letters

As the journey continues, we embrace it. Each step, each challenge, is a learning experience. And no matter how much technology advances, I will always take some time with pen and paper to write to you. Sometimes out of anger, sometimes out of joy, other times out of fear.

Our similarities and our differences are what make us special in the diaspora. We honor the path you paved for us, brother — keep watch as we walk this path.

May the ancestors guide and protect us always.

Chuck King