Searching for LeRoi Jones, Finding Amiri Baraka

The poet and author made an impact on today’s cultural scholars.


The fact that his name was LeRoi signified something to me. 

There was no Norton Anthology of African American Literature in the world yet; Toni Morrison had not yet won her Nobel Prize for literature. All we got in an early-1980s freshman composition class was “Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note.” And the only reason I knew the author was black was that there weren’t that many white dudes named LeRoi Jones—certainly not spelled with an “i” as opposed to a “y.”

There was just something early-midcentury Negro about that name.

Twenty years later, I would have simply been able to Google him. But back then, the university library was my search engine. Not only did I find LeRoi, but I also found Baraka.

The outpouring for affection for the late Amiri Baraka shows that I wasn’t alone. White America might not ever understand our affection for those Negroes we refer to with just one name. And I’m not talking Negroes in the way some are apt to talk about Negroes in the 21st century, but those folks born before black power who were the very embodiment of black majesty: Duke, Billie, Satchmo, Miles, Lena, Mahalia. And yes, Baraka, even as that name became the most distinct marker—other than Malcolm X—of the symbolic break with Negroes and the reintroduction of black folk (Du Bois, after all, didn’t call it “The Souls of Negroes”).

As one of the few Negroes in the room as the white creative intelligentsia of the 1950s—Kerouac, Ginsberg, Mailer, even Jane Jacobs—tried to reimagine themselves in a world they had just figured out, Jones would have been perfectly within his rights to simply ride out that wave. But he would place himself in many rooms: going to Cuba in 1960; carrying the water for the Black Arts Movement; electing Newark, N.J.’s first black mayor, Kenneth Gibson; attending the National Black Political Convention in Gary, Ind., in 1972; and being a delegate at the sixth Pan-African Congress in Tanzania in 1974, to name a few. To be sure, Amiri Baraka lived a public life that was as full and varied as that of any artist and thinker of the 20th century.

But life gets messy. Messy often produces great art. And in the mid-1960s, perhaps no black artist was as messy and brilliant and visionary as Baraka. Just look at the words on the page—the spacing, the openness, the gaps, the silences (the parentheticals … )—as if dude was trying to tell us that it ain’t all there yet, but I’m trying to figure it out.

And figure it out he did. And unlike Kanye, who is waiting for some white people who like him to allow him to be his fully brilliant self, Baraka was keen to just try it himself.  So much of the Black Arts Repertory Theatre that was ground zero for the Black Arts Movement, which Baraka was so synonymous with, was that this was about doing our own shit. If you want black art, go out and make black art. If you want black studies, go out and make black studies.

If you want black power … go out and make black power.