Written by: Zhane McCorvey, Political/Social Justice Columnist Staff
Living as a black person in America often feels like balancing on a tightrope stretched across generations of struggle and resilience. A question I’ve wrestled with repeatedly is: Do I have a moral and social responsibility simply because I am black? At first, the question seems absurd. Responsibility to whom? For what? But when I look at the state of our communities and the leaders who rise and fall in our name, the weight of that question becomes unavoidable.
Our communities face an uphill battle for everything from clean water and safe housing to quality education and job opportunities. We vote leaders into office believing they will fight for these essentials, understanding our shared history and collective struggles. But when those leaders are accused of prioritizing hidden agendas and personal gain, it cuts deeper than disappointment—it opens wounds steeped in centuries of being marginalized and manipulated.
The responsibility I feel doesn’t come from some external expectation but from an internal drive that whispers: Don’t just live for yourself. Be the change your ancestors dreamed of. Black politics was meant to change a pathway carved by resilience, rooted in the dream of lifting up an entire community. But when leaders like Mayor Chokwe Antar Lumumba and other city leaders are entangled in scandals that undermine the fight for equity, it tarnishes that vision.
When we talk about responsibility, we have to look at what leadership truly means. A true leader doesn’t hide behind closed doors making deals that benefit the few. A true leader doesn’t accept money under the table while their community struggles to keep its head above water. Leadership in black politics is supposed to be different. It’s supposed to mean more. It’s not just a job or a title, it’s a commitment to progress and a promise to those who have been left out of the conversation for too long.
And yet, when these betrayals occur, it raises a haunting question: Are we doomed to repeat the cycle of exploitation and neglect within our own ranks? These incidents don’t just undermine individual leaders; they erode trust in the entire structure of African-American leadership. The actions of one ripple out to affect the many, fueling skepticism and discouragement in communities already bruised by broken promises.
So, do I have a moral and social responsibility because I am black? Yes, I believe all African-Americans do. It’s a responsibility to hold our leaders accountable, to speak out when our communities are betrayed, and to demand better. But more importantly, it’s a responsibility to remember why the fight exists at all – to create a future where being black doesn’t come with the expectation of survival against all odds but with the promise of thriving in all spaces.
We, as a community, deserve leaders who understand that holding office is not about personal gain or secret alliances. It’s about lifting up the entire community as we climb. Black politics should never be a mirror of the same power structures that have oppressed us; it should be a revolutionary force for change, built on the principles of integrity, transparency, and unwavering dedication to the people.
So yes, I carry a moral and social responsibility because I am a black person. And so do all African-Americans. That responsibility calls us to be vigilant, to question, to push, and to never settle for less than the respect and equity we deserve. If we want to see real change, we must demand it not just from the system but from the very leaders we elevate within it.
We need leaders who understand that their agendas should be neither hidden nor self-serving. They should be as open as the hearts of the people who put them in power. Because when the question arises, do you have a responsibility just because you are black? The answer should be clear: Yes, to lead and serve with honor, not just for oneself, but for every soul whose hope rests in the promise of a better tomorrow.
It’s time we demand that our leaders, on the city, state and national levels, remember that silence is not an option and hidden agendas have no place in our fight for progress.
“If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.” – Zora Neale Hurston
The views expressed in this column are those of the writer and in no way represent the views of The Blue & White Flash or Jackson State University.
