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Mr. B. set an example by staying true to his convictions, building community and bridges across cultures, and remaining tenacious while battling economic and racial inequality.
Some know the late Harry Belafonte for his genre-jumping music and silky baritone voice, epitomized in his classic 1956 album Calypso. Others swoon over his performances in films like the 1954 musical Carmen Jones.
In activist circles, he’s revered for supporting his good friend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. during the civil rights movement, funding voter registration drives in Mississippi, and financing the Freedom Riders and Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), among many other examples.
I knew him for something else besides: He was my first boss after college.
In 2005, I worked for Harry Belafonte as his executive assistant in New York. We connected through my mentor-professor Saul Landau, the late writer and filmmaker who befriended “Mr. B” (as he liked to be called) through their travels to Cuba.
I was just beginning my career, knowing only that I was drawn to social justice and the arts. There was no better person to learn about either than from Mr. B — and in no better place than where he once strategized with Dr. King and others in the civil rights movement.
From the moment I started, I took calls and messages for Mr. B not just from those in the music and film industry, but also lawyers, policy advocates, social movement leaders, and poets engaged in ongoing struggles against injustice.
They sought his advice and endorsement, while he focused on empowering the next generation of artists and activists. Even as countless shiny awards lined his office walls, he never rested on his laurels. I saw his humanity — and he challenged my notions of “celebrity.”
Time and again, Mr. B showed that an artist can be more than an entertainer.
During one of my first days on the job, for instance, I dreaded informing him that his friend of 60 years, iconic actor and activist Ossie Davis, had passed away. Very few of us are expected to issue immediate comments to the press after receiving devastating news. Yet amidst his sadness, I remember Mr. B’s strength as he spoke in honor of his friend to the media throughout that long day.
As I now look back at his early life, I have an even greater appreciation for what he overcame. Born to Jamaican immigrants in Harlem in 1927, Mr. B’s early years were heavily influenced by poverty.
In his 2011 memoir, My Song, he chronicled his mother struggling to put food on the table as a domestic worker. His father was a cook aboard United Fruit Company ships and wasn’t always present. Belafonte’s 1956 song “Day-O (Banana Boat Song)” pays tribute to both the toils of his parents and the workers in the banana fields of Jamaica.
After serving in the Navy, Belafonte worked odd jobs to make ends meet in a country still ruled by segregation. His mother’s refrain to fight injustice wherever he saw it laid the foundation for his life and career trajectory. Because of her, he recalled in his memoir, he was an “activist who’d become an artist.”
Against all odds Belafonte rose to stardom, becoming the first Black man to win a Tony, the first Black man to win an Emmy, and the first artist to record an album that sold 1 million copies. And time and again, Mr. B showed that an artist can be more than an entertainer.
He supported the movement against apartheid in South Africa and the campaign to free Nelson Mandela. He organized the all-star charity record “We Are the World” that raised millions for famine relief in Africa. He served as a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador for 36 years, advocating for health care, HIV/AIDS treatment, and free education access for all.
I will always treasure the lessons I learned from Mr. B. He set an example by staying true to his convictions, building community and bridges across cultures, and remaining tenacious while battling economic and racial inequality.
Rest in power, Mr. B. The work continues, guided by your life’s inspiring song.
The famous singer used his celebrity to support causes from civil rights to anti-colonialist and anti-war movements and Black Lives Matter.
On a freezing cold day, February 15th, 2003, Harry Belafonte, the legendary singer, actor, and activist strode onto a stage outside the United Nations in New York City. Rallies against the imminent U.S. invasion of Iraq were taking place around the globe that day, in what is believed to be the largest mass protest in human history. Belafonte then did what he had been doing for over half a century–he spoke truth to power:
"We stand for peace. We stand for the truth of what is at the heart of the American people."
Harry Belafonte died this week at the age of 96. Throughout his life, he fought for justice, using his celebrity to support causes from civil rights to anti-colonialist and anti-war movements and Black Lives Matter.
Harry Belafonte never relented. He intensified his fight against South African apartheid and the ravages of U.S. imperialism abroad. He challenged those in power regardless of political party, from George W. Bush to Barack Obama, from Donald Trump to Joe Biden.
Belafonte continued in that 2003 speech, delivered to several hundred thousand anti-war marchers in New York:
"We were misled by those who created the falseness of the Bay of Tonkin, which falsely led us into a war with Vietnam, a war that we could not and did not win. We lied to the American people about Grenada…about Nicaragua, El Salvador, Cuba, and many places in the world. We stand here today to let those people know that America is a vast and diverse country, and we are part of the greater truth of what makes our nation. Dr. King once said that if mankind does not put an end to war, war will put an end to mankind."
Harry Belafonte was one of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s closest advisors and confidants. He first met King in 1956, during the Montgomery bus boycott. Their initial meeting, slated for 20 minutes, lasted four hours.
"At the end of that meeting, I knew that I would be in his service and focus on the cause of the desegregation movement, the right to vote, and all that he stood for," Belafonte said at the Sundance Film Festival in 2011, on the Democracy Now! news hour. "Although we understood how perilous the journey would be, we were not quite prepared for all that we had to confront. I think that it was the most important time in my life."
Thus began a historic friendship that shaped the struggle for desegregation and racial equality. Belafonte knew King like few others. He was loyal to him until the end, when many had abandoned King as his agenda broadened to include fierce opposition to the Vietnam War.
In his memoir, My Song, Belafonte recounts a conversation with King one week before his assassination in Memphis on April 4, 1968. King was organizing The Poor People's Campaign, to link and overcome the three evils he saw in our society: racism, militarism, and materialism. As King described the campaign's strategy, he was challenged by Andrew Young, an advisor who would later become the Mayor of Atlanta and the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations. Belafonte recounted King's reply:
"'The trouble,' Martin went on, 'is that we live in a failed system. Capitalism does not permit an even flow of economic resources. With this system, a small privileged few are rich beyond conscience and almost all others are doomed to be poor at some level…That's the way the system works. And since we know that the system will not change the rules, we're going to have to change the system.'"
Dr. King frequently spoke out against capitalism, but this private moment shared by Belafonte shows the depth of his critique. "At heart, Martin was a socialist and a revolutionary thinker," Belafonte wrote. One week later, King was dead, shot while standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel.
Harry Belafonte never relented. He intensified his fight against South African apartheid and the ravages of U.S. imperialism abroad. He challenged those in power regardless of political party, from George W. Bush to Barack Obama, from Donald Trump to Joe Biden.
In 2006, as President George W. Bush's disastrous war in Iraq was still raging, Belafonte traveled to Venezuela and spoke at a mass rally, standing alongside President Hugo Chavez:
"No matter what the greatest tyrant in the world, the greatest terrorist in the world, George W. Bush, says, we're here to tell you: Not hundreds, not thousands, but millions of the American people—millions—support your revolution, support your ideas, and, yes, expressing our solidarity with you."
Not long after, Belafonte was disinvited from speaking at the funeral of his dear friend, Coretta Scott King, as President Bush was going to attend.
Belafonte often told the story of his mentor, the singer and activist Paul Robeson, who told him, "Get them to sing your song and they will want to know you." As Harry Belafonte is laid to rest, his message still sings out: We cannot rest.
We mourn the loss of legendary musician, dauntless activist and "lionhearted civil rights icon" Harry Belafonte, who for seven decades used his celestial voice and righteous rage to "lift people up," wielding his fame, fortune and connections to fund bedrock civil rights efforts from SNCC and the Freedom Riders to babysitters for MLK's kids. Giving us "a piece of his fire," he kept doggedly at it so he could tell his children, "In my lifetime, I did all that I could."
Born in Harlem in 1927 to West Indian immigrants, with a Dutch Jewish paternal grandfather, Belafonte was a cross-cultural visionary equally beloved by black and white audiences, an "agent of change" who became what scholar Henry Louis Gates Jr. called "the musical voice of civil rights." Having come of age splitting his childhood between Jim Crow America and a segregated Jamaica still under British rule, he served in the U.S. Navy during World War II only to return to the racist inequities and indignities of both places. When he turned to music, he quickly rose to stardom with the 1956 album Calypso, featuring enduring hits like "Day-O" and "Jamaica Farewell." It sold over a million copies - which briefly rivaled Elvis Presley on the charts - and became, for those of us growing up then, the soundtrack of our young lives. But from the beginning, his music - with its "astonishing" range" - was also consistently, often clandestinely political, melding the buoyant, intricate rhythms of Calypso with stories of hard times. "Almost all Black music is deeply rooted in metaphor," he once said. "The only way we could speak to the pain and the anguish of our experiences was often (by codifying) our stories in the songs we sang." For all its jauntiness, he noted much later, "Dayo is a work song. It's about men who sweat all day long, and they are underpaid... When people sing in delight and dance and love it, they don't really understand it's a song of rebellion."
The same spirit of struggle imbues "Jamaica Farewell," his mournful lament by migrant workers. His slavery-themed "Cotton Fields,” chilling “Swing Dat Hammer” chain gang songs with Odetta, Jewish “Hava Nagila” anthem of freedom, traditional African songs recorded alongside anti-apartheid activist Miriam Makeba - they're all about loss, grief, hardship, resilience. The title song of his bluesy 1962 “The Midnight Special” was popularized by Leadbelly in the '30s after his release from a Texas prison; it's about a real-life train inmates could hear going past that symbolized their hope for freedom. Belafonte's version also boasts an historic debut: When he couldn't get Sonny Terry, he was told about a young harmonica player named Bob Dylan who "does that whole Sonny thing...he sleeps and dreams it." When he reluctantly sent for him, "this skinny kid" appeared with a paper sack full of harmonicas from Woolworth's: "I played the song for him, he pulled one out of the bag, dipped it in water and played it through a single take, and it was great." Dylan didn't want to do another take and threw the harp into the trash can on his way out; they were so cheap and he was so good, he'd play them once and "they were finished." Decades later, Dylan wrote in a memoir, "Harry had ideals and made you feel you're part of the human race...He never took the easy path, though he could have."
Others' praise echoes him. Coretta Scott King: "Harry motivated Martin, because here’s a man who didn’t have to get involved and who did." Miriam Makeba: "He took all our struggles and made them his own." Julian Bond: "Harry did this over and over and over again." Vulture's Craig Jenkins: "He took the prickly, insistent path... He brought people together while making anyone who was too at ease in the old ways of thinking a little uncomfortable." Attuned to the sorrows of the world, Belafonte often tailored songs to a struggle of the moment; a favorite was "Don't Stop the Carnival," a defiant Trinidadian demand that the carnival go on despite longtime state repression. In his electrifying Global Carnival before exultant crowds in Zimbabwe in 1988, the song became a pan-African anthem of solidarity - "You cannot hold back the tide" - with references to Biko, Tutu, Palestine, Mandela. Performing it 20 years earlier in the U.S. on CBS’s Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, the song became a bitter critique of the just-ended "American bacchanal" that was the violent assault on anti-war protesters at Chicago's Democratic National Convention. As he sang, video of it played behind him: "Tell the whole population/We're having a confrontation/Let it be known/Freedom's gone and the country is not our own/Lord, don't stop the carnival! Carnival's an American bacchanal!"
His fierce devotion to social justice also played out in carefully chosen theater, movie and television roles where he stubbornly refused to just shut up and sing/act. He became the first Black man to win a Tony after composing and starring in his 1954 Broadway debut John Murray Anderson's Almanac; that year he also dazzled in Otto Preminger's all-black Carmen Jones opposite Dorothy Dandridge. But he turned down the director's film adaptation of Porgy and Bess because he felt its themes of sex, addiction and violence perpetuated negative Black stereotypes. On the flip side, as a prominent Black man he refused parts that seemed to him "neutered" of sex and rage, which for him "marked an interior life." He turned down two roles - Lilies of the Field (1963) and To Sir, With Love (1967) - that made a star of his friend Sidney Poitier; as broke young men in New York, the pair used to split the cost of single tickets to Broadway shows so each could watch one act. "To Hollywood, Sidney was the one black actor with whom white America felt comfortable," he wrote, citing Poitier's "sexless gallantry.” “It really burned me that in the midst of the civil rights movement, with Jim Crow laws falling away, the only black who sold movie tickets was one who posed no threat whatsoever to the masculinity of white moviegoers.”
On TV, he became the first Black actor to win an Emmy for the 1959 special “Tonight with Belafonte,” after which he signed a million-dollar deal for a series. That first episode had black and white performers singing and dancing; when producers demanded that, going forward, he had to choose either a black or white cast to avoid race-mixing, he walked out on the deal - “I cannot be re-segregated" - though decades later he admitted he'd still made $800,000, much of which went to civil rights efforts. Both he and Petula Clark also refused to do another take of a song after she touched his arm; such were the times. Belafonte called himself “an activist who became an artist, not an artist who became an activist"; he rejected the notion of movies and TV as "all-powerful arbiters of the culture.” “They just reflected the culture," he wrote in a 2011 autobiography. "Doing battle with them was like fighting a mirror. To change the culture, you had to change the country. And only one thing would change the country: the movement.” In this, he chose two American giants as moral mentors. Paul Robeson, the great baritone, Socialist and blacklisted civil rights activist, gave him his "backbone," he said, and his dear friend Martin Luther King Jr. "nourished" his soul. "As long as the compass was pointed at him, he did not shy away from taking on the challenge,” he said of King. “And our task was to help him succeed."
Following his fervent belief in "whatever you’re capable of doing as artists to help propagandize the civil rights revolution," he used his fame and fortune to nudge Hollywood peers into activism and work "fundraising miracles" for King's Southern Christian Leadership Conference and its kindred efforts. As a liaison with the bourgeoning civil rights movement, he used friendships with A-listers like Frank Sinatra, Rita Moreno, Paul Newman, Henry Fonda, Marlon Brando to raise over $100,000 to fund the 1964 Freedom Rides, to attend 1963's March on Washington - he spoke alongside King - to walk, arms locked, for the third time across Edmund Pettus Bridge. His money "went for bonds and bail...for guys to get in their car and go wherever,” he later said. "I was Daddy Warbucks." During 1964's Freedom Summer, he and Poitier narrowly escaped a Ku Klux Klan ambush after they flew to Mississippi to deliver $70,000 to the newly birthed Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee; Poitier later joked, “Don’t ever call me again." Belafonte loved King as a brother and long supported his family despite later differences; in one haunting photo at King's funeral, he sits anguished and red-eyed beside a stony Coretta Scott King. Much later he wrote a pained song for him - "Armed with love/ he marched us all to war/ The song I sing/ I sing for you sweet Martin Luther King - but rarely performed it.
For one unprecedented week in February 1968, at the height of the Tet offensive and riots in U.S. cities - and just months before King and Robert Kennedy were assassinated - Belafonte took over The Tonight Show to "introduce white America to his world of art and activism...It was like seeing a luminous parallel America where everything seemed possible, even if it wasn't in the end." The first Black host of a late-night show, he welcomed gifted, often Black friends: Lena Horne, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Dionne Warwick, the Smothers Brothers. Paul Newman played trombone. Poet Marianne Moore spoke. Zero Mostel stood on a couch to greet Wilt Chamberlain. Sadly, what survives are only his gentle, probing interviews with a relaxed King and Kennedy, weary, thoughtful, despairing about our unholy disparities. He spoke searingly of poverty, rats, lousy housing, hungry children, our "untruths about ourselves (and) treating everyone equally...The fact is we're not caring for them. We're not." Due in part, Belafonte persistently adds, to the war, "this beleaguered child of several administrations." The show, with its palpable sense of loss, is documented in a 2020 film "The Sit-In." Belafonte ended with grace and clarity, recognizing those "offended by the politics aired" but explaining he sought to "give you all a taste of what’s being said in rooms many of you may not know or enter. Thank you for listening.” Whoopi Goldberg: "He was saying, 'We're Americans, we're part of this, we're not going anywhere. Y'all brought us, and we're here.'"
Over time, the silky, multi-platinum voice deepened into a stately, still-rich rasp. He remained knockdown handsome, eloquent and insightful, fiercely devoted to the cause. Tireless, he performed with his terrific musicians and back-up singers around the world - Italy, Angola, Germany, Mozambique - strutting, dancing, drumming, barely breaking a sweat. Watching hours of his performances, we never saw him stop for a break or sip of water, but in an enduring spirit of collectivity he always playfully urged his audiences to sing along with old favorites, which they did, happily. Into his 80s and 90s, he also abided as "an immovable presence on the protest front lines" because, he explained decades ago, “I would hate for my children to look at me and say, ‘Where were you during the moment of the great decision?’” "Movements don't die," he liked to say, "because struggle doesn't die." His perspective was global: Along with his fiery opposition to the Vietnam War, he stood against the U.S. embargo against Cuba, America's wars in the Middle East, South Africa's apartheid system and the 27-year imprisonment of Nelson Mandela; after Mandela's unconditional, bittersweet release in 1990, Belafonte hosted his triumphant visit to the U.S. During the Iraq War, Belafonte called George Bush "the greatest terrorist in the world"; referencing Malcolm X, he also called Colin Powell, who dutifully served Bush, "a house slave."
In the last couple of decades, he worried, "What has happened to the young? What was all of that for - my friends who were murdered?" He went to find out, learning, "There is always something in motion." He turned out for Occupy and BLM events, marched in Pride Parades, sat in with Dream Defenders, joined protests against police murders of Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, Freddie Gray et al. He campaigned for Bernie Sanders and served as a co-chair for the Women’s March on D.C., insisting, "I'm just the plumber - I come in to fix the pipes." At 91, he made a cameo appearance in Spike Lee's BlacKkKlansman with a harrowing speech about America's racism; Lee was awed by "the courage, the weight, the levity... Mr. B is a walking, talking human piece of history." His rare performances were only for a good cause. In 1985, he got the idea for "We Are the World," a charity single by USA for Africa's 46 musical superstars to raise money for a famine in Ethiopia; in days it sold 800,000 copies - ultimately over 20 million - and raised $63 million in famine relief. To lift spirits during a 12-hour session, Al Jarreau broke into an impromptu "Day-O"; in lovely video, we see and hear others quickly, delightedly join in: "Daylight come and we wanna go home." Pointedly stationed in the back, Belafonte at first looks sheepish. But as the voices rise he begins to smile broadly and then sing along, "content to be part of a higher cause without being the shiniest star in the room."
When Jim Henson, creator of The Muppets and Sesame Street, died unexpectedly in 1990, a moving yet often hilarious memorial drew a massive crowd of mourners seeking to pay tribute to a man "balanced effortlessly and gracefully between the sacred and the silly.” Somber in a dark suit, Belafonte spoke poignantly about Henson - "Greater than his artistry was his humanity" - who like him had often "moved among the wretched of the earth." He described mothers in Africa holding children who faced a lifetime of hardships, seeing them laugh at Sesame Street or The Muppets: "They learned to love in an often loveless place...to see there is hope, there is joy, there is greatness in difference. That was Jim's gift." Then he began to sing Turn the World Around, a traditional song he learned from a storyteller in Guinea that he performed on a 1979 Muppets episode. It's about the fire, the sun, the water that work together to turn the world around; humans must also come together, see each other, help each other do the same. "We are of the spirit/Truly of the spirit/Only can the spirit/Turn the world around," he sang. "Do you know who I am?/ Do I know who you are?/See we one another clearly/Turn the world around," punctuated with a soaring, "Woah oh! So is life, so is life!" Belafonte died Tuesday at 96. A standard-bearer of uncommon heart, love, intellect, steadfastness, he "met the moment throughout his life." What a loss. May his memory be for a blessing.
SBCH - Harry Belafonte: Don't Stop The Carnivalyoutu.be
Harry Belafonte and The Muppets - Earth Song (short version)www.youtube.com
No other entertainer immersed themselves so deeply in the Civil Rights Movement; no other activist occupied a niche at so many levels of American politics.
In May 1963, as civil rights demonstrations rocked the city of Birmingham, Alabama, Harry Belafonte was at a cocktail party in Manhattan, scolding the then-attorney general of the United States.
“You may think you’re doing enough,” he recalled telling Robert F. Kennedy, “but you don’t live with us, you don’t even visit our pain.”
Belafonte had many frank and heated conversations with Kennedy. In fact, the singer, actor and activist was on intimate terms with many pivotal figures of the civil rights era.
He was a confidant and adviser to Martin Luther King Jr and allied with Ahmed Sékou Touré, the president of Guinea. He funded the grassroots activists of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) as it battled Jim Crow, and he brought a delegation of Hollywood stars to the March on Washington. Along with his best friend and sometimes-rival, actor Sidney Poitier, Belafonte delivered funds to civil rights volunteers in Greenwood, Mississippi, while the Ku Klux Klan watched their every move.
Belafonte, who died on April 25, 2023, at the age of 96, was a unique figure in the history of the Black freedom struggle in the U.S. No other entertainer immersed themselves so deeply in the Civil Rights Movement; no other activist occupied a niche at so many levels of American politics. If he was a powerful voice for justice, it was because he leveraged his celebrity.
On stage, Belafonte was something to behold, a beacon of charisma. Clad in body-hugging shirts with his chest bare, drawing his audience’s eyes to the looping metal rings at the belt of his tight silk pants, he oozed with seduction. Women swooned.
And he was wildly successful. In 1957, Belafonte sold more records than Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. His repertoire resembled neither Sinatra’s classic pop nor Presley’s up-and-coming rock ‘n’ roll.
The son of West Indian/Carribean immigrants, Belafonte inspired a short-lived craze for calypso music thanks to hits such as “Day O” and “Jamaica Farewell,” and he adapted ethnic folk music for popular consumption – his mainstays included “Hava Nagila,” the Jewish celebration song.
He also starred in Hollywood films such as “Bright Road” (1953) and “Carmen Jones” (1954). “Island in the Sun,” released in 1957, caused a furor. Though Belafonte never kisses his white co-star, Joan Fontaine, on screen, the film explores the theme of interracial romance. The Southern censors banned it.
Belafonte danced around the taboos of race and sex. This exceptionally handsome Black man was charming primarily white audiences, though his light skin color and facial features softened that threat. As a performer, he nudged at racial boundaries without jabbing through them.
“Harry Belafonte stands at the peak of one of the remarkable careers in U.S, entertainment,” proclaimed Time magazine in a 1959 cover feature. He had come a long way from a childhood split between Harlem and Jamaica, from stints in the Navy and as a struggling actor. By then, he was earning about US$750,000 a year, with a lucrative residency at the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas.
That stardom connected Belafonte to Martin Luther King, Jr.
The civil rights leader called him in 1956 during the Montgomery Bus Boycott. Soon Belafonte was part of the movement itself. Following King, he embraced nonviolence. As their friendship strengthened, Belafonte realized the crosses that King bore: the burden of leadership, the fear of death.
HarryBelafonte bought a 21-room apartment on West End Avenue in Manhattan. “Martin would come to think of it as his home away from home, staying with us on many of his New York trips,” he recalled in his memoir, “My Song.”
“On occasion, he brought with him two or three of his closest advisers, and by the mid-sixties, the apartment was one of the movement’s headquarters.” It was a place to both plan strategy and blow off steam, laughing at stories and sipping Harveys Bristol Cream.
Ironically, for such a public figure, much of Belafonte’s work was in private.
In the 1960s, he served as an essential link between King and the SNCC. He not only bankrolled the young militant activists, but he also listened to their concerns, respected their organizing efforts and communicated their perspectives to influential power brokers.
That responsibility to speak for the movement led Belafonte to chide Bobby Kennedy in May 1963. Throughout the early 1960s, he expressed frustration with the attorney general’s detachment from the activists’ struggle. But over time, he came to appreciate Kennedy’s evolution, as he became a U.S. senator and emerged as a voice for the poor, for racial minorities, for “The Other America.”
Famously, in February 1968, Belafonte hosted “The Tonight Show” for a week, using his platform to illuminate Black perspectives and spotlight social injustice. His guests included King, who was about to launch his Poor People’s Campaign, and Kennedy, whom Belafonte urged to start a presidential campaign.
Within months, both men were assassinated.
For more than a half-century, Belafonte carried on the legacy of the 1960s, often taking provocative positions from the far-left edge of the political spectrum. Like few others, he blended the worlds of culture and politics, singing a song of justice.
"I was an activist who became an artist, I was not an artist who became an activist," the progressive champion once said.
Harry Belafonte, the beloved singer and civil rights activist who never wavered from his commitment to a better and more just world, has died at the age of 96.
A spokesperson said that Belafonte, who straddled the world between celebrity and progressive activism for over seven decades, died at his home on the Upper West Side of Manhattan from complications related to congestive heart failure.
"I was an activist who became an artist, I was not an artist who became an activist," Belafonte (1927-2023) once said.
His admirers responded to the news by heralding Belfonte's exceptional determination and generous spirit.
"Harry Belafonte NEVER STOPPED fighting for Black liberation from the bonds of racism," said Maya Wiley, president and CEO of the Leadership Conference of Civil and Human Rights. "A powerful voice and leader. So grateful for him."
Activist and scholar Cornell West said, "I am deeply sad at the loss of my very dear brother—the great Harry Belafonte! His artistic genius, moral courage & loving soul shall live forever! God bless his precious family!"
Fifty-three years ago last Sunday, America's greatest prophet of freedom, Martin Luther King Jr., was shot dead by an assassin. On the same date a year earlier, he first proclaimed his then-scandalous opposition to the Vietnam War. Inevitably, this anniversary highlights both one part of the often-ignored portion of King's witness -- his fierce challenge to American militarism -- and the brutality of how his work was cut short and his vision rejected by America's regressive forces. Thus, perhaps more than the national holiday centered around his birthday, this solemn anniversary compels us to reflect on King's full legacy, why his vision was so powerful and so viciously resisted, and what they mean right now for we who inherit the struggle to redeem our nation.
That struggle has never been more urgent. And the whole, radical praxis King left us has never, we believe, been so necessary to fully embrace and apply.
Our nation faces interlocking crises of unprecedented collective scale and urgency, from the pandemic's devastation to extreme economic inequality, entrenched systemic racism, the right's assault on our democracy, and the overarching imperative of climate breakdown. The resurgent progressive left is the only social force committed to fully confronting and resolving them. From last year's historic wave of protest to protect Black lives from state violence to the rise of a new, movement-aligned democratic socialist contingent with real power -- launched by Bernie Sanders's presidential campaigns and growing from Democratic Socialists of America chapters across America to the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez-led wing of the Congressional Progressive Caucus -- there is undeniable momentum toward transformational change that would have been hard to imagine just a few years ago.
Like most democratic socialist political visions, Kingian democratic socialism demands a radical, structural redistribution of wealth and power.
Yet, along with that momentum, we also confront deep, daunting challenges and limitations. Despite a very open field and an effective sweep of the first three primary states, the progressive left failed to make a candidate of ours the Democratic nominee. And even with a Democratic trifecta, the breakthrough reforms we so urgently need face steep barriers. So as we seek the best path forward in the new terrain of the Biden administration, we encourage our movement to make use of the special opportunity that today provides, not only to remember and honor King, but to reflect on what his full legacy might offer to our generational task in this moment.
In our view, it offers something essential. In fact, we believe that what we might call "Kingian democratic socialism" is perhaps the very best guide for how the progressive left can make America what it ought to be and must finally become: a multi-racial social democracy at peace with itself and the world.
A Kingian democratic socialism
By Kingian democratic socialism we mean the fusion of King's prophetic social vision, fully including his radical critiques not only of racism but also of capitalism and militarism, with his revolutionary methods of social change. "Kingian revolutionary politics" might serve as well, but we choose this frame to highlight one of the most radical, under-appreciated and consequential dimensions of King's politics, one which serves well as an orienting foundation for the rest, and also to explicitly connect to the vibrant democratic socialist current animating today's American progressive left.
As a note to Kingian scholars, trainers and acolytes, please know that we propose this formulation with great appreciation for and the aspiration to contribute to the framework of Kingian Nonviolence, a tradition developed by Dr. Bernard Lafayette, one of King's lieutenants, and David Jehnsen. Both of us have trained in that tradition and advocate what it teaches. While Kingian Nonviolence focuses tightly on the core principles of King's moral vision and conception of nonviolence and has tended somewhat toward producing practitioners of conflict reconciliation and peace-building, we aim here to add an emphasis on King's full political critique and to empower political organizers who undertake the kind of efforts that made up most of King's work: nonviolent direct action campaigns and popular mobilization.
Like most democratic socialist political visions, Kingian democratic socialism demands a radical, structural redistribution of wealth and power. It centers the plight of the economic "least of these," the poor, and the conditions of the working class, bringing a militant challenge to the greed-driven extreme materialism and "thing-oriented" fixation of capitalism. Kingian democratic socialism strives to build a new economy based on the realization of egalitarian, inclusive human well-being. It understands that organizing the poor and the working class and building a radical union movement to confront and overcome capital's power is central. But not exclusively so.
A Kingian democratic socialist approach to class is inherently deeply intersectional, forged in an intimate struggle to dismantle the society-defining, brutally violent racial caste system of the original Jim Crow. Indeed, when King launched his last, uncompleted project, the Poor People's Campaign, he declared its mission to challenge a set of "triple evils," poverty and capitalist inequality, systemic racism and militarist empire, which he saw as fundamentally interlinked.
The revolutionary challenge Kingian democratic socialism makes to the second of those triple evils, systemic racism, is sweeping and visionary. It rejects not only every expression of anti-Black hatred, all forms of racism, personal and institutional, and every expression of white supremacy, but any logic of supremacy itself. It aims to reconstruct American society to reckon with and repair fully the harm of the genocidal colonization and slavery of our founding and, through that deep collective atonement, forge a genuinely multi-racial democracy. A Beloved Community, in which real human fellowship and freedom are enriched by our rainbow of heritage and unshackled from the traumas of the past, is the North Star, never to be abandoned for cynical hate or separatist despair no matter the new pains we experience.
Further, while the anti-racist perspective of many in the United States and even some progressives sometimes seems blind to the impacts of American foreign policy on people of color beyond our borders, the anti-imperialist and anti-militarist orientation of Kingian democratic socialism produces a consistent, global concern for racial justice. The lethal systemic racism evidenced in the suffering of sun-kissed people in Vietnam, El Salvador, Somalia, Yemen or Palestine killed by American soldiers or weapons -- or by governments we support -- is as clear and urgent as that displayed in the pain of Black children poisoned by lead pipes and criminal neglect in Flint, Michigan or brown migrant children ripped from their mother's arms at our southern border. It must be so, because a Kingian democratic socialist view sees human lives as fundamentally equal and precious without exception, possessed of a worth entirely unrelated to national origin or citizenship.
Kingian democratic socialism does call America to be a great nation in the world community. But the greatness to which it calls us, as King explained in his profound "Drum Major Instinct" sermon, is a greatness not of selfish, imperial domination or walled, wealthy isolation but one of loving service. Alongside this redemptive faith in the potential of American power to serve the world as a just, compassionate force for good, Kingian democratic socialism brooks no excuse for the abuse of that power and has zero tolerance for American hypocrisy in world affairs whether on human rights, democracy or any other matter. It insists on integrity as a condition of righteous leadership for people and nations. It rejects empire and the war economy categorically, confronting the military-industrial complex and calling for a radical shift in our national budget and priorities from war and the preparations for it toward ambitious investments in and initiatives toward building a just peace among all nations.
On the question of war, Kingian democratic socialism's opposition to militarism is profound, because it is rooted not only in conditional objections to specific interests or methods but in a principled, universal insistence that humankind can and must find less destructive and devastating ways to settle even our most serious conflicts. Even as we reckon with the tragic constraints and awful choices that the violent world, as it is, presents to leaders and governments, Kingian democratic socialism drives us to never give up on the determined, creative and courageous civilizational march toward the horizon of abolishing forever the human institution of war.
This radical, redemptive critique of American imperialism is part of a deeper understanding of our nation. Kingian democratic socialism is committed to seeing and owning the whole of the American story. It insists that we reckon fully with America's profound original sins and the grave injustices that are part of what we are today. Yet, as is often harder for many of us on the left, Kingian democratic socialism also claims full ownership of the revolutionary, democratic legacy which has also been part of America from the start. It refuses to let false patriots who defile democracy like Donald Trump wrap themselves in our flag. Indeed, Kingian democratic socialism understands that -- from a moral, aspirational perspective concerned foremost with the highest values we proclaim as a nation -- those like Harriet Tubman who are most true to the cause of real democracy are, in fact, more truly American and the most qualified to bear our national symbols and be represented on them.
While prominent currents in leftist history have made the crucial mistake of rejecting religion entirely as a tool of oppression, Kingian democratic socialism chooses a markedly different path. It embraces the liberatory power of religious community and spiritual practice while rejecting Christian supremacy in favor of interfaith fellowship grounded in reason.
The most central, perhaps, among those values which ground Kingian democratic socialism is an uncompromising ethic of universal, unconditional, compassionate love.
For Kingian democratic socialists, an intersectional view expands to an integral one that sees all injustice and suffering as interrelated because it understands all life as interdependent. Kingian democratic socialism perceives the reality and importance of race, class, gender, nation, faith, sexuality, and all the dimensions of our experience and dividing lines of identity by which injustice is often structured, while also taking a holistic view of the full, individual person in their unique story, experience and precious humanity. Thus, its populism is radically inclusive. Kingian democratic socialists strive to build a truly welcoming fusion movement of deep fellowship across every line of difference, bringing all who embrace its values into common struggle to create a society in which they are fully realized.
The most central, perhaps, among those values which ground Kingian democratic socialism is an uncompromising ethic of universal, unconditional, compassionate love. While Kingian democratic socialists acknowledge that holding such a love in our hearts and acting according to it as a rule is extremely difficult, we understand it as inescapably essential and unfailingly liberating. We aren't talking about liking everyone or advocating naive kumbaya choruses. The radical love King taught is not a sentimental, weak or passive feeling. It is an active, determined, transformational force. This transformative love drives those who commit to it to strive toward a revolution whose ultimate aim is not only the utter reconstruction of every institution to align it with love, but the reconciliation and redemption of all people in a Beloved Community.
Owing in part to Gandhi's seminal influence, another core value of Kingian democratic socialism is its commitment to truth. We must speak truth, acknowledge it fully and in all its complexity even when inconvenient or temporarily disadvantageous, and devote ourselves to an ongoing, open pursuit of truth. Thus, a Kingian democratic socialism is fundamentally non-sectarian. It seeks not the maintenance of any sterile dogma or line, but an ongoing dialogue and a continuous evolution guided by enduring principles. In fact, on the question of how to describe the radical orientation to political economy that he advocated, King proposed in his 1961 speech to the Negro American Labor Council a decidedly non-sectarian, ecumenical approach, saying, "Call it democracy, or call it democratic socialism, but there must be a better distribution of wealth within this country for all God's children."
This statement also points to the non-negotiable centrality of democracy within a Kingian democratic socialism. Some say that socialism inherently includes democracy, but the historical actions of many self-described socialists and the realities of some avowedly socialist governments or nations make clear that this simply isn't true. People who are deeply concerned with economic justice can unfortunately still embrace authoritarian approaches to both movements and governing, forgetting that political self-determination is an essential condition of true freedom and justice. Kingian democratic socialism militantly rejects any compromise on political democracy and civil liberty. It understands them as equally essential as economic justice and equality and integral to any progressive project and any liberatory socialism.
Strategically, Kingian democratic socialism pursues its vision of radical social transformation by building a well-organized movement that wields power on two fronts: mass, militantly nonviolent direct action and protest and the electoral task of mobilizing majorities to vote and govern. The nonviolence of Kingian democratic socialism is resolute, grounded in a moral posture that holds sacred the dignity of every human life. But it is also shrewdly strategic, motivated by an analysis of how everyday people can best win contests for the ultimate arbiter of social conflict: the active allegiance of the majority.
To claim King and root one's vision in his dream is to operate from one of the very strongest positions of moral high ground and transpartisan political credibility possible in our country.
As organizers, Kingian democratic socialists are called to servant leadership that renounces greed and careerist ambition in favor of sacrifice for a mission and community with those who suffer most. Kingian democratic socialism calls us to a lifetime of beautiful struggle. It leads us to militantly confront the darkest, deepest injustices while shining the most radiant light, one which affirms our highest aspirations by embodying them in human action, thus illuminating a concrete way to the promised land where they might be fulfilled.
For all these great strengths and its special synthetic brilliance, we acknowledge, of course, that King's revolutionary political praxis was not perfect and must continue to evolve and grow. In King's time, a gay leader like Bayard Rustin could not be active in national politics without staying in the closet. Today there are prominent lesbian, gay, and bisexual elected officials at every level of government. The Kingian democratic socialism of our time, and that which we advocate, is one that has undergone a feminist evolution that fully integrates trans-inclusive gender justice and embraces sexual diversity. This feminist development is powerfully displayed in the history-shaping leadership of the founding national co-chairs of the Women's March, Tamika Mallory, Carmen Perez and Linda Sarsour, who trained extensively in Kingian Nonviolence with King's dear friend and collaborator, Harry Belafonte.
Another area where Kingian democratic socialism has evolved is in the deeper integration of ecological awareness and the recognition that the climate crisis and environmental destruction are a central, overarching, existential concern. We see this development clearly in the decision by Rev. William J. Barber II and the leaders who revived King's Poor People's Campaign to include what they term "ecological devastation" alongside King's original triple evils in an expanded conception of the giant interlocking injustices we must confront.
Why Kingian democratic socialism now for the progressive left?
To prevail in our generational task, the progressive left must win the trust and allegiance of a decisive majority of Americans that empowers us to govern our nation for long enough to lead it through profound changes. To accomplish this -- what some would call a realignment -- we need an orienting basis of unity that provides a radical, transformative vision. It will need to challenge all of the institutional barriers to freedom -- from capital to systemic racism to the military-industrial complex -- and offer a story that is rooted in who we already are and have always been as Americans. It must be an unassailably American story and a genuinely revolutionary one.
King and his revolutionary politics offer an unequaled solution. King's radical vision is one of the most transformative and aspirational ever proclaimed. And there is simply no other comparably radical progressive figure and tradition that is memorialized at the highest level of our political culture. Indeed, Martin Luther King Jr. is one of a handful of Americans honored with a monument on our National Mall. To claim King and root one's vision in his dream is to operate from one of the very strongest positions of moral high ground and transpartisan political credibility possible in our country.
Kingian democratic socialism, mobilized as the vehicle by which we build a movement and a new America that can lead the world to solve the existential climate crisis together, offers an unparalleled framework for the realignment we must achieve. Poetically, such an achievement would finally fulfill the potential for a progressive realignment that was created when King and others forced the Democratic Party to break with the Southern Dixiecrat part of its coalition by enacting the civil and voting rights reforms that ended Jim Crow. Then, for various reasons, including, in our view, the irreplaceable loss of King's leadership, progressive forces couldn't hold the support of enough white people to forge a winning multi-racial coalition. Clearly, that is now possible, even in Georgia. But, as Trump's gains among Latinos and other communities of color show, demographics are neither destiny or safe to take for granted.
So how do we build a durable multi-racial coalition that not only can produce a majority that elects Democrats but creates a progressive left-led version of the Democratic Party? Several elements we see as strategic keys are strongly enabled by Kingian democratic socialism. The powerful race/class narrative called for by Ian Haney Lopez and lifted up brilliantly in Heather McGhee's new book as a path to building a progressive multi-racial coalition comes naturally within the civil rights-forged fusion approach of Kingian democratic socialism. The inclusive populism that Sunrise Movement promotes and the welcoming, "relentlessly positive" politics that Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez implores us to practice are similarly inherent to Kingian democratic socialism, fueled by its unconditional commitment to seek the redemptive potential of others and lovingly welcome every kind of person into a radiantly hopeful coalition of conscience. Embracing a proudly moral language that resonates with the faith traditions and spiritual aspirations of so many Americans, as Kingian democratic socialism does so well, is another key to winning support for our policy vision from a larger base, within and beyond traditional Democratic voters.
Some leftists still contend that we can win major Democratic primary elections primarily by mobilizing a decisive turnout of new, nontraditional or very infrequent working class voters. No modern primary campaign has done close to what the Bernie presidential campaigns did on the mobilization front and still the limitations of what that can achieve in a cycle were confirmed. We have to keep working at improving this capacity, especially through longer-term permanent organizing. But we must understand that to win we must dramatically strengthen our ability to persuade or convert existing Democratic voters who have not yet chosen to back progressive left candidates in primaries but who support or are open to much of our policy agenda.
Some of us lapse easily into cynical dismissal or even disrespectful conflict with Democratic voters who aren't already with us or may challenge our candidate or ideas -- but these are some of the exact people who we need to win over. To do so, we must meet them where they're at with respect. We have to listen, demonstrate the inviting, compassionate character of our movement and build bridges of relationship that offer the easiest possible path to join us. The deep nonviolence and uncompromising love ethic of Kingian democratic socialism are incredibly powerful tools for this essential work.
If the progressive left is going to succeed in becoming the senior rather than junior partner or even the hegemonic force in the Democratic Party coalition in the next decade, we will have to adapt how we communicate and organize to connect with older Black voters. No other constituency votes at higher rates for Democrats. Older Black voters are the core of the party. Though they have many policy affiliations with the progressive left, we have rarely won their votes. There are multiple reasons for this and we don't pretend to have the answer, but we think embracing Kingian democratic socialism can help. A movement that is proudly, explicitly rooted in the legacy of the greatest leader of the civil rights generation begins from a place of deep common ground with older Black voters. That bridge -- one in which our full, radical policy vision is firmly secure -- may provide opportunities to build toward greater cooperation to fulfill King's vision
Finally, if our movement is going to succeed we must be able to exercise power in the streets, in the workplace, at the ballot box and in the halls of power. As we've noted, we need both people power in the form of mass, militant nonviolent direct action from marches, boycotts, protests, sit-ins, blockades and strikes and electoral power to mobilize majorities and govern effectively. This fusion is core to Kingian democratic socialism. We have seen it play out successfully in multiple recent struggles. The Fight for $15 -- though not yet won nationally -- is one. The integration of mass nonviolent protest and mass voter mobilization will be crucial to build the popular support and majorities we need. And we must expect that it will be essential to defend them and counter the serious extra-legal resistance our movement could face from corporations, paramilitary right-wing forces or parts of the military or state security and surveillance institutions if we gain power and severely threaten entrenched interests determined to block major change.
At any stage of this process, this strategic fusion is much less likely to work if our movement enacts or is successfully portrayed as committing significant political violence. As Omar Wasow's research helps show, strategic nonviolent discipline is crucial to ensure that the polarization power of disruptive protest works to build popular support and sustain majority coalitions. Kingian democratic socialism provides the best framework for building a movement that can escalate to high levels of disruption and sacrifice through direct action while still maintaining crucial nonviolent discipline.
It is time to realize the dream
We see hopeful signs of elements of the Kingian democratic socialism we call for here in many places in our movement. They're visible in spaces from the new Poor People's Campaign to the sublime nonviolent resistance at Standing Rock, from calls for a "politics of loving our neighbor," radical love, reparations, a federal jobs guarantee, and cutting the Pentagon budget from the Squad to organizations like Until Freedom and Sunrise Movement, from the Fight for $15 and Amazon workers organizing a union in the Deep South to grassroots struggles across the country for Black lives and justice in all its forms.
Now, more than ever before, we believe it is time for us to take up the collective work of studying, building alignment around, and innovating together to consciously apply King's full, living radical praxis to our movement.
Today, when we mourn King's tragic, brutal murder on this Resurrection Sunday, we hope that his revolutionary love legacy will be powerfully revived in our time. If we make it so, we believe that together we can lead our nation out of its present wilderness to the promised land of a truly multi-racial social democracy secure in the blessing of a peaceful, healthy planet. With the vision and tools he left us, let us finally realize the radical, undying dream to which Martin Luther King Jr. devoted his life.
Opinion pieces recently have been comparing and contrasting what is going on in the year 2020 with what Americans went through in 1968. One such piece in the Washington Post focused on riots, pandemics, and the law-and-order theme in presidential campaigns. Others have focused on causally unrelated events: each year had a viral health crisis, influenza in 1968, Covid-19 in 2020; and each had a landmark space mission.
We want to focus on events relating to the continuing racial problems in our country. 2020 and 1968 look alike, but they are not. The extreme racial violence leading into 1968 was different in at least three ways.
Although most of the victims of racist violence in 1968 were African Americans, some were young white men and women. They risked and gave their lives working for racial justice.
First, although most of the victims of racist violence in 1968 were African Americans, some were young white men and women. They risked and gave their lives working for racial justice. Their deaths horrified, shamed, and disturbed the consciences of white Americans, old and young, except in places where deeply rooted racism was the longstanding way of life for white citizens.
Andrew Goodman (20 years old) and Michael Schwerner (24) from New York City worked alongside African American James Chaney (21) of Meridian, Mississippi for the Congress of Racial Equality. They were abducted, shot point-blank, and buried like animals in an earthen dam (June 21, 1964) near Philadelphia, Mississippi.
Thirty-eight-year-old James Reeb was a white protestant minister with a wife and four children. He was committed to the idea that "you cannot make a difference for African-Americans while living comfortable in a white community." In early March, 1965, as a member of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, he left his family at home in predominantly African American Roxbury, Massachusetts and went to Selma, Alabama in order to join the protest marches. He was clubbed to death while walking with two other white clergymen back to their lodgings outside the 'negro' area of Selma (March 9, 1965). Rev. Clark Olsen, who survived this brutal attack, recalls hearing the three of them called "n- lovers" and then the sickening thud of the wooden club smashing Reeb's skull.
Viola Luizzo, age 39, had grown up in extreme poverty in Georgia and Tennessee and felt profound sympathies for African Americans living as 'slaves by another name' in the Jim Crow South. She felt called to leave her husband and five children to travel from Detroit, Michigan to Selma, Alabama in March 1965. She was shot twice in the head by members of the Ku Klux Klan while shuttling marchers and volunteers by car from Montgomery to Selma.
Second, prominent leaders in the national government and civil rights organizations were themselves relatively young and deeply committed to ending racism. In fact, we are writing this piece on the anniversary (June 11, 1963) of President John F. Kennedy's televised address to the nation explaining what civil rights are and why southern universities needed to be integrated.
Those who led us as a people had experience, real and vicarious, of the brutality of war and the inhumanity of poverty and prejudice. Martin Luther King, Jr. who had begun working for civil rights when he was 25, was murdered in Memphis, Tennessee, on April 4, 1968 in the prime of his life. Medgar Evers, a WWII veteran, a lawyer and tireless state field secretary of the NAACP, was murdered in his driveway by rifle fire by a member of the White Citizens' Council in Jackson, Mississippi on June 12, 1963. Evers was 37.
John F. Kennedy, a war veteran with an understanding of anti-Irish and anti-Catholic prejudice, and his brother Robert F. Kennedy were 46 and 43 respectively when they were murdered by gunfire. The Kennedys were children of privilege and elite education, but they came to know, as James Brown would put it, "what it is and what it is."
JFK had introduced civil rights legislation in Congress in April 1963 and RFK, as attorney general, had sent 400 federal marshals to Montgomery, Alabama in May 1961 to protect MLK and other civil rights activists. On May 24, 1963, RFK, while attorney general, held a small informal gathering on race relations with a dozen prominent African Americans including author James Baldwin and singers Harry Belafonte and Lena Horne. Jerome Smith, a Freedom Rider who had been jailed and beaten in Mississippi, came along. Smith did not mince words. He described being arrested and beaten while Justice Department officials stood by and took notes. RFK's conversion was not instantaneous like Saul's on the road to Damascus. But he eventually grasped the day-to-day realities of racism and acted to stop racism.
With Vietnam a constant public issue, RFK could declare, "How long can we say to a Negro in Jackson, 'When war comes you will be an American citizen, but in the meantime you're a citizen of Mississippi--and we can't help you'?"
The third major difference was the Vietnam War and the draft. Phase 1 of the Tet Offensive and the prolonged siege of U.S. Marines at Khe Sanh from January to July 1968 were determining factors in turning public opinion against the war. With Vietnam a constant public issue, RFK could declare, "How long can we say to a Negro in Jackson, 'When war comes you will be an American citizen, but in the meantime you're a citizen of Mississippi--and we can't help you'?" The universal draft exposed every young American coming of age to mortal danger. It made many families think about Saigon and Khe Sanh and about Jackson and Selma and Montgomery at the same time.
The contrast with 2020 is clear. Right now, we have neither a critical mass of mainstream Americans nor young dedicated leaders in political office who feel deeply enough about what is going on to do more than debate the acceptable boundaries of police use of force and how to keep targeted minorities from responding to acts of violence with violence. On the positive side, Rev. Al Sharpton sees reason for hope in the racial and gender diversity of the protesters at recent peaceful demonstrations. If we are to reach another new frontier, we may have to rely on each other--a remarkable 'ask' in the time of Covid-19, but one that many people, young and old, seem to be answering. We can draw upon models of moral courage and moral leadership in the 1960s.
We have martyred victims in 2020 who are calling us to do more than demonstrate. 2020 is not 1968, but it could be.
Harry Belafonte has been a household name across the United States and around much of the world for seventy years. He's ninety now--and his legendary resonant voice is a bit harder to decipher sometimes. He walks with a cane, and more slowly. But his mind--quicksilver, curious, funny--is as swift as ever.
He's been often worshipped and occasionally reviled for his music, his acting, his activism, his internationalism, and his commitment to justice. He's been a mentor to generations of activists, an organizer and mobilizer, and a man of biting wit. He remained a sought-after speaker up until his recent announcement that he may stop giving public appearances.
His memoir, My Song, which came out a few years ago, gives a lively insider history of the civil rights movement. But even as a best-selling author, Harry was never primarily known, at least as far as I was aware, as a literary figure, a bibliophile. Until this year.
In February, New York's 115th Street Public Library--in the very center of historic Harlem--was renamed in his honor. At the ceremony, New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio said, "Harry Belafonte has a storied career as both an artist and an advocate for New York City. His drive and initiative have had major impact in the realms of social justice, civil rights, culture, and activism, especially in the Harlem community. It is my honor and privilege to work with the New York Public Library to honor Mr. Belafonte and celebrate the life and accomplishment of this invaluable New Yorker."
The 115th Street Library was built in 1908, one of the many lending libraries built by Andrew Carnegie. It became a center of Harlem community arts and organizing. Belafonte grew up in Harlem, and he embodies much of that dual commitment, to arts and organizing, that the library--now the Harry Belafonte 115th Street Library--represents.
Last year, Belafonte was inducted into the Library Lions club--named for the iconic stone cats that have welcomed and put up with legions of climbing and clinging kids outside the entrance to the city's main public library at 42nd Street and 5th Avenue.
Asked at the Library Lions gala how he felt being inducted, he returned to his Hollywood roots, comparing it to "being in a Humphrey Bogart movie. It's such a mysterious society and when I was told I got it, I had to go, 'Oh my God. What did I do? What did I do to earn it?' I'm just very honored and touched that they offered [it to] me."
Some years ago, I heard him speak at the Institute for Policy Studies' annual human rights awards, Belafonte spoke of his own mentor, the great actor, singer and public intellectual Paul Robeson. He reminded us of what the leftwing political leader had taught him about how to be both artist and activist. He spoke of passing on what we learn--the lessons, the legacies--of those who have gone before.
And he never forgets those legacies. In a recent conversation about the Institute's work with Reverend William Barber and others leading the new Poor People's Campaign, he jumped in with a story. "The last time I spoke to Martin," he said, referring to Martin Luther King, Jr., "we were making plans for the [1968] Poor People's Campaign. Martin was getting ready to leave town and we were supposed to meet about it again when he came back--from Memphis." Just days later Dr. King would be murdered in Memphis.
At the ceremony celebrating the renaming of the library, Mr. B, as he's so often known, said, "On March 1, ninety years ago, I was born here. Harlem holds a very special place in my heart, and I'm so honored that I will now have a special place in Harlem. A library is a place for people to come together, to learn about their world and explore new ideas, things I've tried to do my entire life. I am hopeful that when people come to this place that will now bear my name, they will be inspired to learn about some of the pursuits I've held most dear--music, writing and social justice."
With the combination of the Calypso and Caribbean music he made famous, his evocative (and occasionally hilarious) memoir, and his myriad of current organizations and constant political work, it's pretty clear that Harry Belafonte's own version of that triple legacy is still on the rise.
Activist and artist Harry Belafonte could be sitting or standing when you meet him, but he's usually the only true giant in the room. Meeting Mr. Belafonte and his wife, Pamela, in the green room of the Carnegie Music Hall last Friday was a perk resulting from having interviewed him by phone the week before.
Mr. Belafonte was in Pittsburgh ostensibly to give a speech about the state of civil rights and black politics. The truth is that he could've come to town to read from the phone book and still attracted the 1,000 people who turned up for what he would call on stage later that night his "last public appearance."
When he extended his hand in the green room, I was struck by the fact that it was the same hand that had gripped Paul Robeson's and Eleanor Roosevelt's in gratitude for their mentorship in the 1940s. It was the same hand that clasped Martin Luther King's in friendship in the early 1950s, years before he was the civil rights leader he would eventually become.
When you shake hands with Mr. Belafonte, you're one degree of separation from Charlie Parker, Miles Davis and Lester Young at the Royal Roost giving advice to an earnest young singer who had until recently been a janitor's assistant in Harlem.
When Harry Belafonte smiles at you, you wonder if the magnetism radiating from him in torrents is something his fellow thespians Marlon Brando, Tony Curtis, Bea Arthur and Sidney Poitier recognized when they all took acting workshops together in Greenwich Village in the postwar years.
If you can avoid a sense of giddiness having your hand clasped by a man who shook hands with Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly after catching them in concert at the Village Vanguard, then you're blessed with a less imposing sense of history than I am.
After all, this was the same hand that James Baldwin shook. It was these fingers that caressed Dorothy Dandridge's cheeks in "Carmen Jones." It belongs to the man who gave Bob Dylan his first professional recording gig. Coretta Scott King cried on this man's shoulders after her husband was assassinated. Decades later, Nelson Mandela would embrace him in revolutionary solidarity for producing music that helped keep him alive. I was shaking hands with a man who constantly stood at the apex of American history.
I don't often find myself at a loss for words around famous people, but somehow I kept my prattling to a minimum while he regaled the four of us in that room with tales from an impossibly glamorous life.
I sat to the side as Janis Burley Wilson, the new president and CEO of the August Wilson Center, gave Mr. Belafonte a sneak preview of some of the questions members of the audience would ask during the Q&A later that night.
Charlene Foggie-Barnett, the archive specialist for the Teenie Harris Archives at the Carnegie Museum of Art, tried to prompt his memory about where pictures taken of him by the famed photographer in the Hill District decades go were staged. She also presented him with a book of Teenie's photos that absolutely delighted him.
Me? I had no gifts to bring. All I really wanted was a photo with Harry Belafonte, but after seeing how much he teased and hassled Charlene and Janis when they asked to do "selfies" with him, I thought better of it.
After relenting to their request, he then photo-bombed the session by smiling playfully like the Joker and making faces instead of being totally cooperative. I don't remember who said it, but I'm sure I heard one of the women mutter "now you're just being silly."
It made me laugh out loud to see Harry Belafonte, the first man to sell a million records, casting superstar decorum aside to make mischief. We were the only men in the room, which is probably why we laughed so hard.
A half hour later, Mr. Belafonte, dressed in a gray suit and navy turtleneck and carrying a cane, was lead to one of two red chairs on the stage by hip-hop activist Jasiri X., who could easily be mistaken for one of his sons. He tipped the baseball cap he was wearing to a thunderous standing ovation.
What followed was one of the most moving evenings I think I've ever experienced in Pittsburgh. He shared the news that he'd had a stroke recently, so this was probably his last public appearance. His voice was strong, but husky. Still, the anecdotes rolled off his tongue like fire.
Mr. Belafonte effortlessly recalled his hardscrabble youth in Harlem and Jamaica, giving credit to his single mom for keeping him in line. "Never come upon an injustice you do not pause to fix," he said, mimicking her Jamaican accent.
His life with all of its twists and turns -- poverty, sudden fame, McCarthyism, civil rights activism, a dire prediction about fascism in America -- was laid bare on the stage.
He shared one final anecdote before leaving the stage. It was about a dispirited MLK days before he was assassinated, privately confessing to aides that those pushing him to become more radical had a point. MLK agreed that the civil rights movement was asking blacks to integrate "into a burning house." When asked what their strategy should be going forward, MLK reportedly said, "We just have to become firemen."
With that, the 90-year-old performer waved a final goodbye to the audience before he was led from the stage and into history's grateful embrace.
Legendary civil rights activist, singer, and actor Harry Belafonte took the stage over the weekend at what he said would be his last public appearance and issued a stark warning about what he thinks may be in store for America.
Electing Donald Trump was a mistake, he said, "and I think the next mistake might very well be the gas chamber and what happened to Jews [under] Hitler is not too far from our door," the Guardian reports him as saying.
Ninety-year-old Belafonte, who recently said he thinks "the nation is at the crossroads of probably our most challenging moment in history," was speaking on "Civil Rights and Black Leadership" at the Carnegie Music Hall in Pittsburgh.
He talked about how his mother, a Jamaican immigrant, played a formative role in his fight for social justice. As Belafonte told a crowd in New Haven, Conn. days earlier, "She told me to never come across an injustice and not stop to fix it." Her message, he told the Pittsubrgh crowd, "stayed with me forever."
Despite his warnings about a Trump-era U.S., Belafonte still expressed reason for optimism.
"I think in the final analysis that we shall overcome, because what we did is ... we left a harvest that generations to come [will] reap. That they have not yet plowed. That they have not yet harvested."
His warnings about President Trump are far from new.
Days before Trump took office, he said that "we, citizens of the union, have the capacity and the responsibility to make sure that Trump's philosophy and his view of life and fellow beings does not endure." And, he added, "I will spend what time I have left on this good earth to make sure that I have contributed all that's at my disposal to make him unworthy."
"It isn't just Donald Trump, the man or his villainy, his broken spirit or the corruption of his soul that is always a presence in our midst," he said ahead of Election Day. "It was startling to see the number of people who approved of him, who embraced him and who support his utterances. America has a cancer that's at work. It's slowly distributing itself through the national body."
To fight such forces, he thinks some "ass-kicking" is needed.
At a Democracy Now! event in December, he said "we might have fought to end Hitler, but we also fought for our right to vote in America, that in the pursuit of such rights came the civil rights movement. Well, that can happen again. We just have to get out our old coats, dust them off, stop screwing around and just chasing the good times, and get down to business. There's some ass kicking out here to be done. And we should do it."
Belafonte, whose advanced age was apparent at the Friday event, will leave a rich legacy of song, film, and advocacy to inspire future generations.
For his epitaph, though, he has suggested there should be just one word: "Patriot."