“Lift ev’ry voice and sing, till earth and heaven ring, ring with the harmonies of liberty.” — James Weldon Johnson, “Lift Every Voice And Sing”
Enthralled in a crescendo of disbelief, I watched as Michelle Obama, in just three sentences, destroyed Donald Trump for maligning her and her husband, denounced his racism, and declared him unworthy of power.
As she raptured the crowd at the Democratic National Convention into a state of euphoria, it was evident that our Forever First Lady was in peerless form. Watching her speech from my childhood home in Miami last week, I felt split between two perspectives: one absorbing the substance of her words and the other captivated by her performance.
While the speech effectively served its political purpose, the grace, depth, and agility of her delivery revealed something far more profound and significant.
Do you want more?
Subscribe to Native Son’s newsletter for more news, information, and conversations about Black gay and queer everything.
From the moment she appeared on stage clad in a deconstructed navy blue suit, Michelle stood at the lectern like a sentinel prepared to deny us entry to the castle. But the early moments of her speech revealed that though she was a loyal agent of the establishment, she was also a secret co-conspirator of the people, eager to point us in a different direction.
This fortitude comes from her late mother, Marian Robinson.
“The woman who showed me the meaning of hard work and humility and decency, the woman who set my moral compass high and showed me the power of my voice.”
Michelle’s grief was visible and evocative. She sacrificed a lot to be on that stage, and by invoking her mother as her moral anchor, she reminded us that though she is in politics, her values are not sourced from political calculations or strategic triangulations. She is no empty vessel.
Throughout her speech, she coaxed her audience into appreciating a more profound significance of what it means to participate in society—reconciling the interplay between having the maturity to make the best decision among imperfect options, taking accountability for whatever decision we ultimately make, and maintaining the tenacity and courage to force those in power to do better.
“So folks, we cannot be our own worst enemies. […] We cannot get a Goldilocks complex about whether everything is right.” Don’t let perfect be the enemy of the good, she implied, and—in a nod of encouragement to those locked outside the convention hall—be vocal about where we need to go from here. “Do something.”
In a time when marginalized people are under attack, fears of fascism are high, and internal dissent is swiftly silenced, Michelle’s ability to simultaneously endorse, encourage, and critique her party was a tour de force of political speechcraft.
Yet, it also served as an indictment of her party’s intolerance for plainspoken truths and a reaffirmation of independent thinkers and artists’ vital role in keeping society honest. These people speak where politicians cannot, offering alternative languages for accessing truths that challenge the powerful and liberate the voices of the oppressed.
Michelle’s speech evoked memories of another time when a superstar eclipsed the pretense of the gathering to say a few words about this thing called life.
It was Super Bowl XLI in 2007, where the Indianapolis Colts triumphed over the Chicago Bears, and Prince delivered a halftime show amid a thunderstorm in Miami. I was a junior in high school that year, juggling SATs and college applications while grappling with the anxiety of transitioning to adulthood.
Meanwhile, Barack Obama was touring the country campaigning for the presidency, inspiring us with his messages of “HOPE” and “CHANGE.” Just as Michelle Obama’s speech transformed a political convention into a moment of deep personal and collective reflection, Prince’s performance turned an iconic American sports event into a breathtaking display of musical brilliance.
That night, Prince made me believe—not only in my dreams but also in the possibility of Obama’s vision for America becoming real.
Like a demi-god emerging from within the Earth, the Artist rose in a shaft of light, seemingly untouched by the floods cascading from the heavens. With his guitar slung casually to the side and his hair slicked back under a bandanna, this master of mystery and musicianship whispered two words that launched me and a hundred million other Americans into a dizzying vortex of performance and audacity: “Dearly Beloved.”
For twelve minutes, Prince held us in his aura.
He fed us a string of hits—“Let’s Go Crazy,” “Baby I’m a Star,” and “Proud Mary”—and teased us with guitar riffs worthy of the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame. The Florida A&M University Marching Band joined him on the field and took the party to the next level, and all the while, the rain fell, and Prince walked on water.
With three and a half minutes left, the lights in the stadium turned Paisley Park Purple, and so did the rain. With his lacquered guitar—purple, of course—nestled at his side, we needed no introduction. This was our moment within a moment: “Purple Rain” in the purple rain. Prince discarded his bandanna, opened his arms in a wide embrace, and asked us to sing with him. And we obeyed.
But it wasn’t enough. Prince knew we had more to give. So he led by example, “Can I play this guitar?” We didn’t have to answer. A bed sheet the size of a tidal wave blew upward and cast Prince in an ethereal silhouette.
Just Prince, that guitar, his immense talent, and us—together, enveloped in that beautiful song.
When the sheet fell, and he came back to Earth, he beckoned us to give a little more, and each time, he gave us more. In his final act of surrender, he threw down the mic, walked to the edge of the stage, and catapulted his arms into the air. He had emptied himself for us, and now he was asking us to do the same—not for him—but for each other and this moment.
As Prince did then, and as Michelle Obama did last week, these giants of Black history are asking us to reject hero worship and instead summon the courage to join with the chorus of voices comprising the best of the Black tradition.
This great tradition—of resistance and response—imbues our Black National Anthem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” a hymn written as a poem by NAACP leader James Weldon Johnson in 1900, with purpose.
“Find your voice,” I hear them saying. “Lift it up, and sing your song.”
abfab
One of America’s greatest women of all time! Michelle, that is, although Prince was too.
abfab
Did anyone else LOVE her Waffles + Mochi series?
War On Free Speech
And you talk about the cult of Trump!!!
abfab
Retired 4-star general, 200 former GOP staffers endorse Harris
Larry Ellis said anyone in the military who acted like Trump would be dismissed.