100 Books Like Black Awakening in Capitalist America

Fanon is one of my heroes.

He was a psychiatrist, psychotherapist, political activist, philosopher, and a member of the Algerian National Liberation Front involved in the fight against French colonialism. He sadly died following a short illness when he was just 36 years old. He wrote two seminal books that had a profound effect on my understanding of the psychological impact of discrimination and colonisation on both the coloniser and the colonised.

I found his writing to have a visceral quality, and having come from a colonised country (Iraq) to live in the coloniser country (Britain), I could "feel" in my body and mind the psychodramas he was describing.

The first time I read Césaire, I was not prepared for his complete evisceration of Western colonialism. It compelled me to reexamine my understanding of Western culture and philosophy and to accept that colonialism is at the heart of modern Western civilization.  

Before reading Césaire, I tended to think of racism as a psychological problem that could be fixed through education or some similar individual intervention. After reading Césaire, I came to understand racism as a symptom of a broader colonial economic and political structure. 

I think Césaire’s most compelling and relevant argument is his interpretation of fascism as colonialism-turned-inward. Western powers practiced colonial policies on colonized people for centuries, with little protest among Western publics until fascists turned colonial methods against Western publics themselves.

The first time I read Cleaver, I winced at his controversial personal history of sexual violence, but when I re-read the book, I found Cleaver to be a fascinating prison intellectual with compelling theories about literature, history, and human nature. 

Because I read the book philosophically rather than for its literary merits, I found the organization of the book—which begins with personal letters—difficult to follow. The second time I read the book, I essentially read it backward, starting with the theoretical essays and moving to the examples, and the book made more sense. 

I do not fully accept Cleaver’s theories of race, gender, and sexuality, but there are enough nuggets of truth in his writing that I come back to this book over and over again. 

Thomas’ book taught me that, when we adopt a colonial analysis, we have to rethink every category of analysis: “masculinity” and “femininity,” “heterosexual” and homosexual,” and so on. I also came to accept that there is a deeply sadistic eroticism in all racial and colonial oppression.  

I learned that Western colonialism simultaneously positions African-descended people outside the category “human” while also projecting Western categories of gender and sexuality onto these colonized peoples in order to unjustifiably blame them for the worst behavior imaginable.  

Thomas convinced me that modern theories of gender and sexuality not only fail to provide sufficient critiques of oppression but that they re-inscribe oppressive conceptions of identity by smuggling colonial ideology in the back door, inspiring me to rethink everything I thought I knew about identity.

There are few publications that document how publishing makes it impossible for African authors to have the same possibilities as their white counterparts.

This is a great book about a young writer's obsession with a scandalised author and the reasons behind the latter's disappearance. The writing has an incantational cadence that is truly stunning, and Sarr never relents in his critique of the unsavoury treatment of African authors by Western publishers.

“Gitmo” is where the relationship between these nations gets concrete, through the protectorate (1902-1934), republican (1934-1959), and revolutionary eras (1959-present). This fine study gets down into the nitty-gritty of who labors for whom (Cubans for the U.S. military), who controls the physical space in and around a foreign military base (and the foreign military based in it), and the steadily growing class conflict in this flashpoint of empire leading up to the Revolution, followed by an odd stasis since then.

Kamugisha, is an able representative of a new generation of scholars who offers a contemporary examination which presents some of the theoretical issues and ideas that inform Caribbean studies and history. The reader will get a good sense of some of the major historical contributors who have shaped Caribbean history, philosophy, and culture as they attempted to move “beyond” the colonial experience.

While the Black freedom struggle is often approached through the activism of Black males, the history of the struggle in Europe—like in the United States and elsewhere in the world—owes much to Black women, Black female scholar-activists, and Black feminist and Queer networks. Yet they remain woefully underrepresented in scholarship and collective memory.

I, therefore, chose this edited volume, because it uniquely presents the stories, intersectional experiences, and visions of contemporary Black female activists, artists, and scholars from across the continent. This not only uncovers the significant intellectual, political, social, and cultural contributions of Black women, but also expands definitions of (political) activism to include, among others, motherhood and the home.

I recommend Ginger’s book because it inspired so many college students to go into law as well as young lawyers interested in effecting societal change. In one chapter, Ginger interviews Fay Stender, a source I consulted in writing Stender’s biography. Ginger also interviewed Fay’s law partner Charles Garry about his representation with Stender of Black Panther Party co-founder Huey Newton in the case I consider the trial of the century. Fay’s husband Marvin Stender was also interviewed about his progressive law practice. Ginger’s book, and my interviews of Ann Ginger herself, proved essential to my understanding of the circle of Movement lawyers in the Bay Area to which they all heavily contributed during an extraordinary period of activism from the ‘50s through the ‘70s.     

You can’t truly know what activism, social revolution, and political freedom mean until you’ve read this book. Assata Shakur is a Black revolutionary woman who barely escaped U.S. police corruption, systemic racism, and state oppression, in order to find political asylum in Cuba. To know her story is to acknowledge how White supremacy and anti-Black oppression play out in the lives of Black Americans.