Black anger and rage in the struggle against racism

I will introduce the concepts of anger and rage as prelude to an introduction to the particular fictional expression of anger and “Black rage” in the character of Bigger Thomas from Richard Wright’s powerful, disturbing and compelling novel (better: ‘incendiary tale’), Native Son (1940). Bigger Thomas, for better and worse, exemplifies “inarticulate and explosive rage,” and in his case it leads to the killing of two women. This introduction is then filled out with some relevant sections from Adam Shatz’s (characteristically) incisive and erudite essay, “Outcasts and Desperados,” in the London Review of Books on Wright’s posthumously published novel, The Man Who Lived Underground (HarperPerennial, 2021), which speaks to the subject of “Black rage” in Wright’s work. Wright’s portrait of Bigger proved unsettling to both James Baldwin and Ralph Ellison (among others). Frantz Fanon on the other hand, “drew on Native Son to examine the violent impulses that racism creates in its victims,” perhaps not surprising given that Fanon was a psychiatrist. Wright himself “desire[d] to fuse the insights of Marx and Freud – he said they were two of his favourite ‘poets’ – and apply them to the lives of oppressed people, especially victims of racism” (Shatz).

The subject of “Black rage” is a prominent theme of late in both works of fiction and non-fiction, having arisen in the wake of slavery and obdurate structural and interpersonal racism, largely evidenced through equally enduring forms of political and economic inequality in this country. Most recently, an assistant professor of philosophy at UC Riverside, Myisha Cherry, who co-edited a volume, The Moral Psychology of Anger (Rowman & Littlefield, 2018) with her older colleague in the profession, Owen Flanagan, has penned a book weaving together moral psychology, political philosophy, and anti-racist activism, The Case for Rage: Why Anger Is Essential to Anti-Racist Struggle (Oxford University Press, 2021). I’ve yet to read it, but the book’s title appears to elide distinctions one finds in moral psychology and psychoanalytic theory between anger (a ‘vehement passion’ often associated with resentment, contempt and hate, as well as ‘regret, frustration, and disappointment;’ frustration and annoyance often evolving into anger) and rage, the latter being more inchoate and dangerous than anger proper, best viewed as anger’s most extreme mode of expression (Jerome Neu reminds us that Freud’s ‘Rat Man’ ‘suffered from a host of neurotic symptoms because of his repressed rage’).

Anger is often a vice, and many if not most of us lack self-control when we are angry (e.g., when ‘consumed’ by anger). Spinoza’s conception of anger was a bit different from that of Seneca and the Stoics generally, yet he shared their view that anger is invariably and entirely a negative emotion inherently fraught with danger. And the Buddhist view on anger is virtually identical to that of the Stoics, although they do not have “our” concept of emotion(s) as such, classifying anger as one of the kleśas (‘mental states that cloud the mind and manifest in unwholesome actions’).

But there is another philosophical perspective that deserves consideration, one that goes back to both Plato and Aristotle and to some extent is found in the Hebrew Bible, in particular with regard to what we might term “righteous anger,” for example, God’s anger at a person’s sinfulness or the Israelites’ lapses from fidelity to God or the pursuit of justice, these being the more reasonable examples (other instances strike us as irrational and wholly vindictive). In brief, “some form of anger [is] sometimes warranted and often useful.” Plato believed anger (‘as an intrinsic aspect of the spirited part of the tripartite soul’) was capable of being governed by reason. Aristotle’s take was a bit different, for anger can have its reasons: it can be either reasonable or rational to be in a state of anger, hence a “good-tempered” man “is angry at the right things and with the right people, as he ought, when he ought, for as long as he ought.” In this case, anger is dictated by reasons, or at least it is in harmony with same. Thus, Aristotle “thought that a man who is angry for the right reason, with the right person, to the right degree, on the right occasion, and in the right manner, is praiseworthy.”

Aaron Ben- Ze’ev accordingly characterizes rage as a “less specific type of anger,” the “feeling dimension” being “more intense” and thus the “intentional dimension … less complex.” As we saw above, it was Aristotle who first taught us that one species of anger finds moral psychological and ethical warrant as a dispositional virtue: “The man is angry at the right things and with the right people ….” This acceptable or legitimate form of anger, in the words of Philip Fisher, “has its source in the feeling and in the perception of injustice.” And Aristotle’s teacher, Plato, provides an account in the Laws in which the angry or spirited part of the psyche “is fundamental to the indignation necessary for our insistence on justice; that is, not only must we favor or approve of justice, we must [summon the sufficient motivation to] also seek justice and impose it wherever that is required.” (This is but one example of how emotions are often associated with cognitive antecedents and supported by corresponding judgments.) The expression of anger does not always relieve or mitigate it (as in ‘hydraulic’ model or metaphor of the emotions), indeed, it sometimes intensifies anger, and such may be the case with rage, especially if one finds those offenses that led to anger in the first instance enduring or even accumulating.

I largely agree with Aristotle, but what he defines as the “good-tempered” man (or woman) seems, in our time and place at least, increasingly rare, in other words, this dispositional character trait is far from common. A person who does not get angry at Trump’s racist speech and empty public policies, at his demeaning and degrading rhetoric, at his kleptocratic and plutocratic politics, at his narcissistic megalomania and so forth, would appear to be cold-hearted, unethical and self-deceiving (perhaps in a state of denial and prone to self-deception and wishful thinking). A person that cannot summon anger in response to the genocide of the Rohingya in Myanmar is not acting virtuously or ethically. But such anger need not get the better of one, as we say. I think the Aristotelian view is, for most of us, intuitive, and thus at least plausible, although there is much to be learned from both the Buddhists and Stoics about how to deal with our anger—and of course rage—when it is likely to trump or eviscerate reason. So I am in wholehearted agreement with P.M.S. Hacker’s remarkable analysis of anger in The Passions: A Study of Human Nature (John Wiley & Sons, 2018):

“Reason is … needed to apprehend what is offensive, to oneself or others. Indignation or resentment may indeed be appropriate emotional responses to slight and insult, to false accusations or to various forms of offence. That is a proper mark of concern and care. Annoyance and irritation are natural reactions to various forms of disturbance, and natural expressions of frayed nerves. But these natural responses need to be dampened and kept under control lest they feed the flames of fury [or hatred and rage]. Even if anger is warranted, it does not follow that any form or manifestation of anger is warranted. We often have an obligation to control, moderate, or suppress the manifestation of our anger.

Anger is a warranted response to wrong-doing in its manifold forms. It may fuel one’s courage to oppose what is wrong. Nevertheless, to act in anger is never well advised [on this, the Stoics, Buddhists, Plato, Aristotle, and Spinoza can all agree]. One may castigate without rage, censure and deplore without fury. The greater one’s wrath, the more likely it is that one’s judgment be led astray, one’s utterances be inappropriate or worse, and one’s action be unjust and harmful. One may rightly seek redress. It is good to endeavor to destroy evil. But reason needs no support from rage or anger in heightened forms in its quest for the right and the good.”

One of the more concise and telling definitions of rage is provided by Robert C. Roberts in his superb study, Emotions: An Essay in Aid of Moral Psychology (Cambridge University Press, 2003): “Rage is intense anger marked by proneness to violent action.” Roberts proceeds to fill out this definition:

“Actions characteristic of rage are typically performed in an intense and violent behavioral style—for example, with loud voice, reddened visage, tightly tensed muscles, perspiration, wild swinging of the arms, and so on. Like any adult human emotion, rage is a construal of the situation in terms, some of which are propositional (I do not notice any difference from anger in the defining proposition); but rage, bordering as it typically does on the irrational, is likely to be a blurry kind of construal in which one’s consciousness seems to be overlaid with nonpropositional forces [a rather anodyne phenomenological description!]. For example, the desire to destroy may get detached from its anchor in the concern for justice [as we witnessed in the urban riots of the 1960s], and the question of the culpability of the recipient of the punitive behavior may become irrelevant to the action. It is typical for rage (as it is not for plain anger) that, for the duration of the emotion, the subject is blind to ‘reason;’ that is, the rage is not penetrable by considerations contrary to its propositional content. The enraged person may need to cool off before he can listen to reason. ‘Rage’ suggests a state in which the desire for retribution is so intense that is at best only barely within behavioral control and may be out of control.”

* * *

From Adam Shatz’s essay, “Outcasts and Desperados,” in the London Review of Books, Vol. 43 No. 19 · 7 October 2021

When Richard Wright sailed to France in 1946, he was 38 years old and already a legend. He was America’s most famous black writer, the author of two books hailed as classics the moment they were published: the 1940 novel Native Son and the 1945 memoir Black Boy. By ‘choosing exile,’ as he put it, he hoped both to free himself from American racism and to put an ocean between himself and the Communist Party of the United States, in which he’d first come to prominence as a writer of proletarian fiction only to find himself accused of subversive, Trotskyist tendencies. [….]

The novels he wrote in Paris, where he would spend the rest of his life, failed to deliver on the promise of Native Son, the incendiary tale of a poor black chauffeur in Chicago, Bigger Thomas, who achieves a grisly sense of selfhood after killing two women: his black girlfriend and the daughter of his wealthy white employer. But even that novel’s reputation declined, thanks in large part to another black American in Paris. In 1949 James Baldwin described Native Son as a modern-day Uncle Tom’s Cabin, ‘a continuation, a complement of that monstrous legend it was written to destroy,’ arguing that Bigger Thomas ‘admits the possibility of his being subhuman’ and that Wright was no less guilty than Harriet Beecher Stowe of insisting that a person’s ‘categorisation ... cannot be transcended.’ Baldwin, whose success Wright had done much to promote, wasn’t the only protégé to turn against him. In 1963 Ralph Ellison wrote that, in Bigger Thomas, Wright had created not a black character other black people would recognise, but ‘a near subhuman indictment of white oppression’ crudely ‘designed to shock whites out of their apathy.’ Ellison’s hyper-cerebral protagonist in Invisible Man, who is able to see far beyond his own condition, was a pointed rejoinder to Bigger’s inarticulate and explosive rage.

That rage had once been important to Ellison too. During their days in the CPUSA, he had sent a letter to Wright commending Bigger’s ‘revolutionary significance.’ Readers horrified by Bigger’s violence, Ellison insisted, ‘fail to see that what’s bad in Bigger from the point of view of bourgeois society is good from our point of view ... Would that all Negroes were as psychologically free as Bigger and as capable of positive action!’ [….]

The Black Power movement’s patriarchal and homophobic embrace of Wright did little to salvage his reputation, especially after the rise of black feminism in the 1970s. In Black Macho and the Myth of the Superwoman (1978), Michele Wallace traced the movement’s ‘love affair with Black Macho’ back to Native Son. Black women writers never forgave Wright for having once accused Zora Neale Hurston of writing ‘in the safe and narrow orbit in which America likes to see the Negro live.’ It didn’t matter that he had denounced the absence of female speakers at the 1956 Conference of Black Writers and Artists in Paris, insisting that black men could only be free if black women were too. Or that in a 1957 book of reportage he had catalogued the forms of oppression suffered by women in contemporary Spain, comparing the Catholic cult of ‘female purity’ to the Ku Klux Klan’s defence of white womanhood. Thanks to Native Son, he continued to be associated with the idea that, in Darryl Pinckney’s words, ‘the black man can only come to life as the white man’s nightmare, the defiler of white women.’

Black feminists weren’t the only ones to take offence. In 1986 the novelist David Bradley confessed that the first time he read Native Son,

‘I shed no tears for Bigger. I wanted him dead; by legal means if possible, by lynching if necessary ... I did not see Bigger Thomas as a symbol of any kind of black man. To me he was a sociopath, pure and simple ... If the price of becoming a black writer was following the model of Native Son, I would just have to write like a honky.’

Novelists never completely shake off an association with the murderers they invent: Dostoevsky is still remembered for Raskolnikov, Camus for Meursault. The difference in Wright’s case is that Bigger Thomas is practically all he is remembered for. Wright is not just blamed for Bigger but almost mistaken for him.

On the surface, Wright’s life bore little resemblance to Bigger’s: he was a child of the rural South not the northern ghetto, a self-made intellectual and writer. But as a young man in Chicago he had had a series of menial jobs in hospitals and the postal service and could identify all too easily with Bigger’s anger at the white world. He had known Bigger’s fear of white people’s arbitrary power – in his view, this was the ‘fundamental emotion guiding black personality and behaviour,’ even if it sometimes appeared in the ‘disguise that is called Negro laughter.’ It wasn’t only whites he wanted to provoke with Native Son, but members of the decorous black middle class, who felt that a figure like Bigger Thomas was a threat to their precarious status on the margins of white America.

Native Son was a work of shocking intransigence in its portrayal of black rage, in its treatment of liberal whites and, above all, in its violence. After suffocating his employer’s daughter, Mary Dalton, with a pillow – he’s terrified that she might alert her blind mother to his presence in her bedroom, and that he might be accused of rape – Bigger slices up her corpse and burns it in a furnace. His violence is recounted as if it were the concentrated payback for hundreds of years of anti-black violence and humiliation, and described with graphic relish. When he murders his girlfriend, Bess, to prevent her from revealing his crime, he feels a rush of exhilaration: at last he has accomplished ‘something that was all his own,’ an act no one would have imagined him daring enough to execute. ‘Elation filled him.’ No longer emasculated by fear, no longer ‘a black timid Negro boy’ in a white man’s world, he has ‘a sense of wholeness,’ of power over his oppressors. He is a man who has ‘evened the score.’

Frantz Fanon drew on Native Son to examine the violent impulses that racism creates in its victims. ‘Bigger Thomas ... is afraid, terribly afraid. But afraid of what?’ Fanon wrote in Black Skin, White Masks in 1952. ‘Of himself. We don’t yet know who he is, but he knows that fear will haunt the world once the world finds out.’ For Fanon, Wright had shown that violence is a way to ‘put an end to the tension,’ to a ‘feeling of not existing’ in white-dominated society. ‘The black man is a toy in the hands of the white man. So in order to break the vicious circle, he explodes.’ For Bigger, murder provides an irresistible glimpse of freedom. It is ‘disintoxicating,’ as Fanon would write of anti-colonial violence in The Wretched of the Earth. ‘I didn’t want to kill,’ Bigger tells his lawyer, ‘but what I killed for, I am.’

It was hardly surprising that middle-class black readers had little desire to be associated with Bigger. But for Wright, Bigger Thomas was not – or not merely – a symbol of persecuted black masculinity. He was a symbol of the psychic injuries of oppression, rootlessness and dispossession under capitalism. Wright said that he had met defiant men like Bigger while growing up in segregated Mississippi, men who rebelled ‘at least for a sweet brief spell’ before they were ‘shot, hanged, maimed, lynched.’ But in Chicago and New York he had ‘made the discovery that Bigger Thomas was not black all the time ... and there were literally millions of him, everywhere. The extension of my sense of the personality of Bigger was the pivot of my life; it altered the complexion of my existence.’ As he became aware of ‘a vast, muddied pool of human life in America,’ he began to see that segregation was ‘an appendage of a far vaster and in many respects more ruthless and impersonal commodity-profit machine.’

Wright presented Bigger Thomas as the humiliated, alienated and dangerous ‘product of a dislocated society,’ seething with fear and envy, susceptible to fantasies of power, domination and revenge. ‘He liked to hear of how Japan was conquering China; of how Hitler was running the Jews to the ground; of how Mussolini was invading Spain.’ Wright obliquely alluded to Marcus Garvey’s Back to Africa movement, with its fusion of black nationalism and militarist discipline. ‘Someday,’ Bigger muses, ‘there would be a black man who would whip the black people into a tight band and together they would act and end fear and shame.’ In linking social atomisation and fear, racism and authoritarianism, Native Son anticipated Hannah Arendt’s Origins of Totalitarianism, and Wright suggested that Bigger ‘carried within himself the potentialities of either communism or fascism.’

Baldwin criticised Wright for overlooking the traditions, rituals and family relationships that protect and fortify black communities in even the most appalling conditions. But Wright wasn’t interested in the structures of support or mutual aid that enabled black people to survive as a collective. He was drawn to outcasts and desperados who had fallen through the cracks to find themselves adrift, naked, in mass society. He himself was a loner, never at ease in his own family, and hostile to the Church thanks to a grandmother who frowned on reading anything other than the Bible. His fiercest quarrels inside the Communist Party were with black militants who shared his working-class roots but didn’t trust him as one of them: he was too intellectual, too independent. He was unmoved by the promise of ‘another country’ where black Americans would at last be free. Unlike the young Baldwin, Wright doubted that such a country would ever exist in his homeland.

Why did Baldwin and others mistake Wright for a crude proletarian realist? His engagement with the Communist Party – he had been a leader of the Chicago John Reed Club, the CPUSA writers’ group, and published journalism in The New Masses – contributed, but Wright’s relationship with the party had always been stormy, particularly when it came to aesthetics. His 1937 manifesto, ‘Blueprint for Negro Writing,’ laid out the case for a radical, politically engaged modernism, and he had no time for sentimental depictions of the lives of the poor and oppressed. The direct, sometimes coarse prose of Native Son represented a deliberate rupture with comforting modes of realism. [….]

Wright’s publishers rejected the novel he at the time considered his most important, written between Native Son and Black Boy. An abridged version of The Man Who Lived Underground appeared in the posthumous collection Eight Men (1961) and attracted some influential admirers, including Irving Howe, who declared its ‘sense of narrative rhythm’ to be ‘superior to anything in his full-length novels.’ Despite this, the complete novel hasn’t appeared in print until now. It’s a short, riveting, exploratory work, begun in June 1941, after the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union. Two weeks before the invasion, at the opening session of the fourth American Writers’ Congress, he had given a passionate speech against the war. To his fury, the CPUSA had suspended its campaign against racism in the war industries, and with the American military still segregated, he refused to support a white man’s army. (He was later drafted but declared psychologically unfit, apparently because of his views about racism.) Although he wasn’t yet ready to leave the party, he withdrew from its activities and poured all his energy into The Man Who Lived Underground.

The novel was inspired by a story Wright read in a detective magazine about a white man in California who lived for several months in a hideout. Wright’s protagonist, Fred Daniels, is black, but unlike Bigger Thomas he is also innocent. The novel begins on a Saturday evening when Daniels, a working-class, churchgoing man with a pregnant wife, is stopped by the police and accused of killing a white man in order to rape his wife. They beat him with a blackjack, and promise he can go home if he signs a confession. Although he’s innocent, he feels ‘condemned, inescapably guilty of some nameless deed,’ and agrees to confess, if only to end the agony and see his wife. When the police take him to his apartment she goes into labour. They rush her to hospital, where he manages to escape. He opens a sewer and climbs inside, sensing in ‘the whispering rush of the water’ the ‘illusion of another world with other values and other laws.’ As many critics have said, The Man Who Lived Underground seems startlingly contemporary in its treatment of police violence against an innocent black man. The story of the interrogation has particular resonances with the 1989 Central Park Five case, in which a group of black and Latino teenagers were manipulated into confessing to the rape of a white female jogger. Not surprisingly, The Man Who Lived Underground has been held up as a prescient indictment of the racist carceral state – a parable for the era of Black Lives Matter.

But this is another misrepresentation. In fact, the book is much less of a protest novel than Native Son, and takes even greater liberties with naturalism. Its setting and atmosphere – chases through sewers, frenzied manhunts – recall noirish films like Fritz Lang’s M and Carol Reed’s The Third Man. The writing combines the blunt rhythms of hard-boiled detective fiction with kinetic, almost phantasmagorical strokes, intensities of emotion and colour. As Howe observed of Native Son, ‘naturalism pushed to an extreme turns here into something other than itself, a kind of expressionist outburst, no longer a replica of the familiar social world but a self-contained realm of grotesque emblems.’ However much the novel may reveal about police brutality and racism, Wright thought of it as a novel of ideas rather than a book about racial injustice: as he told his agent, it was ‘the first time I’ve really tried to step beyond the straight black-white stuff.’

Daniels is a victim of police violence, but Wright’s narrative doesn’t hinge on his victimisation so much as on the mutations of his consciousness as he builds a new home for himself underground, illuminated by a single lightbulb. (Ellison, who knew all about Wright’s novella, equipped his own underground man with 1369 lightbulbs.) He steals money from a real-estate and insurance company that has ‘collected hundreds of thousands of dollars in rent from poor coloured folks’ – ‘not to spend, but just to keep around and look at.’ He ‘rubbed the money with his fingers, as though expecting it suddenly to reveal secret qualities:’ this is money as Marx describes it in his essay on ‘the mysterious character of the commodity form.’ As Daniels observes ‘with a musing smile,’ it is ‘just like any other kind of paper,’ and he uses it to wallpaper his underground home, a ‘mocking symbol’ of his exile from the world that rejected him. When another man is accused of the theft he has committed he can only conclude that ‘everybody’s guilty.’ The contingency and artifice of the world outside, the ‘dead world of sunshine and rain he had left,’ leads him to the realisation that somehow ‘he was all people. In some utterable fashion he was all people and they were he.’ Rather than hardening his sense of individual identity, racist persecution leads him to an almost cosmic awareness of what he shares with others. One of the novel’s first readers was the German-Jewish psychiatrist Fredric Wertham, who sent a poem in response:

‘The Freudians talk about the id
And bury it below.
But Richard Wright took off the lid
And let us see the woe.’

Wertham, a professor at Johns Hopkins who moved in left-wing circles, shared Wright’s conviction that there was ‘no other act … that so gathers together the threads of personal, social, political life of the nation as crime.’ Wright had written to Wertham after reading his book Dark Legend: A Study in Murder, about a young Italian immigrant who killed his sexually adventurous mother to defend the honour of his dead father. Wertham, in turn, published a remarkable essay on Native Son, linking the bedroom scene to a repressed episode from Wright’s childhood. They later joined forces to set up the Lafargue Clinic, which provided cheap psychiatric counselling for people in Harlem. Wright’s friendship with Wertham reflected his desire to fuse the insights of Marx and Freud – he said they were two of his favourite ‘poets’ – and apply them to the lives of oppressed people, especially victims of racism. ‘I’m convinced that the next great arena of discovery in the Negro will be the dark landscape of his own mind, what living in America has done to him,’ he wrote in his diary. [….]

The full essay is here, and it is well worth reading in its entirety, for I’ve left out all the material not directly relevant to our perhaps cursory introduction to anger and rage as it might pertain to facets of Black history and the struggle against racism up into our own time.

Anger: A Brief Reading Guide

Averill, James. Anger and Aggression: An Essay on Emotion (Springer-Verlag, 1982).
Ben-Ze’ev, Aaron. The Subtlety of Emotions (MIT Press, 2000).
Briggs, Jean L. Never in Anger: Portrait of an Eskimo Family (Harvard University Press, 1970).
(The) Dalai Lama (Geshe Thupten Jinpa, trans.) Healing Anger: The Power of Patience from a Buddhist Perspective (Snow Lion Publications, 1997).
de Silva, Padmasiri. An Introduction to Buddhist Psychology (Rowman & Littlefield, 3rd ed., 2000).
de Silva, Padmasiri. Buddhist and Freudian Psychology (Shogam Publications, 4th ed., 2010).
Elster, Jon. Alchemies of the Mind: Rationality and the Emotions (Cambridge University Press, 1999).
Fisher, Philip. The Vehement Passions (Princeton University Press, 2002).
Frijda, Nico H. The Emotions (Cambridge University Press, 1986).
Hacker, P.M.S. The Passions: A Study of Human Nature (John Wiley & Sons, 2018)
Harris, William V. Restraining Rage: The Ideology of Anger Control in Classical Antiquity (Harvard University Press, 2001).
Heald, Suzette. Controlling Anger: The Anthropology of Gisu Violence (Ohio University Press, 1998).
Kassinove, Howard, ed. Anger Disorders: Definition, Diagnosis, and Treatment (Routledge, 2013 [1995]).
Murphy, Jeffrie G. and Jean Hampton. Forgiveness and Mercy (Cambridge University Press, 1988).
Nhât Hanh, Thich. Anger (Riverhead Books, 2001).
Nussbaum, Martha C. The Therapy of Desire: Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics (Princeton University Press, 1994).
Nussbaum, Martha C. Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions (Cambridge University Press, 2001).
Nussbaum, Martha C. Anger and Forgiveness: Resentment, Generosity, Justice (Oxford University Press, 2016).
Roberts, Robert C. Emotions: An Essay in Aid of Moral Psychology (Cambridge University Press, 2003).
Roberts, Robert C. Emotions in the Moral Life (Cambridge University Press, 2013).
Sarat, Austin and Nasser Hussain, eds. Forgiveness, Mercy, and Clemency (Stanford University Press, 2007).
Seneca, Lucius Annaeus (Robert A. Kaster and Martha C. Nussbaum, trans.) Anger, Mercy, Revenge (University of Chicago Press, 2010).
Thurman, Robert A.F. Anger: The Seven Deadly Sins (Oxford University Press, 2006).

Relevant Bibliographies (embedded links)

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11/01/2021

Black anger and rage in the struggle against racism

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