National Rites of Passage Institute (NROPI)

May 19, 1972: First Malcolm X Day Celebration in D.C. In a personal essay about the longest-running, largest annual event to celebrate the legacy of Malcolm X, Charles Stephenson describes the celebration’s founding and impact of that day in history.

Inez Moore Documentary: May 30th, 2026 Sneak Peek Screening

As we celebrate MOTHER'S DAY, we honor mothers and grandmothers whose Love, Sacrifice, and Courage have protected generations of families. Inez Moore -a devoted grandmother from East Cleveland, Ohio- stands among them.

In tribute to her extraordinary legacy, one of the most iconic red carpet events of the year is almost here!

SNEAK PEEK SCREENING of INEZ MOORE: FROM EAST CLEVELAND, OHIO TO THE SUPREME COURT. A Film By East Cleveland native Fanon Hill.

Join us as the National Rites of Passage Institute, the Museum of We, and the Youth Resiliency Institute commence the countdown to the milestone anniversary of Moore v. City of East Cleveland in 2027!

Be part of this special screening on May 30th, 2026 at the EAST CLEVELAND PUBLIC LIBRARY and learn about upcoming anniversary panels, family and youth activities, and other engagements commemorating this landmark case!

We also encourage you to take part in the 2026 East Cleveland Public Library Founder's Day activities before and after the screening.

See the flyer below for full details about this special Sneak Peek screening.
Seats are limited, so reserve your complimentary tickets today: [email protected]



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They Hate Black People—They Hate Black People More Than They Love Themselves

Paul Hill, Jr.

“I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just; that His justice cannot sleep forever.”
— Thomas Jefferson

“When you control a man's thinking you do not have to worry about his actions.”
— Carter G. Woodson

The title is not subtle. It is not crafted for comfort or consensus. It is an indictment—rooted in observation, repetition, and the accumulated weight of history. It reflects patterns embedded in the American project that reveal not anomaly, but design.

The weakening of the Voting Rights Act of 1965 is not an isolated development. It must be understood within the broader architecture of American democracy—a structure that has always carried within it a fundamental contradiction. A nation founded on the language of liberty simultaneously constructed systems of enslavement, exclusion, and hierarchy. That contradiction has never been resolved. It has only evolved.

What we are witnessing now is not a return to the past, nor a simple repetition of it. It is a mutation.

From the Fifteenth Amendment to the Voting Rights Act to the present, the right to vote has been declared, defended, and repeatedly contested. Each expansion of rights has been followed by resistance—often reshaped to fit the language and norms of the time.¹

Where the past relied on overt violence and explicit exclusion, the present often operates through administrative procedure, judicial interpretation, and policy design. The language has changed. The mechanisms have become more complex. But the outcomes reveal a familiar pattern.

Different in form. Consistent in function.

This is the mutation of the original premise.

A system that once declared hierarchy openly has learned to operate through indirection. It has adapted to the demands of legitimacy in a modern democratic society while preserving key elements of its foundational structure.²

The mutation, however, is not merely structural—it is also psychological, cultural, and ideological. It exists not only in the laws that are written, but in the beliefs that are held, the assumptions that are normalized, and the narratives that are repeated across generations.

The social commentary that prompts this reflection does more than critique a legal decision. It draws attention to reaction—what is revealed not only in what is done, but in how it is received.

When the erosion of protections designed to safeguard Black political participation is met with satisfaction in certain quarters, the question extends beyond legal reasoning. It enters the realm of moral orientation.

For generations, there has been a persistent claim that inequality is incidental—that disparities are the result of circumstance rather than design. That systems are neutral, even when outcomes are not.

Yet moments such as these challenge that claim.

When outcomes that diminish Black political power are welcomed, the distinction between intent and effect becomes less persuasive. Reaction reveals alignment.

The statement that “they hate Black people more than they love themselves” reflects a deeper contradiction: a system that perpetuates inequality even at the expense of its own stated ideals.

This paradox is not accidental. It reflects a structural logic—what Charles W. Mills describes as a racial contract—that organizes power, recognition, and opportunity along racial lines.³

And this leads to a deeper conundrum.

If power is exercised in ways detached from ethical grounding—if decisions are made that undermine equity while affirming procedural neutrality—then how is alignment to be achieved?

There is no simple answer.

But there is another dimension to this conundrum.

The mutation of the original premise is sustained not only by those who hold power, but by varying degrees of acceptance among those who live within the system.

Among descendants of both the oppressed and the oppressor, there exist differing levels of accommodation, resistance, and internalization. These differences are shaped by proximity to power, access to resources, and systems of belief.

The hierarchy does not simply persist—it is navigated.

Degrees of control influence degrees of acceptance.
Degrees of privilege shape interpretations of fairness.
Degrees of distance from harm create illusions of equity.

What was once enforced externally becomes, in part, negotiated internally.

This is how mutation stabilizes itself.

Religion and miseducation play critical roles in this process.

Religion has functioned as both a source of liberation and a mechanism of reinforcement. It has inspired resistance while also being used to justify hierarchy and defer justice.

Similarly, Carter G. Woodson’s analysis of miseducation reveals how distorted knowledge systems shape acceptance of inequality.⁴ When individuals are taught to interpret the world through frameworks that obscure structural realities, the system becomes easier to sustain.

Belief systems and knowledge systems, when misaligned with truth, normalize contradiction. They render injustice invisible and inequality acceptable.

Thus, the mutation is sustained externally and internally.

Derek Bell’s work reinforces this understanding, arguing that racism is not an aberration but a permanent feature of American life, adapting to new conditions while maintaining its core function.⁵

There is, however, an added danger in the present moment—one that echoes the earliest generations of the republic.

It is the reemergence of overtness.

Where mutation has often relied on subtlety—on coded language, procedural neutrality, and plausible deniability—there are now clear indications of a shift toward explicitness. Expressions that once required concealment are increasingly articulated openly. Positions that once operated at the margins are now moving closer to the center of public discourse.

This shift is not incidental.

It is enabled by power, reinforced by institutions, and sustained by alliances across political, legal, media, and cultural domains. These alliances create an environment in which previously marginalized ideas gain legitimacy, protection, and amplification.

The danger in 2026 lies not only in the erosion of policy protections, but in the normalization of a posture that signals a willingness to return—psychologically, politically, and socially—to earlier modes of exclusion.

Not identical in form, but recognizable in spirit.

This is not a full return to the past. It is something more complex and, in some ways, more dangerous—a mutation that is becoming more visible, more assertive, and more normalized.

Visibility changes the dynamic.

What was once obscured is now more openly expressed.
What was once denied is now more readily acknowledged.
What was once implicit is now, in some cases, explicit.

And this matters because visibility carries consequence.

It removes the cover of ambiguity.
It clarifies lines of alignment.
It forces confrontation.

But it also introduces risk.

When expressions of hierarchy and exclusion become normalized, they shape expectations, influence behavior, and redefine what is considered acceptable within the public sphere.

This is how societies shift.

Not only through policy, but through culture.
Not only through law, but through language.
Not only through action, but through acceptance.

And so the question of power remains.

Power has never been absolute. Change has historically required pressure—legal, political, and moral.

The present moment is not a repetition. It is a renegotiation.

The arguments recur. The patterns echo. But the terrain shifts.

The challenge is to recognize continuity without surrendering to fatalism.

To understand mutation without accepting it as destiny.

The title speaks with finality. The analysis demands clarity.

Between them lies the work.

The question is not whether the system will evolve.

The question is in whose interest that evolution will occur.



Footnotes:

1. U.S. Constitution, Amendment XV (1870); Voting Rights Act of 1965, Pub. L. 89–110.

2. Shelby County v. Holder, 570 U.S. 529 (2013).

3. Charles W. Mills, The Racial Contract (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997).

4. Carter G. Woodson, The Mis-Education of the Negro (1933).

5. Derek Bell, Faces at the Bottom of the Well (New York: Basic Books, 1992).

Living Long, Living Well, Living Unequally: A Structural Analysis of Longevity, Power, and the African Condition

Paul Hill, Jr.

Longevity is often treated as a neutral outcome, a simple measure of how long individuals live. But longevity is neither neutral nor accidental. It is produced.¹ It reflects the cumulative impact of culture, policy, economics, environment, and power. To study who lives the longest is to study how societies are organized—what they value, what they invest in, and who they are designed to sustain.

Japan stands as one of the clearest examples of alignment between culture and structure. With nearly 100,000 centenarians as of 2025², the country demonstrates what is possible when social systems reinforce human life across the lifespan. Cultural practices such as moai—lifelong social networks—and ikigai—a sustained sense of purpose—are not abstractions. They are lived structures that shape daily life. These are reinforced by accessible healthcare, preventive systems, and an ethos that respects aging. Longevity, in this context, is not accidental. It is the result of intentional alignment.

Nigeria presents a different reality—misalignment within abundance. As the most populous Black nation in the world³ and a major oil-producing country, it possesses immense natural and human resources. Yet life expectancy remains comparatively low.⁴ This contradiction cannot be explained by culture or capacity. It must be understood through governance, global economics, and historical extraction.

The wealth generated from Nigerian resources has not consistently translated into public investment. Corruption is often cited, but corruption itself operates within a broader global system. External interests have long shaped internal realities, from colonial extraction to modern economic arrangements that continue to pull value outward. Leadership, in too many instances, has operated in alignment with personal or external interests rather than collective wellbeing. The result is a nation rich in resources yet constrained in its ability to convert that wealth into longevity.

It is within this context that recent global commentary must be examined. During engagement with the African continent, Pope Francis suggested that Africans should remain within their countries and contribute to building and developing their nations.⁵ On its surface, this reflects a call for responsibility and self-determination. But stripped of context, it risks misunderstanding the conditions that shape human movement.

People do not leave functioning systems. They leave conditions that limit their ability to live, to be safe, and to thrive.

Migration, in many cases, is not abandonment. It is adaptation. This is made clear through the Nigerian diaspora. Nigerians represent one of the largest groups of Black immigrants in the United States and are among the most highly educated populations in the country.⁶ Their success in professional and academic fields reveals a critical truth: the issue is not capacity. It is context.

When Nigerians operate within systems that provide access to education, healthcare, and opportunity, their outcomes shift. What appears constrained in one environment becomes fully expressed in another. The system reveals or restricts what already exists.

The African American experience adds a further dimension—one rooted not only in structure, but in the body itself. African Americans live within a wealthy nation yet experience disparities in health outcomes that cannot be explained by economics alone. The missing variable is stress—specifically, post-traumatic racial stress.

This is not a singular event but a condition. It reflects the cumulative burden of navigating a society where race consistently shapes exposure to threat, exclusion, and inequality. Over time, this produces physiological consequences. Arline Geronimus’s concept of “weathering” describes how chronic stress accelerates biological aging.⁷ Elevated cortisol, hypertension, cardiovascular strain, and weakened immune response are not anomalies. They are the body’s response to prolonged exposure.

In this context, longevity is not simply about access. It is about burden.

African American communities have developed cultural structures that mirror the social cohesion seen in Japan—extended family networks, communal care, spiritual grounding. These function as protective forces. But protection is not elimination. Culture can buffer stress, but it cannot fully remove the conditions that produce it.

Wade Nobles reminds us that power is the ability to define reality and have others accept it.⁸ In the context of longevity, power determines which lives are supported, which conditions are normalized, and which burdens are made invisible.

Japan reflects alignment of power with population health.
Nigeria reflects fragmentation of power within global extraction.
African Americans reflect endurance under a system where power has historically structured inequality.

Longevity, then, is not just a health outcome. It is a power outcome.

If Nigeria were able to align its internal governance with equitable investment and restructure its relationship to global economic systems, its longevity outcomes would shift. If the United States were to address the structural conditions that produce racial stress, African American life expectancy would improve.

In the end, the question is not who can live long. The question is who is allowed to live long—and what systems make that possible.

Footnotes

1. World Health Organization. (2023). Global Health Disparities Report.
2. Japanese Ministry of Health. (2025). Centenarian Statistics Report.
3. United Nations. (2023). World Population Prospects.
4. World Bank. (2024). Life Expectancy Data.
5. Public remarks attributed to Pope Francis during Africa visit (2023–2025 reporting).
6. Migration Policy Institute. (2022). African Immigrant Education Levels in the United States.
7. Geronimus, A. T. (2006). “Weathering” and age patterns of allostatic load.
8. Nobles, W. (African-centered psychology writings on power and reality).

Copyright © 2026 Paul Hill, Jr. All rights reserved.

Re-Parenting or Repeating History: Black Children, Family, and the Politics of Intervention

Paul Hill Jr.

What we are witnessing is déjà vu. It is not simply a political misstatement or an isolated lapse in judgment. It reflects a deeply embedded pattern in American public discourse, one in which Black family life is persistently examined through a lens of deficiency rather than strength. This pattern has appeared across generations, often surfacing at moments when structural inequities might otherwise demand direct attention, redirecting focus away from systems and toward the people most affected by them.¹

In recent remarks and public exchanges, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. suggested that Black children, particularly those diagnosed with behavioral conditions, are being overmedicated and should be removed from their homes and placed in “wellness” environments where they can be re-parented. Whatever the stated intent, the underlying premise is clear: that the authority to define what constitutes proper parenting, development, and care does not reside within the families themselves, but outside of them. It is precisely this transfer of definitional authority that sits at the center of the historical pattern we are examining.²

This redirection is neither accidental nor new. Rather than confronting disparities in housing, education, healthcare, and economic opportunity, the focus shifts toward the internal dynamics of Black families. The question becomes not what has been denied, but what is presumed to be broken, reinforcing a cycle in which structural conditions are obscured by cultural explanations.³

Yet history tells a different story. Black family structures have demonstrated remarkable adaptability across time. Under slavery, extended kinship networks redefined family as collective responsibility, functioning not as signs of dysfunction but as mechanisms of survival in the face of systematic disruption.⁴ Following emancipation, these networks did not disappear; they expanded, enabling families to rebuild, reconnect, and sustain continuity through Reconstruction, Jim Crow, and migration.

By the mid-twentieth century, however, policy discourse began to reinterpret these adaptive systems as pathology, most notably through the Moynihan Report.⁵ This reframing shifted the narrative from resilience to deficiency and, in doing so, justified increased surveillance and intervention, particularly through the child welfare system, where poverty was often misread as neglect.⁶

The consequences of this shift are well documented. From slavery to boarding schools to foster care, the pattern is consistent: separation produces rupture, not restoration.⁷ Contemporary rhetoric invoking “re-parenting” must therefore be understood within this continuum, where intervention is repeatedly justified while its outcomes remain historically predictable.

What follows from this is a fundamental distinction. There is a difference between strengthening families and substituting for them. Human development depends upon safety, belonging, and love—conditions cultivated through relationships, not imposed by institutions.⁸ Effective policy must therefore reinforce, not replace, the environments in which children are raised.

Seen in this light, what we are confronting is not new. We have lived its consequences, studied its patterns, and buried its outcomes. The question before us is whether we will allow others to continue defining our families as problems to be solved, or whether we will challenge the assumptions that make such definitions possible.

Reduced to its least common denominator, the issue is not simply policy or personality. It is the ongoing assertion of power—the authority to define, to control, and to intervene—rooted in a system that has long assumed the right to name reality for others. As Wade Nobles has articulated, power is the ability to define our own reality.⁹

However, the challenge does not end with external definitions. Over time, this way of thinking has been absorbed—consciously and unconsciously—shaping how too many of us come to see ourselves, our children, and our families. What is defined externally, if unchallenged, becomes internalized, and what is internalized becomes lived, often without recognition of its origins.

This is why the response required is not only structural, but also cognitive and cultural. We do not need to be redefined, repaired, or replaced. What has sustained our children has come from the continuity of family, community, and responsibility carried across generations, even under the most difficult conditions.

If there is to be a different outcome, it will require more than policy change. It will require clarity of mind and a reassertion of definitional authority. It requires waking up—fully aware, fully grounded, and clothed in our right mind—clear about who we are, how we have survived, and what it will take to move forward on our own terms. Because whatever is to be built must be built with us, rooted in us, and accountable to us.

1. William Julius Wilson, The Truly Disadvantaged (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987).
2. Public reporting on Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s statements (2024–2026).
3. Douglas S. Massey and Nancy A. Denton, American Apartheid (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993).
4. Herbert G. Gutman, The Black Family in Slavery and Freedom, 1750–1925 (New York: Vintage, 1976).
5. Daniel Patrick Moynihan, The Negro Family: The Case for National Action (Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Labor, 1965).
6. Dorothy Roberts, Shattered Bonds (New York: Basic Books, 2002).
7. Margaret Jacobs, White Mother to a Dark Race (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2009).
8. Urie Bronfenbrenner, The Ecology of Human Development (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979).
9. Wade W. Nobles, Seeking the Sakhu (Chicago: Third World Press, 2006).

The Arc and the Cross: Power, Vanity, and the Moral Line at America’s 250th

Paul Hill Jr.

Nations mark anniversaries to remember who they have been, to assess who they have become, and to decide who they are willing to be. The approaching 250th anniversary of the United States should be such a moment—reflective, honest, and grounded in the full truth of its history. Instead, what is emerging is something far more troubling: the transformation of national commemoration into a platform for personal inscription, power consolidation, and historical avoidance.

The proposal of an “Arc” as a defining national symbol during this moment cannot be separated from the historical meaning of monuments themselves. Monuments have always served as instruments of power. They are not passive structures; they are assertions. They define what is remembered, who is centered, and what narratives are legitimized. When a monument is advanced without broad democratic engagement, it reflects not collective memory, but concentrated authority.

This raises a fundamental question: who owns the national story?

In democratic theory, the answer is clear—the people. Yet in practice, the ownership of narrative is often contested, shaped by those with access to political, economic, and cultural power. When the symbolic architecture of a nation becomes aligned with individual identity rather than collective experience, the boundary between democracy and personalization begins to blur.

This is not merely symbolic. It reflects a deeper shift in the use of power.

Power in a democracy is entrusted, not possessed. It is constrained by law and guided by constitutional principles. The oath of office is not ceremonial; it is a binding commitment to serve the public rather than the self. When power is redirected toward personal legacy, wealth accumulation, or historical inscription, it becomes ethically compromised.

To fully understand this moment, it is necessary to return to the founding contradictions of the United States.

The nation emerged in resistance to monarchical authority under King George III.¹ The Revolution was grounded in opposition to concentrated power and lack of representation. Yet even as these principles were articulated, they were not universally applied. The same society that declared independence maintained a system of racialized chattel slavery.

As historians such as Eric Foner and Edward Baptist have demonstrated, slavery was not peripheral to American development—it was central.² The economic expansion of the United States was deeply intertwined with the exploitation of enslaved African labor. This created a foundational contradiction between the language of liberty and the reality of bo***ge.

The post-Civil War amendments—the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth—represented attempts to resolve this contradiction.³ However, as Charles W. Mills argues in “The Racial Contract,” these legal transformations did not dismantle the underlying structures of racial hierarchy.⁴ Instead, inequality was reconstituted through new mechanisms—legal, economic, and social.

This historical continuity is critical.

It reveals that progress has never been linear. Gains have been followed by retrenchment. Rights have been secured and then undermined. The struggle for equality has been ongoing, requiring constant defense.

This context informs contemporary developments.

In March 2026, the United Nations General Assembly voted on a resolution led by Ghana declaring the transatlantic trafficking and enslavement of Africans the gravest crime against humanity. One hundred twenty-three nations voted in favor, fifty-two abstained, and three opposed—the United States, Israel, and Argentina.⁵

This vote represents a global acknowledgment of historical injustice. However, the opposition and abstentions highlight the persistence of unresolved tensions. The reluctance to fully endorse such a resolution reflects concerns about legal implications, reparations, and historical accountability.

Yet beyond policy considerations lies a deeper issue: recognition.

Recognition requires confronting uncomfortable truths. It requires acknowledging that historical systems of exploitation continue to shape present realities. As Derrick Bell’s theory of interest convergence suggests, progress in racial justice often occurs only when it aligns with dominant interests.⁶ When it does not, resistance emerges.

This framework helps explain contemporary disparities.

Racial inequality remains evident across multiple domains—wealth, education, health, and criminal justice. These disparities are not accidental; they are the cumulative result of historical processes. They are reinforced by institutional practices and policy decisions.

They are also reflected in the exercise of power.

The personalization of power—manifested through symbolic projects, executive expansion, and narrative control—signals a departure from democratic norms. It suggests a reorientation of governance toward individual identity rather than collective accountability.

Religion plays a significant role in this dynamic.

Historically, religious language has been used both to challenge and to justify systems of power. In the present moment, it is increasingly invoked to legitimize policy decisions, including war and immigration enforcement. This raises critical ethical questions.

According to statements by entity["religious_leader","Pope Leo XIV","Catholic Church leader 2026"], the use of religion to justify violence represents a fundamental distortion of faith.⁷ He has emphasized that war is not a moral necessity but a human failure, and that dignity must remain central to all policy considerations.

This perspective aligns with broader theological traditions that prioritize justice, compassion, and the protection of the vulnerable. It challenges the instrumentalization of religion for political ends.

The implications are profound.

When moral frameworks are subordinated to power, the capacity for ethical governance diminishes. Decisions become driven by expediency rather than principle. This erodes public trust and weakens democratic institutions.

The historical parallels are instructive.

Democratic decline is rarely sudden. It occurs through gradual shifts—normalization of behavior, erosion of norms, concentration of authority. These processes often unfold incrementally, making them difficult to detect until they are advanced.

This is why vigilance is essential.

For descendants of Africans in America, this vigilance is rooted in historical experience. The misuse of power is not abstract; it is lived reality. It reflects patterns of exclusion, exploitation, and resistance that have defined the American experience.

At 250 years, the United States faces a critical juncture.

The decisions made in this moment will shape the trajectory of the nation. They will determine whether it moves toward greater inclusivity and accountability, or toward increased centralization and personalization of power.

The Arc, the war, immigration policy, and global positioning are not isolated issues. They are interconnected expressions of how power is understood and exercised.

This leads to a fundamental question: what is power for?

If power is used to elevate the individual above the institution, it becomes distortion. If it avoids historical accountability, it becomes evasion. If it disregards human dignity, it becomes illegitimate.

However, if power is used to serve the public, to uphold justice, and to confront truth, it retains its democratic legitimacy.

This is the moral line.

At this historical moment, that line is being tested.

The United States is not simply commemorating its past; it is defining its future. The choices made will determine whether the nation fulfills its stated ideals or continues to struggle against its foundational contradictions.

The answer will not be found in monuments.

It will be found in action.

Footnotes
1. Wood, G. S. (1992). The Radicalism of the American Revolution. Vintage.

2. Baptist, E. E. (2014). The Half Has Never Been Told. Basic Books.

3. Foner, E. (2014). The Second Founding. W. W. Norton.

4. Mills, C. W. (1997). The Racial Contract. Cornell University Press.

5. United Nations General Assembly. (2026). Voting Record on Slavery Resolution.

6. Bell, D. (1992). Faces at the Bottom of the Well. Basic Books.

7. Vatican Press. (2026). Statements of Pope Leo XIV on War and Migration.

Copyright © 2026 by Paul Hill Jr. All rights reserved.