National Rites of Passage Institute (NROPI)

And How Are the Children?
Paul Hill, Jr.

They ask the question in every generation.

Not because the answer is obvious,
but because the answer tells us who we are.

And how are the children?

Before we answer, we must be honest.

We cannot hide behind statistics.
We cannot point to a few extraordinary success stories while ignoring entire neighborhoods burdened by poverty, violence, loneliness, displacement, and despair.

The measure of a civilization is not the height of its skyscrapers,
the size of its military,
the wealth of its billionaires,
or the sophistication of its technology.

The measure of a people is the condition of their children.

If the children are anxious,
the people are anxious.

If the children are forgotten,
the people have forgotten themselves.

If the children have lost hope,
the future is already in danger.

So I ask again:

And how are the children?

The children cannot be well
until families are strengthened.

Families are more than blood.
Families are where identity is first spoken,
where love becomes discipline,
where responsibility becomes habit,
where elders become living libraries,
and where children first discover that they belong.

Families cannot be strengthened
until communities are strengthened.

A village is not geography.
It is relationship.
It is accountability.
It is the decision that every child is our child.

Communities cannot be strengthened
until institutions are reconstructed.

Schools must teach more than employment.
They must cultivate purpose.

Faith communities must restore moral imagination.

Governments must serve people before power.

Organizations must measure success
not by reports completed
but by lives transformed.

Institutions cannot be reconstructed
without culture.

Culture is not entertainment.

Culture is memory organized into daily practice.

Culture tells us what to honor,
what to protect,
what to celebrate,
and what to become.

Culture cannot be sustained
without memory.

Memory reaches beyond enslavement.

It remembers civilizations,
builders,
scientists,
philosophers,
artists,
farmers,
mothers,
fathers,
healers,
warriors,
storytellers,
and children whose names history forgot but whose sacrifices made our survival possible.

Memory cannot survive
without identity.

Identity answers the oldest questions.

Who am I?

Whose songs flow through my spirit?

What are my obligations?

What legacy will I leave?

Identity cannot flourish
without freedom.

Freedom to define ourselves.

Freedom to remember ourselves.

Freedom to love ourselves.

Freedom to imagine futures larger than our wounds.

Yet freedom without responsibility becomes selfishness.

Responsibility without love becomes burden.

African-centered rites of passage teach both.

They teach that adulthood is earned through service.

That dignity is measured by character.

That leadership begins with self-mastery.

That every generation must prepare the next.

This is the unfinished work.

Not simply rescuing children from danger,
but preparing adults worthy of children's trust.

Not merely creating programs,
but rebuilding culture.

Not simply celebrating heritage,
but living it.

One child becomes many.

One family becomes a neighborhood.

One neighborhood becomes a movement.

One movement becomes a people remembering themselves.

So I ask once more.

And how are the children?

If we strengthen families,
the children are better.

If we strengthen communities,
the children are stronger.

If we reconstruct institutions,
the children are safer.

If we restore culture,
the children remember.

If we recover memory,
the children discover identity.

If we embrace freedom with responsibility,
the children become whole.

Then one day,
the question that echoed across generations
will receive the answer our ancestors prayed to hear.

And how are the children?

The children are well.

They know who they are.

They know whose they are.

They know why they were born.

They honor their ancestors.

They serve their communities.

They protect the earth.

They build institutions worthy of future generations.

They become mothers and fathers,
teachers and artists,
scientists and builders,
healers and visionaries,
elders in preparation.

When the children are well,
families are renewed.

When families are renewed,
communities flourish.

When communities flourish,
institutions become just.

When institutions become just,
culture lives.

When culture lives,
memory survives.

When memory survives,
identity flowers.

When identity flowers,
a people stand upright.

Then the village answers with one voice.

The children are well.

The people are well.

The ancestors are honored.

The work continues.

© 2026 Paul Hill, Jr. All Rights Reserved.

Becoming

Paul Hill, Jr.

The child is not born unfinished. The child is born carrying memory.

Long before the first cry, before the first footprint touched the earth, the ancestors whispered a name, a purpose, a responsibility waiting to be remembered.

Yet between childhood and adulthood there stretches a difficult crossing, where certainty gives way to questions, where innocence wrestles with temptation, where identity is tested by the winds of the world.

Adolescence is never simply about growing older. It is the lifelong struggle to become worthy of one’s own life.

Every people who endured understood this truth.

They did not leave their children to wander into adulthood alone. They gathered them. They taught them. They challenged them. They disciplined them. They celebrated them.

They marked the journey with ritual, with story, with silence, with elders, with community, with love.

This was never a program. It was always a process.

A process measured not by certificates, but by character. Not by age, but by accountability. Not by what one possessed, but by whom one had become.

Among the Akan, four ancient questions have echoed across generations.

Who am I?

Whose songs flow through my spirit? Whose victories and sacrifices live within my blood? What traditions have entrusted me to carry them forward?

How did I become who I am?

What hands shaped me? What wounds warned me? What teachers corrected me? What voices encouraged me? What history prepared me?

Am I truly who I believe myself to be?

Do my words honor my ancestors? Do my actions reflect my values? Does my character mirror the people whose names I proudly carry?

What is my purpose?

Not what job shall I hold. Not what wealth shall I accumulate. But what gift has life entrusted to me that the world cannot receive unless I give it away?

For generations, these questions formed nations, strengthened families, and produced women and men whose greatest ambition was to leave the village better than they found it.

Then came conquest. Ships. Chains. The auction block. Colonization. The deliberate breaking of language, ceremony, memory, and the pathways through which people became themselves.

A people once taught to remember were instructed instead to forget.

Names disappeared. Drums fell silent. Stories were interrupted. Children inherited survival without always inheriting identity.

The consequences still surround us.

Schools that too often measure intelligence without cultivating wisdom. Communities burdened by poverty and violence. Young people searching for belonging in places that cannot love them back. Too many prisons where initiation should have been. Too many funerals where celebrations of purpose should have taken place.

Yet history does not end with what was taken.

For memory survives. Culture survives. Human dignity survives.

Whenever an elder calls a child by name, whenever history is spoken, whenever values are practiced, whenever responsibility is embraced, the journey begins again.

Rites of Passage is the bridge between inheritance and responsibility.

It teaches that freedom is not merely escaping oppression.

Freedom is becoming fully human.

Knowing where one comes from does more than satisfy curiosity.

It awakens dignity. It restores confidence. It creates reverence.

It reminds every young person that they descend not from failure, but from builders, visionaries, scientists, farmers, artists, warriors, healers, and keepers of civilization.

When a child knows this, their back straightens. Their eyes lift. Their footsteps grow steady.

For they understand they do not walk alone.

Behind them stand countless generations. Beside them walk family and community. Before them await generations yet unborn.

And so the journey continues—not simply from childhood to adulthood, but from memory to meaning, from identity to purpose, from self to service.

For the highest achievement of every Rite of Passage is not that a child becomes an adult. It is that an adult becomes worthy of the children who will one day follow.

© 2026 Paul Hill, Jr. All rights reserved.

Written, arranged, and produced by Fanon Hill, “Conway’s Coate” honors the liberatory brotherhood between the late former Baltimore Black Panther Marshall “Eddie” Conway and W. Paul Coates, founder of Black Classic Press and fellow former Baltimore Black Panther—a relationship that became a model of resistance and sustained care in the face of state violence. Purchase “Conway’s Coate” here: https://fanonhill.bandcamp.com/track/conways-coate

After decades in prison, Conway was released on March 4, 2014, following an appellate ruling that cited improper jury instructions among other trial irregularities. Throughout those decades, Coates never walked away. He visited Conway consistently, organized tirelessly, and in 1978 founded Black Classic Press in part to get books into Conway’s hands behind bars. What began as an act of devotion became one of the country’s most respected independent Black publishing houses. This song lives in that tradition of steadfast connection.

“Conway’s Coate” features Hill’s poetry and auxiliary piano alongside Navasha Daya (vocals), Lafayette Gilchrist (piano), Anthony “Blue” Jenkins (bass), and Charles Wilson (drums).

Proceeds from this release support “Eddie’s Front Porch,” an initiative established by family and friends of Conway to honor and protect his legacy and contributions. Through collaborative efforts and active participation, “Eddie’s Front Porch” ensures that ancestor Conway’s work and impact remain a source of inspiration and empowerment for many. Located in West Baltimore, this space will function as both an archive and a mini-museum, featuring occasional art installations, along with spaces dedicated to community gatherings and discussions.

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).