The Revolution Is Time-Zoned
After much thought, a 5-mile run, and a call from my best friend across the continent, I decided that this week’s Foreign Affairs wouldn’t be about conflict. It would be about clarity.
If last week was a pot-stirring moment, then this week is about tasting what bubbled up.
When I wrote about my experience at the AfroSociety event in Barcelona, my intention was never to harm another sister. That’s not my way. The post was about sharing a perspective—my own. One shaped by being a Black woman from Mississippi, an immigration attorney turned artist, and someone who has seen the Afro-diaspora from multiple angles, not just borders.
It wasn’t an attack. It was an observation. And as far as my generation is concerned? Silence isn’t neutrality. It’s compliance. We don’t do "tolerance"—we do transformation.
But let’s zoom out for a second.
In the midst of the reactions, I found myself rereading Marcus Garvey’s vision for a "United States of Africa." This man, far ahead of his time, wasn’t interested in asking for a seat at anyone’s table. He was building his own. A whole damn dining hall. Meanwhile, W.E.B. Du Bois—who history often paints as the respectable intellectual—dismissed Garvey, not because the dream wasn’t bold, but because it wasn’t palatable to whiteness.
It reminds me of high school cafeteria politics: Du Bois, trying to get a seat at the "Mean Girls" table, while Garvey’s out back building an international picnic.
We’ve been dealing with this divide ever since.
Do we assimilate—or do we reimagine? Do we ask to be seen—or do we see each other?
That’s what last week’s article was really about. Not who booed whom. Not who grabbed the mic. But how differently the diaspora defines safety, power, and community.
Because here’s the truth: The revolution is time-zoned.
What feels radical in one Black community can feel irrelevant in another.
What feels like solidarity to me might feel like discomfort to someone raised in a culture where whiteness isn’t a threat but a neighbor.
And yet—none of that means we stop showing up.
It just means we show up with more questions, and fewer assumptions.
International Black unity is not a slogan. It’s a discipline. A daily choice to listen across accents, trauma, privilege, and pain. To say: I don’t need you to be just like me in order to build with you.
So no, I don’t regret stirring the pot. Sometimes the stew needs heat. But I hope what rises to the surface isn’t resentment—but recognition.
That we’re not fighting for attention. We’re fighting for alignment. And that maybe—just maybe—we don’t need permission to sit at anyone’s table anymore. Because we’re already setting our own.
Until next time, Foreign Affairs
