ABSTRACT
Walking in the wet streets of New York after we had talked together for hours, Cornel West paused to rap with a brother in a wheelchair, handing over a few dollars. Standing at a distance observing them, Cornel in his three-piece suit, meticulously shined shoes, the brother wearing a mix-match of old clothes, his legs covered by a tattered blanket, I listened as they talked about how the struggle has changed since "We lost Malcolm." Cornel nods his head as the brother says, "We need more Malcolms." They stand talking in the wet, Cornel nodding his head, commenting. As we walk away, the brother calls out, "You're as good as Malcolm." Cornel responds, "I wish. I just do the best I can." There is a modesty, a humility in Cornel West's voice that folks attending his lee-' tures at Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and countless other colleges and
universities may never hear. 1he intimacy of this dialogue between an extremely privileged Black man and one of the underclass is in part a reflection of West's profound understanding of the way politics of race, class, and gender determine the fate of Black men, and his ongoing commitment to eradicating structures of domination that create and maintain suffering. Ultimately, it is his deep love of Black culture and Black people that surfaces in the night air; the solidarity expressed is real, the sense of brotherhood, the knowledge that he must sustain his connection to the oppressed as it is that bond which brings him to the deepest level of history.
