Updated: Jul 21, 2020
Shakespeare famously asked, "What's in a name?" In Dr. Gilo Kwesi Cornell Logan's case, it turns out, a lot.
Gilo's Evanston roots are deep--four generations precede him, and his three young sons follow him. But he also has wide wings that have taken him around the world on many years' worth of immersive experiences that have challenged, changed, defined, and influenced him: how he sees himself; what he calls himself; and how he sees Evanston, race, and humanity.
Gilo lives in Evanston's fifth ward with his wife Miah Logan and their children. He is a well-known figure around town with his flowing dreads and friendly demeanor. He is the second son of William Logan, Jr., Evanston's first Black police chief.
With a BA in marketing, a master’s degree in elementary education, and a doctorate in adult and continuing education, you may well have participated in a town hall about race, diversity, and inclusion that Gilo has facilitated with the Evanston Police Department, Enrich Evanston, Dear Evanston, and many other Evanston organizations.
We sat down to chat at Curt's Cafe South. Here's some of our conversation that spanned his Evanston history, his thoughts about race and racism, and what makes him who he is.
As President of Logan Consulting Services, a global consultancy firm, Gilo's mission is to help leaders, organizations, teams, and individuals develop leadership skills to succeed in an increasingly complex and global society.
DE: Tell me about your family's history in Evanston.
GL: So on my father’s side we come from Greenwood South Carolina. My grandfather, William Logan, came when he was a child in 1905. His mother, known as Mama Logan, brought him up here.
His father, Charlie Logan, stayed behind. I don't know why. During that time, there were lots of lynchings happening. It’s not like my great-grandfather was being lynched, not that we know of - but just because of the lynchings and oppression - there were busloads of folks who came together to Evanston from Abbeville, Greenwood, and other places in South Carolina.
DE: Do you literally mean busloads?
GL: Literally busloads.
My grandfather William and Rose Powell had three children, one of them being my dad, William Logan, Jr., the former police chief. My dad had three kids: my older brother William Logan III; my sister, Cheryl; then me. I also have a cousin Cheryl Logan. She works at Family Focus Evanston. She’s married to Kevin Brown [he's the manager of the City's Youth and Young Adult Division].
DE: And then on your mom’s side?
So there’s my mother, Marcia Logan, whose maiden name was Barksdale. She had a brother Howard. He was also a police officer in Evanston. Their mother, my grandmother, was Ruth Cromer (whose brother, my great-uncle Cornell, was also a police officer in Evanston. I was named after him). My mother’s father, Papa, passed away young – before I was born. His name was William Cromer.
My great-grandmother's name was Helen Cromer. Her maiden name was Cornell. We call her Jinky. She came to Evanston as a child in 1895 with her mother Ellen.
They came from Canada, through Windsor, and I’m still kind of researching this, but – to my knowledge - they descended from African Americans who had escaped through the Underground Railroad to Canada. When slavery was abolished, they ended up coming back here to the North Shore. One sibling went to Chicago, one stayed in Evanston, and one went to Glencoe, so the black folks in Glencoe--that’s also our family. They have St. Paul AME Church in Glencoe, which is the oldest African American church on the North Shore. It was established in 1884.
DE: Growing up, what kind of a kid were you? what kind of life did you lead? Where did you grow up?
GL: I grew up in the second ward in the house I lived in all my life until the house I live in now in the fifth ward. Other than traveling overseas, I’ve lived in two houses my whole life.
I was born at Community Hospital, delivered into the world by Dr. Elizabeth Hill who also delivered my mother, father, brother, and sister. I went to Ms. Marshall’s nursery school, which was a Black nursery school, then to Washington, Chute, and Evanston Township High School (ETHS).
My mom’s family was considered an affluent Black family, whereas my father’s family was poor. My parents started out very much a working class, mainstream, conservative African American family.
DE: What did your mom do?
GL: For many years, she stayed at home raising her three kids and helping to raise her three nieces and nephews. She was the primary caregiver. Once I went to high school she became the health clerk at Haven school for almost 20 years.
DE: And did you live predominantly in “Black” Evanston? Did you connect to “white” Evanston? Did it feel diverse? Did it feels separate?
GL: My parents married and were one of the first Black families to move to the neighborhood I grew up in, in the second ward, on McDaniel between Dempster and Main Street.
My foundation is Black. The hospital I was born in, the pre-school I attended, our family plumber, landscaper, carpenter, handyman, dentist, doctor, lawyer, my parents’ social clubs like the Chessmen Club of the North Shore, Inc., were all Black.
Our neighborhood became all Black because of White Flight. I did have friends of other races in school, on play dates, at birthday parties, on my Y team, and so on. But the primary social thread was Black. I always had a few African American teachers, and I believe my parents advocated for that. I played in FAAM Hoops – which was all Black then with Black men as coaches there and on my Y team.
In high school, I socialized with any and all races and groups of people. That includes dating, partying, music I listened to. A very diverse upbringing, and this is one thing my travels really gave me appreciation for -- how grounded my family was in the Black culture and community in Evanston. Just having role models who were African American men and women who were successful professionals.
My father was always supporting and helping people out, giving them opportunities, and supporting their businesses, so I grew up with that. That was a normal part of my experience. I have an appreciation for that. It’s beyond cool that that was a part in cultivating my identity as a young Black boy.
DE: And do you remember as a young Black boy recognizing that you were black?
GL: Oh yeah.
DE: In what way? Did you feel discriminated against? 'Othered?' Did you feel proud?
GL: All of that. All of it. I can even go back to preschool. Even when I started kindergarten, after school we would go to the preschool for child care. And we’d go to Washington for kindergarten, which was diverse and integrated, but we’d go back to Ms. Marshall’s Nursery School, which was all Black. And so just from a cultural standpoint, just the love and affection and the music and the food and the child rearing and the standard expectations and the ways of communicating--it was all being cultivated there--but at the same time we had friends of different races and ethnicities.
I remember Bobby Kaiser, he was a little white Jewish kid. He lived on the block next to us and we used to sleep over at his house and I remember that was the first time... I remember I went and took a shower and I saw this straight hair in the sink and I’m like wow! Little things like that.
Or we’d sit down to eat at Bobby's house and we’d have spaghetti and meatballs. It was just the noodles and meatballs and the sauce, but when I ate spaghetti and meatballs at home, it was all seasonings and flavors and all different types of vegetables in it.
But I remember as a little kid, I remember noticing the differences. I used to wear a little white towel and put it on my head and pretend to be like Bobby and do my hair like this [waiving it over his shoulder], and I’d put it behind my ears.
And hanging around whites as well, I was the target of racism, for sure.
DE: And when your family were sitting at the dinner table, did you talk about race?
GL: That’s an interesting question. No and yes. No in the sense of you know, again, my family was very middle class, mainstream conservative, suburban trying to fit in type of family. Yet, yes – racist police and ways my family was targeted by white cops, the topic of dating girls outside of my race, racism my dad experienced, the need to be twice as good and work twice as hard as a white person – there were no excuses.
I think part of that was from my grandfather, my dad's dad. He was considered to be, 'one of those Malcom X negroes.' He was the protester who’d get right in your face and call oppression for how he saw it. He was the one being ostracized for his activism.
That maybe influenced my dad, because he’s like the opposite of that. And I’m kind of the opposite of my dad, in a sense. So, we didn’t talk about it in that sense, but yeah, ‘you’ve gotta work twice as hard,’ oh yeah, all those lessons and messages were definitely instilled in me. And teaching me how to navigate into the environment and culture. Like making me aware of how l'd be perceived and judged as a Black person.
Like for example, when my dad was retiring from the police department, I was a little bit older, he would walk the dog, smoke his cigar, and I would walk with him and he would say, ‘Look, I’m doing what white folks do. I’m gonna retire, but I’m going to get another job. I’m going to get my pension and my salary. I’m going to double my income and it’s gonna be an easier job.' And in terms of that element of fiscal literacy, fiscal competency, in terms knowing how to work the system fairly and legally and the advantages and privileges that come with working the system.
But in terms of code switching. I was four years old, we were in Washington, DC, and my father was graduating from the FBI national academy. And at the graduation, we walk in and we go to meet J. Edgar Hoover who was the director of the FBI.
So there were 50 officers; two were African American men, my father and Chuck Jackson, and of course they made them roommates.
Chuck ended up going on to be head of security for the NFL.
So I remember, we went to go meet J. Edgar Hoover, and I went to go shake his hand. I went to give him like the black soul handshake, and he fumbled the handshake, and it was a funny moment, and I can only imagine it was a tense moment for my father, for my parents. But it was a little bit hilarious.
But just that notion that even at four years old that was just normal to me, to give that kind of handshake. I wasn’t trying to be funny, I was just, that’s how you shake hands, that’s what I knew.
And I remember thereafter being shown, ‘No no, this is how you shake hands in this setting, this is how you shake hands in that setting.’
So in terms of code switching, I’m four years old being taught how to code switch through shaking hands with J. Edgar Hoover. We have a photo with him, and he’s standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders. And I think about that and I think about all he was responsible for and yeah, that’s a whole other story.
I remember when I was in junior high school. One local restaurant made a reference to me and my friends, all of whom were African American, as 'you people.' When I went home and told my dad he said, 'Come with me.' We got in his car, drove down there, got in line, and when it was our turn, my dad stood right up to them pointing at them and said, 'My son told me ...Listen! Don’t you EVER talk to my son like that, you hear me? Don’t EVER talk about ‘you people’ to my son or any of his friends, etc.'
SO – though we didn’t sit around the table talking about this, he taught me by his actions to stand up for yourself, your people and confront racism.
DE: So given that you’re more--that your dad had this idea of fitting in more with the dominant culture and now you’re taking back your culture-- do you guys get along?
GL: So let me preface it by saying that some of it, for him, is generational. Like that generation of men. So as a Black man in that generation, a lot of times that’s how you had to make things happen. So, it’s not a criticism of him or Black men who felt that’s what they had to do.
So there’s that aspect to it, plus, after his first year at college, he was drafted into the military, into the Korean war, so he has a military training and background. And then he brought that into law enforcement, so in terms of authority and following rules and expectations, that’s all part of his upbringing.
But to answer your question. Yeah, we get along. Now we have a loving, wonderful relationship, with my family, not just him but my family.
We definitely had our ... I was always different than the rest of my family. A lot of it was growing up, my experimentation with different identities, trying to figure out who I was.
DE: Tell me more about that.
GL: I went overseas and came back. So here I am. I got my bachelor’s degree in business marketing, SIU had a pretty good school of business back then. And I remember a police officer in Evanston, Fuzzy Washington-- he was kind of like the voice for this perspective--he pulled me to the side one day and he said, ‘Hey, baby Logan, so man, you graduated now, what’d you graduate in?’ and I said, 'Oh business marketing,’ and he’s like, ‘Aw man, what’s the next step?’ and I said, ‘Well, I’ll work, I’m pick up a job delivering newspapers, and I’m working my old summer job driving a forklift, and a delivery man, and I’m going to work for a couple of months and I’m going to save money and pack a backpack and go travel.’ And he was like, ‘Boy! Have you lost your mind? What the heck are you talking about?’
DE: Because traveling after college was not the usual track?
GL: It was unusual, pretty unusual, for an African American, and so he’s like, 'Why are you throwing it away? Why are you wasting your life after all your parents put into you, and all that’s been invested in you, you’re supposed to come back here, get your job, start a family and give back to your community.’
That was his notion, and I didn’t do that – at least not then and not in that way. So when I left for overseas, I was like suit-and-tie, I was bald-headed, and I came back and I had dreadlocks, and this rough beard, and I changed my name, and I went through all this stuff – a transformation.
DE: So what was your name?
GL: My birth name is Gary Cornell Logan. My chosen, cultural, and legal name is Gilo Kwesi Logan. So this was a huge clash with not just my father, with my family, my community. Yeah, I was out there. Yeah, I was changed. I was different, talking different things, thinking different things. I looked different.
See, I had a crown in my tooth, and when I was traveling. The crown came out, and I was fine with that. I came home like I was toothless, and my beard and my dreadlocks were this long, they were buck wild, I didn’t go to a salon and get them twisted and manicured, I just kinda let it grow. It was like, ‘What the hell are you doing?’
DE: Wow Ok, so go back to your name.
GL: For me, instead of 'changing' my name, I look at it like I gained some names, like titles. Ever since third grade, an elder in our community, George Dotson--he’s a long-time Evanstonian, he’s a Chessman, he was on the board of Family Focus--he worked at Robert Crown back then, and he gave a whole bunch of us nicknames, based on watching us.
First I was ‘Sweet-lo,’ because I would play basketball and football, how I’d catch the ball, shoot the lay-up, like, ‘Oh, that was a sweet move.’ So Sweet Lo, evolved to G-Lo; G-lo – G, for Gary and Lo, for Logan. It was a 'nickname.'
Fast forward about 20 years, and I’m traveling the world living with indigenous people of color. It was in New Zealand that one of the Maori, a guy named Hone Ngata, challenged me saying, 'Why is that your just your nickname? Wasn’t that name born from your experience? Didn’t it come from you’re your people? Don’t you identity with it? Then you can embrace it as your name. 'Gary' is a European name. You can choose to define who you are, not by their terms, but by your own.
What he was sharing with me was part and parcel of who he was as a Maori – people who have reclaimed their indigenous identity.
So, I reflected on it and realized, there was no meaning to my name, Gary. I was named that because ... my parents didn’t really know; because they liked it. Whereas, I was traveling the world searching for meaning, purpose and connection.
I was not looking for an 'African' or a 'different' name or an 'indigenous' name. So, I went on to add an “I” to G'Lo in honor of first, 'I,' the Individual on my journey; the process of Individuation. Second, 'Me' on the Inward Journey, a soul searching journey, and third, in honor of the MANY Indigenous people around the world who took me in, taught me, fed me, loved me, and cultivated a transformed identity, my identity, as an African American.
Hence, 'Gilo.' Then I come to find out, in West Africa where my ancestors come from, it means, 'let it remain.' A woman who has many miscarriages – when she finally has the child that lives, she says 'God, let him remain.' This relates to me because I was the 'miracle child,' the 'mistake,' because my
parents used contraceptives, but I was 'unplanned,' and they 'let me remain.'
Also, in Japan there is a name 'Jiro' – which, in Japanese is pronounced 'Gilo.' It means, 'second born son.' Well, guess what? I am the second born son in my family.
Kwesi is my cosmic name, my day name. Born to shed light to darkness. And in West Africa where my ancestors come from, I was staying with the Akan people, and Kwesi is a name in their culture. They say depending on the day you’re born, it has a stamp of your purpose in life. So I was born on a Sunday, and Sunday is 'Kwesi.' Sunday is like a child of the sun and the sun brings light to darkness, born to bring warmth to people. Sunday is the first day of the week, so I’m supposed to be born to be a leader. So I embraced it. Not that I saw myself as a leader, but something to aspire to be.
I kept the name Cornell because it has meaning – my grand uncle who passed before I was born was named Cornell -- and I was named after him. That is my great-great grandmother's maiden name. And Logan is a slave name that comes from the Logan plantation in South Carolina where my dad’s family is from. It's Irish/Scottish. I felt I did not have the right to change that name.
DE: Why not?
GL: For a few reasons: because of my ancestors before me who carried that name; the meaning my ancestors and my dad have given that name by how they lived/live their life, and because it IS part of my story as an African descendant that I embrace.
DE: How old were you when you traveled? It was after college?
GL: I left the first time in ‘89.
DE: When you stepped off the plane when you got back home and showed up, were your parents like ‘what?’
GL: They thought I was in Mongolia. They didn’t know I came home. No-one knew I came home. So I snuck into Evanston, and I came in at like 3 a.m. so nobody could see me.
I remember I met up with my old girlfriend, and I borrowed her car and I drove around Evanston at night, just so I could like look at this place and slowly begin to re-acclimate myself – or so I thought.
So I just looked around, you know, 5 o’ clock in the morning. I went through a whole process of trying to re-acclimate myself to society and to the country. And then, with my girlfriend, we set my brother up, and I surprised him. He was at a pool hall and I walked in. I had on sunglasses. He didn’t even recognize me at first.
Then I surprised my sister, then I worked with them and we surprised my parents. So it was kind of like stepping stones. And then after surprising my parents, I became a recluse. I was a hermit. I would be in the house for like two to three months. I was nocturnal. I would stay in all day because I didn’t want to see anyone, and I would go out at night. I would go shopping at night.
DE: How long had you been gone for?
GL: The first time in ’89 I was supposed to be gone two to three weeks, and I ended up being gone a year and a half, mostly by myself. Then in ’94 at the age of 28, I left for three-and-a-half years. Since then I've gone between one to four months at a time for a total of about eight years in 23 countries.
So when I came back I didn’t have anyone to talk to about my experiences. I was like ‘Wait, did I change, or did Evanston change? And that’s how I became a writer. Through journaling and trying to process and make sense of what in the world was going on.
And then as a Black person, my Black friends didn’t understand what the hell I did and why I did it. They’d see me and they’d be like ‘Oh Gilo, where’ve you been?’ I’d say, ‘Oh yeah, I was in Thailand.’ And they’d say, ‘Oh man, I can relate to that. I went to Jamaica for two days.’ And I’m like, ‘Jamaica for two days?’ I was in a plane crash, I caught malaria, and I was like, I had gone to places where people had never seen Black people before, and you’re telling me you went to Jamaica for two days on a resort and you can understand?
DE: So you felt totally alienated?
GL: Totally alienated. And I went through, what now I recognize, I went through a depression. I was confused, disoriented, lost, all of that.
I went to go visit my mother at work once and she worked at Haven. And she was like, ‘Oh no don’t you dare,’ because of my hair. She’s like, ‘You shave, you cut your hair, you come see me. Don’t you dare come here.’ So she knitted me a little tam so I could cover my hair up, and that’s how I had to go, I visited her at school that way – by covering my hair up.
DE: So what made you initially decide that this was the road you were going to take? What did your brother and sister do? Did they go to college?
GL: Oh yeah, my brother went to Indiana State my sister went to Western Michigan. Conventional, come home, and get a job. My sister went to grad school at Loyola, Billy came home and started working 9-5.
DE: So what was, what was 'wrong' with you?
GL: I mean, I want to give you a succinct response. Basically, I was lost. I was confused. No-one knew it but myself, but I was always very confrontational in terms of issues and challenges, and really trying to take an honest look at myself. And I knew that I had muscle. I played football, I had my degree in marketing, I had you know, girls chasing after me, I had my job offer, I had my car.
But when I was home by myself, I’m looking in the mirror and I’m lying on the bed, it wasn’t right. I was asking, ‘Where am I going with this?’ I had to look back first to say, ‘What path have I been on?’ And I saw I was groomed to do just what our society says I’m supposed to do, and it just wasn’t cutting it for me.
And I knew that I had to jump ship then, or it was going to be too late. It was right after I graduated, before I started working. I’m like, ‘You know what? I went to pre-school since I was three years old, then elementary school, middle school, high school. I went through five and a half years of college, and I’m supposed to graduate on Friday, line up my job for Monday, and then work till I’m 65 and then with my two weeks’ vacation which most people don’t even take, then I’m supposed to travel and live? And I’m like no, I’m like hell no, that’s ass-backwards.’
DE: Do you think you were brave to do it?
GL: I think it took some audacity, some courage, and some fearlessness – not that I wasn’t afraid – because I did feel some of that – but facing my fear, grappling with it and working through it – not allowing myself to be limited by it.
I’m a risk taker, I’m a gambler. I’ve never been to a casino, I’ve never played the lottery. I’m not that kind of gambler. But in terms of taking chances in life, taking risks, I’ve always been that. It takes being honest with yourself, facing adversity, and what Sai Baba calls, 'abrasive soul inquiry.'
Can I add one more piece to the question you asked me? In terms of how my travels impacted my view of Evanston?
DE: Of course.
GL: Another part of that too is, not only in terms of valuing my own culture, seeing myself as not a Black American but now seeing myself as an African American, that’s one result of that. The travel experience and how I saw myself in Evanston. And seeing that Evanston IS my village.
DE: What countries did you go to?
GL: I went to the Fiji Islands, New Zealand, Australia, Papua New Guinea, Indonesia, Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, Laos, India, Ghana, Burkina Faso, Guinea, Mail, Ivory Coast, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Belize, Guatemala, Mexico, Canada, Israel / Palestine, and driving, backpacking, hiking and camping through nearly 40 states in the U.S. Did I get them all?
DE: Why did you pick those places?
GL: I wanted to go somewhere that was non-western, because I come from a western society. I wanted somewhere that was pretty much non-commercialized. I wasn’t looking for a resort and a five-star hotel. I was looking, you know, I saw my privilege. And I realized, I’m an African American. I’ve definitely dealt with racism of different sorts throughout my life, but I’ve been very privileged, growing up in Evanston.
Being an Evanstonian is a privilege. Being Chief Logan’s son: privilege. Middle class family: privilege. Both parents at home: privilege. Having an education: privilege. And I looked at people with that profile and I said, ‘Man, in my opinion most of them are soft and complacent and they seek luxury, convenience, and security. And I said, I don’t want to be like that. I do NOT want to be like that.
So I questioned that whole luxury and convenience, as if that’s the purpose for going to school--for living and luxury, convenience and security. I examined that and realized I was afraid of falling into that trap. I wanted to break myself from the privilege, from the disadvantage of the privilege that I had. From the ignorance, and the convenience. So for me, part of it was breaking that mold; breaking myself out of that mold.
DE: And did you?
GL: Largely, yeah, it’s an ongoing process. It’s a never-ending process. but that mold that I was engrained in? Yes, that I cracked open and I escaped.
Now I see Evanston as my village, not my town anymore. Now I’m looking at community members differently like, ‘This is the role that person is playing in the village.’
DE: Who did you travel with?
DE: And how did you hook up with the Maori guy? How does a kid from Evanston meet a Maori guy who becomes their life leader?
GL: So, Mike Doug, Eddy and I were hitchhiking in New Zealand. The night before, we slept in the cow paddocks, the night before that we slept on a rooftop because we couldn’t get picked up. We’re way out there, and this car comes to pick us up, and these brothers get out of the car, this old beat-up junk-mobile.
They’ve got this tattered black leather, they’ve got tattoos on their faces, they’ve got these big dreadlocks, there’s smoke coming out of the car, they’re listening to like AC/DC, and I’m just looking at this like, What the …?’
And my friends, long story short, they were like, ‘Hell no,' and I’m like, ‘Oh, yeah, why not?’ So I ended up going and they ended up staying. And that became the introduction to my Maori experience. And it was just through the Maori grapevine that I ended up meeting him.
DE: In your life now, how integrated is your life?
GL: I would say my groundedness is as a person of African descent who is an African American. But I’m a human being, so I also recognize myself as part of many races and ethnicities including many white people.
I met a white man in New Zealand, for example, Stony, who is my brother. This brother helped give me my identity as a Black man. Lucky Dube said, 'Not every Black man is my brother, not every white man’s my enemy.'
Many different people and ethnicities and cultures have contributed to who I am as a human being and as a Black man, not only Black people contributed to that. And I don’t just mean negativity like racism. No, I advocate for that any time, any day, in front of anyone. As Bob Marley said, ‘One love.’ We just have to realize that and live it out.
DE: I think there are a lot of African Americans who are, rightfully, angry, so how do you bridge the anger and the whole equity piece? And here's a big question I think about often--what do you think about the idea of having a Truth and Reconciliation project?
GL: I’m angry too. But, oh my God, that would be incredible. That needs to happen. You know what? I’m always floating that in my own head or saying it to other people, so I appreciate you saying that. When you see the impact of it in South Africa, I’m all for that.
DE: I know you do a lot of work with organizations talking about inclusion and equity and with the EPD trying to bridge the gap between police and community, and educating the police. What else should we be doing in Evanston to make this community more integrated, not just diverse?
GL: That’s a big one.
First of all, we have to understand who we are, and everyone needs to know who they are and what piece we are to the puzzle, how we’re contributing to the problems we’re seeing, and how we can be a part of the solution.
We have to look at ourselves first. I think it’s a question of identity. Too often, we’re looking at each other, look at them, look at those people. No. Let’s start looking at ourselves. We have to also acknowledge each other’s humanity. You didn’t ask to be born a certain way. We need some understanding and some compassion. I think that’s a part of it, to recognize each other’s humanity.
I think we also have to be willing to dig deeper beneath the surface, so I can see you for who you are not what people tell me about you.
I also think it’s a lack of exposure and experience. We have to cross the bridge. We have to step outside of our comfort zones, whether that’s mentally, psychologically, emotionally, physically, culturally, you name it. You can’t do this being comfortable on either side.
We have to engage in authentic dialogue and discussion and that’s a whole other thing, how you define that. We have to learn how to trust. We have to be willing to take a chance and a risk. We have to build relationships of trust. We need to seek, we need to understand ‘the other,’ and that goes for all of us. It’s not just white folks who need to understand. It has to go all ways. Yes, Evanston is diverse, but it’s very segregated. Look at the residential segregation.
We have to go beyond this so called ‘drive-by’ diversity, that’s what I mean by dig deeper. How many people here don’t understand how things have become the way they are, let alone what’s going on right now? We just kind of know what we know, see what we see. Few people ask, ‘How do we get ourselves out of this?’
I think often, too, a lot of white people in Evanston, and in general people with privilege, we tread carefully and we’re unsure if we’re doing the right thing. We don’t want to offend or put someone off. We have to be willing to make mistakes and then forgive ourselves. And then when the ‘other’ blames us, we have to be willing to take that. Some of that comes with the territory.
And at the same time, Black folks, people of color, have a responsibility in that too. We have to look at where we’re complicit in this whole thing, how we’re contributing to it. The whole notion of internalized oppression. It’s one thing to know how you’re oppressing me, but it’s another to realize how I’m contributing to it: how I’m perpetuating it and what I am doing to address it.
I think a lot of times we don’t look at ourselves, we don’t examine ourselves. It's abrasive, it’s hard, it’s rough, it’s difficult, but it’s about the soul, we have to question, we have to seek, we have to search. We have to dig beneath the surface.
DE: Do you think that some of the gun violence in Evanston is internalized oppression?
GL: Some of that, sure. I don’t think that’s the cause, but surely that contributes to it.
DE: What other things do you think is the cause of violence?
GL: Our culture. We’re a violent culture, violence is on TVs and in movies and music and advertising. We eat and breathe violence. It’s part of the norm in American culture. Our country was founded on violence. That level of aggression is very detrimental, but it’s a part of the founding fabric of this society.
DE: And in terms of gun violence specifically in Evanston in the Black community where it’s more prevalent, what’s that about?
GL: Power, powerlessness, patriarchy, this notion of masculinity. Those who have been emasculated. So you take this little Black boy in the streets just seeking something essential, fundamental. They’re seeking a sense of identity, a sense of belonging, a sense of validation, that we all seek as human beings. And if our culture, our society, our community doesn’t provide that, then they will create that for themselves and that’s what they’re doing. They’re taking it into their own hands.
When we were back in the village, all those institutions were in place for us, so we knew when we were a man, and we knew how to talk to women and to approach them, and we were cultivated into the norms of a society that’s set on perpetuating itself, whereas now we have no rite of passage.
We’ve lost the concept of rites of passage and specifically the African American community. I think that’s one thing no one hears me on here. It falls on deaf ears. Without our rites of passage, however that’s done--obviously I’m not saying send them to the bush to kill a lion, no that’s relevant here.
DE: What kinds of rites of passage?
GL: A rite of passage has to be relevant to the community and to the culture in which the children live. It has to be a process that they go through, a communal process. It requires our community, our leaders, our resources. It would have to be a holistic effort, all-encompassing. It’s a long term thing. You’re not going to see the results next month, or next week, or in a survey.
I just don’t see that level of investment in our youth. Yes, there’s 2,001 things being done. I see we’ve approached the issue in terms of Black history, psychology, finances, economics, and poverty. But what about culture and identity? I’m not seeing that. That’s what the Black Panthers were trying to do in the 60s. Where are we at today with that? I’m totally biased, I don’t see it without that. Family too.
Desmond Tutu says you can’t be human by yourself. The importance of individualism instead of the collective, that’s a European value. That’s a Eurocentric cultural value that this country was founded on. We’re under that, so it’s a battle, it’s a conflict for a lot of us.
DE: Thanks so much, Gilo.
Lucky Dube: My Brother, My Enemy