Chance the Rapper Shares Open Letter on the Eve of the Fourth of July.
On the eve of the Fourth of July, Chance the Rapper shared an open letter reflecting on the nation’s 250th anniversary through the lens of history, accountability, freedom, and hope.
Echoing themes from Frederick Douglass’ landmark 1852 speech, “What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?”, Chance revisits many of the same questions about patriotism, justice, and the American promise through a contemporary perspective.
On the eve of July 4th, some two hundred and fifty years after the declaration of this nation, I write to you, my country: I love you. I love you for what you could be, and what you mean to so many onlookers in the margins. You represent an abundance of possibility, an overflow of opportunity and a wealth of unrivaled power. To many you are a Land of Oz, somewhere over a rainbow and down a golden road, you are paved and safe. To those who never met the wizard, these castle walls seem warm. But to us who know you, ones who’ve known you, you are cold and shadowy in many corners. These years have worn your copper green and distilled your hypocritical oaths to the lies they truly are. I still love you. A lie is beautiful when it dreams some fantastical reality. I once threw away my report card and looked for it in my book bag. I looked my mother in the eyes. I still loved her. You are not the lies you tell, America. You are the choices you make. On the eve of July Fourth I see a 250 year old man-child clinging to power, desperate for change and on the brink of either rebirth or ruin. You are too old for the lies you tell and far too old to be hiding your report card. We know you. We knew who you were in your courts, without Cyrus. And without Elijah, and without Sonya, without Tamir, and without Emmit. Without our children, without history we knew. We knew you and still showed up when we should have burned down your courts. We should have burned down your banks and county buildings and your slave boxes. We could’ve burned up your schools and your shops and your cattle. Does this surprise you? Does it not jog your memory with a familiar scent? The air still reeks of burning flesh in slave trees at church picnics. The waters still boil in Lake Lanier over washed over towns with washed ashore bodies. The apartments still smolder in Philadelphia over complexes where they would not move. The summers are as red as ever and you somehow, conveniently and convincingly forget. The CEO of America, this land’s destined bridegroom has made unprecedented effort to throw all evidence of your transgression into this everlasting inferno. As a matter of fact, his only achievement at the end of his tenure as warlord in chief will be effectively gutting press, education, history and truth from the very country that espoused those terms as the stilts to its flimsy foundation two hundred and fifty years ago, today. Our children will not learn of the shipments to Jamestown in 1619. Our children may never learn of the riots and bombings and hangings of 1919. They will never know a Black man by the name of Crispus Attucks, a formerly enslaved runaway who later became a sailor and maritime worker and ultimately a labor rights activist and martyr for your liberty. They will never know how in 1770 your free press used his blood to spark the revolution you celebrate today. They will never know how many formerly enslaved and enslaved people died fighting the British for your freedom, how many fought the confederacy for your expansion, how many died protecting your castle. So yes, we should have taken up arms to beat out the very tyranny and oppression this country was founded to escape. Knowing the report card of this troubled youth of a nation we could have painted its rears with the stripes it deserved at 90 years old when we first tasted freedom. After reconstruction when southern democrats strangled us in courts, our churches could’ve followed in the steps of a theologian named Nat Turner.
But we believed in something. We believed over yonder was a castle, and in that house of many mansions lied our reward. Death seemed more near than a seat at the table but glory as well as our bible was always in the masters house. SO why do we clamor to this kingdom on earth we’ve never seen? Why do we bootstrap and monkey suit our way to polite society knowing it’s a knock at death’s door? Maybe we still love you. The way we love a father, out of fear and repetition. Don’t we know what happens to those that don’t love you, who don’t love you out loud. When we critique your course or question your beatings we are decried as ungrateful bastards or worse, scoffed at and ignored like the incessant cries of an infant. In 1859, in another letter to you, Frederick Douglas asked ‘what to the enslaved negro is the Fourth of July?’ He knowing you longer and more intimately, gave cold rebuke to your shiny facade. Mr. Douglas called for burning as well, if you recall. His letter called to account your mockery of liberty and charade of a celebration. You crackers fire off fireworks for fun! What men are created equal when overseers still ride on horseback through the penal systems of Louisiana marching criminalized Black bodies through cotton fields for sweat equity? What right to life do I have when I could meet the bullet by police or security, or shop owner or streamer? What liberties can I take to ensure my pursuit of happiness is a right? That if those who govern have become destructive to my rights by what means will I alter, abolish them and establish a new kingdom? In this letter, rather than question what is the Fourth of July to the enslaved negro, instead I ask you America: What to the Fourth of July is Juneteenth? I must reason that it is nothing more than a report card to hide. It is evidence in a trial you’d pay hand over to fist for delay and continuation. It is the scar whose origins you’d rather not discuss for to recognize its existence is to recount its wounds. I am you America, so I love you. I love who you will become after we tear away your rancid bandages and burn your infected bedsheets. After we gut your rotting cellars and refurbish your empty foyers. We will make good use of this old castle. On this 250th Independence Day I no longer am amused by the circus of dirt bikes and wrestling matches in your palace, I am no longer wowed by your elusive riches and gold-plated chamber pots. My eyes have turned to what’s most precious: the liberation and safety of my people whether by words or swords. I want what’s in the cellar. I want what’s in the kitchen. I want the Libraries. I want the infirmary. I want its schools. I want its jails. I want all the castle’s prisoners, I want Mumia home, I want Mutulu home, I want Larry home. I want Janet and Janine. I want truth to power because your spoils are not enough.
Today marks the dawn of a new chapter in our love. This part, which shall be titled atonement, will serve as the commencement of freedom and conservation of relationship. Your museums shall be filled with the artifacts of fact. The evidence of life and death will be observed by the masses of new citizens of its kingdom. The laws will carry the weight of righting wrongs, the schools will prepare their pupils for repair work. The nation is reborn on this day in a firestorm of love, the love felt in the responsibilities placed on new matriarchs and patriarchs when our predecessors die. We learn from mistakes and take up the grail with great honor for a spot freshly filled. We know there is much work to do and thusly, fireworks are revolution and songs are marching cadences. On the shoulders of Crispus Attucks we will transform our future through labor action. At the bequest of Mr. Frederick Douglass we will respond to empty celebrations with fiery rebuke. And if need be, in the tradition of this land we will take our freedom by blood and gunpowder when God empowers us. No history is more important than our history and if there is any hope to salvage this burning Babylon we must show our report cards. To my law, I’ll fix you. To my land, I’ll get you. To my countrymen, I love you
– Chancelor Bennett
