During my sophomore year at Berklee, the spring semester began under a cloud of uncertainty. Word spread quickly that the teachers, frustrated with their contracts, had officially decided to go on strike. Their demands likely revolved around the usual grievances in academia: better pay, manageable teaching hours, and job security. For us students, however, the strike wasn’t about labor negotiations; it was about our education and our dreams. The idea that our path to success might be stalled indefinitely felt almost existential.
Tensions escalated when a group of Black professors crossed the picket line to continue teaching. Their decision, though practical—they had bills to pay—drew sharp criticism. The picketing teachers, mostly white, called them “scabs," a term deeply entrenched in labor disputes. However, in the heated context of race relations, some professors interpreted “scab” as a code for the N-word.
This moment of racial tension sparked a reaction. Black students rallied to act as escorts for the strikebreaking professors, framing their actions as a stand against racial injustice. From where I stood, their efforts seemed to overinflate the stakes, equating these professors’ choice to cross a picket line with monumental civil rights struggles. No one was denied a job, brutalized by the police, or living under systemic segregation. Yet, the protesters carried themselves as though this was the next chapter in the fight against racial oppression.
I watched my peers assemble on Massachusetts Avenue, shoulders squared, exuding self-congratulation. "Rebels without a cause," as I like to put it. They were ready to escort the professors across the street like heroes emerging from the pages of history. While their intentions were noble, their actions felt misplaced. They weren’t rallying because these professors had been singled out for racial discrimination—they were upset because the professors weren’t being coddled. In that moment, they weren’t seen as Black professors breaking a strike; they were simply strikebreakers. In other words, they were treated like equals.
What’s ironic about the Berklee strike is that, years later, many of the same students who had marched to escort the professors benefited from the increased wages and improved conditions that the strikers fought to achieve. So did the scabs whom they were protecting. This is often the case: when we fail to take a more nuanced view of situations involving race relations, we run the risk of protesting against our own best interests—or at least being willing to protest without seeing the bigger picture.
Looking at today’s political climate, I see parallels everywhere. Over the past several years, activism has surged, particularly in response to racial injustice. Movements like Black Lives Matter have inspired massive protests, both in the U.S. and abroad. In 2020, the murder of George Floyd set off a cascade of changes, many of them impressive: Minneapolis banned the use of chokeholds. New Jersey updated its use-of-force guidelines for the first time in decades. Confederate monuments were toppled across the South. The street in front of the White House was renamed “Black Lives Matter Plaza.” These were tangible shifts sparked by collective action.
But amid these victories, I noticed something missing. In the rush to demand accountability from institutions, police forces, and white America, little was said about what changes Black America might need to make. Conversations about personal accountability, community responsibility, or the alarming rates of violence within Black communities were drowned out.
We seem to suffer from what I call Civil Rights Era envy. How can we not? It was during that period that Black America had a unified sense of purpose. Blacks from all walks of life were united in their effort to overthrow white supremacy. We finally had center stage, not only in the mainstream media but in the consciousness of mainstream America. Lady Liberty was reinventing herself, and we were leading the way.
It was a time of immense pride and strength. The shell of white supremacy was cracked open, and the world watched as we collectively mopped away the yolk of racial oppression. But in our yearning to replicate that feeling, we sometimes misdirect our energy, rallying around causes that don’t always serve our long-term interests.
Blacks in America are in an awkward position. We're the only group who fears being expelled from our race—at least in the court of public opinion. Unfortunately, the extreme left has also borrowed from this playbook of ideological manipulation. And it doesn’t take much. Bill Cosby spent years and millions of dollars in support of Black America, particularly HBCUs. He gave one speech pushing Black America to step up to the plate, and he was forever demonized. Pretty harsh stuff.
This fear keeps us tethered to a dangerous kind of collectivism. Standing out as an individual—or expressing views that deviate from the dominant narrative—can quickly result in being labeled a “sellout,” “Oreo,” or worse. This fear stifles meaningful dialogue within our communities and holds us back from embracing the diversity of thought that could empower us to solve our most pressing issues.
If there’s one lesson I’ve carried from Berklee to today, it’s this: Activism without nuance is activism without progress. As a developing musician, imagine if your teacher just said, “Your playing sucks!” That’s far different from a more nuanced assessment where tangible weaknesses are identified: poor intonation, inconsistent instrumental facility, or limited jazz vocabulary. Taking a measured and detailed assessment allows you to work toward meaningful progress.
Protests are no different. Modern movements, like musicians, risk stalling their progress when they refuse to identify specific, tangible goals and address inconvenient truths. A musician who ignores critique and simply practices louder or faster will only amplify their weaknesses. Similarly, movements that rely on symbolic victories without substantive follow-through—like renaming a street or tearing down a statue—may feel triumphant in the moment but fail to address systemic problems at their roots.
Great music, like great activism, isn’t just about volume. It’s about clarity, intention, and precision. A powerful solo is built on honesty—the willingness to confront flaws and embrace growth. Movements need to embrace that same spirit of intentionality, seeking to harmonize their passion with concrete strategies for systemic change.
The Civil Rights Era was powerful because it had clear goals and a unified sense of purpose. Like a well-composed piece of music, it had structure, vision, and a relentless pursuit of excellence. Modern movements risk losing that power if they devolve into performative gestures or avoid engaging with uncomfortable realities.
True progress isn’t about being loud. It’s about being honest—with each other and with ourselves.
As we honor Martin Luther King Jr., his legacy calls us to approach our work with the calm precision of a seasoned jazz musician. True progress requires us to tune into the complexities around us, to engage with honesty and intention much like a musician crafts a delicate solo. By grounding our activism in thoughtful critique and clear goals, we echo Dr. King's spirit. In doing so, we not only pay homage to his memory but also ensure that our modern movements move forward with measured purpose, crafting a future of meaningful and lasting change.
