Jesse Jackson ignites the crowd with his signature call-and-response recitation of “I Am Somebody,” before introducing "Sister Kim Weston" and the "Black National Anthem." Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us,įacing the rising sun of our new day begun Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us, Having memorized the entire hymn from its repeated incorporation into church services or school assemblies or performances led by youth choir directors, the crowd responds as an ensemble of tens of thousands of voices, stumbling and mumbling over some parts, their fists still raised emphatically in the sky. “Won’t you sing it with me everybody?” she asks. In an inherent Africanism, Weston extends an invitation for the community to join her as she soars to the chorus. The notes purr from her throat, vibrating with pride and sincerity, and she holds them unrushed to compel her audience to soak in the hymn’s distinguished place of honor in the Black musical canon, the African American story set to song. If anyone in the house has never heard “Lift Every Voice and Sing”-affectionately referred to as “the Black National Anthem”-hers is the perfect introduction to it. Weston clutches the microphone, her cappuccino-colored skin glazed by the midday sunlight. Jackson capitalizes on the euphoria of the moment to take the people even higher: “Sister Kim Weston,” he announces, “The Black National Anthem.” Jesse Jackson ignites the crowd with his signature call-and-response recitation of “I Am Somebody.” By its final lines, thousands of fists are raised in the air in a solidarity salute to Black power. On the stage, erected in the center of the field just hours after a home game between the Los Angeles Rams and the Oakland Raiders the night before, Rev. It is reportedly the largest gathering of African Americans since the 1963 March on Washington and even before the music performances begin, it is living art. By the time everyone is seated, more than 112,000 spectators, most of them African American Los Angeleans-dancing teenagers, multi-generational families, gang members, blue-collar workers anticipating a day of fun before the start of a new work week-people the rows with a range of brown complexions. It is Sunday, August 20, 1972, the afternoon of the storied Wattstax concert, a seven-year community commemoration following the 1965 Watts neighborhood uprising against police brutality and systemic discrimination.Īttendees laugh, joke and jostle through the stadium’s classically domed entryways, some with $1 tickets in hand, others admitted for free depending on what they can afford. The air inside the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum is electric with collective Black joy.
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