A Question of Identity
What’s in a name? That well-known question, posed in Romeo and Juliet, suggests that a person’s true nature matters more than the label they bear. Yet Scripture offers another perspective: throughout the Bible, God changed people’s names to mark a transformation in their identity and their relationship to Him and His people. In truth, names carry meaning; they identify and can shape how individuals see themselves and understand their place in the world.
This leads to a question that has been the subject of ongoing debate: how should we, the present-day descendants of those brought to America during the transatlantic slave trade, define our identity?
Same People, Different Names In earlier generations, individuals brought from Africa were usually referred to as “Africans.” This generic label grouped people from many distinct tribes and regions, gradually weakening specific cultural ties to their places of origin. Over time, terms such as “negro” and “colored” became widely used to describe Americans of African descent. However, these labels fell out of favor during the Civil Rights and Black Power movements. More recently, the term “African American,” popularized in part by Jesse Jackson, gained prominence in both cultural and governmental use. It was intended to affirm ancestral heritage while fostering a sense of dignity and pride.
Still, some question whether this hyphenated moniker has encouraged the idea that our primary identity lies elsewhere— that we are somehow separate from, rather than fully a part of, the American story. For what it’s worth, I am in the camp that believes that our primary identity is not tied to a continent our ancestors left centuries ago.
The Deepest Roots First, most black Americans today have roots in the United States that extend back farther than those of many Americans of European or Asian descent. Generations of black families have been in this nation since even before its founding. The labor of enslaved and free black people helped build and grow this nation. While immigration has brought millions to America’s shores, black Americans are not, in the main, recent arrivals. Our history is deeply woven into the fabric of the nation itself.
At the same time, the original cultures of our African ancestors were largely disrupted during the era of slavery. Languages, tribal identities, and many traditions were diminished or lost. In their place, something new emerged, a distinct black American culture shaped by shared experience, faith, music, family life, and a long pursuit of dignity and justice.
The culture of the descendants of African slaves is not simply a continuation of African traditions, nor is it the dysfunctional version so often depicted in popular media. Rather, it is something original. A culture shaped by faith in God and forged through both hardship and triumph. It is a culture that esteems hard work, upholds the importance of education and family, and values moral integrity and dignified conduct. It is the culture that was the foundation of the black community during slavery and Jim Crow. For me, and for many others, it is this culture that most faithfully reflects our lived experience and identity.
A Birthright Bought With Sacrifice Second, the sense of belonging felt by many black Americans is further reinforced by our forefathers’ historical record of ser vice and sacrifice. Black Americans have participated in every major American war, from the Revolutionary War to the present day. They fought for a country that did not always grant them full rights, believing nonetheless that it was their country. The Double V Campaign during World War II, which sought victory against fascism abroad and racism at home, was a clear expression of this belief. It affirmed that black Americans saw themselves as fully American, deserving of the same freedoms they were helping to defend.
This long history of participation and sacrifice has secured our place in this nation. It is a place earned, quite literally, by blood. From a personal perspective, my own identity as an unhyphenated American is a birthright secured by my father when he donned an Army uniform, served in a segregated unit, and returned from Europe with a Bronze Star after fighting against Nazi forces.
Johnson was a man of remarkable accomplishment. In 1934, he became the first black American hired as a professor at New
York University. Years earlier, with the help of Booker T. Washington, he had broken barriers when President Theodore Roosevelt appointed him as a U.S. consul to Venezuela and later Nicaragua. Yet even before these achievements, he had already secured a lasting place in American and black cultural history through the words he penned in the poem “Lift Every Voice and Sing.”
Written in honor of President Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, the poem, which was later set to music by Johnson’s brother, Rosamond, stands as a powerful expression of faith, perseverance, and hope. It was first performed at the segregated Stanton School in Jacksonville, Fla. Among the honored guests at that first performance was Booker T. Washington. Johnson admired Washington for his emphasis on education, self-reliance, and advancement through discipline and character, the same values espoused by TakeCharge today.
Across its three stanzas, it recalls a history marked by hardship, offers gratitude for deliverance, and looks to God for continued guidance. In doing so, it reflects a people who, despite not always having equal rights, were firmly rooted in the American story.
The song, while widely performed within the black community, remained largely unknown in mainstream American culture. That changed in the wake of the George Floyd protests, when the NFL and other sports leagues began including the song along with the national anthem before games. This shift sparked controversy, as some viewed playing the song alongside the “The Star Spangled Banner” as divisive. Some saw it as a symbol of separation rather than unity. This feeling was no doubt exacerbated by the NAACP’s having dubbed the song a Negro National Anthem a century earlier.
But a close reading of the song’s third verse, which is rarely sung and largely unknown, suggests that Johnson did not have separation in mind.
The verse is a stirring appeal to heaven:
God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who hast by Thy might
Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray. Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee;
Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
May we forever stand, True to our God,
True to our native land.
The verse reflects the deep faith of black Americans and reveals a clear recognition that their survival and progress were facilitated not by government but rather by divine providence. The verse is humble and cautionary. The plea “Keep us forever in the path, we pray” acknowledges the danger of losing one’s way, spiritually and morally. Today, we might include politically. The line “Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee” warns against abandoning faith in pursuit of the allurements of the world. This reflects a culture that prized spiritual integrity and understood that with freedom came moral responsibility.
But perhaps most striking is the closing line: “True to our God, true to our native land.” This is a powerful affirmation of identity. Despite the injustices they faced, black Americans in 1900 understood themselves as belonging to the United States. Their “native land” was not Africa but America. America, the place where their ancestors lived for generations, and where their future lay.
Looking Backwards What’s in a name? For the black community, a great deal. Rather than consistently looking forward and fully embracing the rights and responsibilities that come with our standing as Americans, some of us feel that we have turned our focus backward. From this perspective, the shift in naming has not produced the hoped-for sense of pride and belonging. Instead, some of us believe it has contributed to feelings of alienation and grievance. This, in turn, has led to a rejection of the culture shaped by our forebearers here in the United States.
While we turn away from our American heritage and, in some cases, adopt self-destructive and dysfunctional behavior, immigrants from countries such as Cameroon, Nigeria, Ghana, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo come to the United States in search of opportunity, often finding success as they build new lives. There is a striking irony in this contrast. The descendants of the people who sold our ancestors into slavery now come here willingly to pursue the opportunities that we, at times, fail to embrace fully.
Declaring our Identity In the end, the question of what we call ourselves is no small matter. It shapes how we understand our past, present, and future. If names form identity, then they should point us toward truth, not confusion. Our ancestors forged a distinctly American culture through their experiences on this soil. Embracing that culture and our identity as Americans does not negate our African ancestry; rather, it places it in its proper context.
Those who came before us endured great trials yet believed they belonged to this nation. If we are to honor their legacy and strengthen our communities, we must recover that same clarity of identity, grounded in faith, family, dignity, and responsibility. As the nation approaches the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, we should use the occasion to reaffirm, with confidence and determination, our identity as Americans.