In Swahili, kujichagulia or self-determination, is defined by the National Museum of African American History and Culture as the power to define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves, and speak for ourselves. Of all the Kwanzaa principles, kujichagulia contains the most meaning for me.
The second day of Kwanzaa, December 27, is dear to my heart for reasons that go beyond mere tradition. I was raised on Kwanzaa. From my earliest memories of the holidays, I recall the not-so-quiet pang of not opening gifts on Christmas Day — a pain soothed by the anticipation of celebrating Kwanzaa. In my family, Christmas was not abandoned; we are Christians, after all. But we practiced Kwanzaa and observed its seven guiding principles — the Nguzo Saba.
Unity (umoja) on December 26. Self-determination (kujichagulia) on December 27. Ujima — Collective Work & Responsibility on December 28. Ujamaa — Cooperative Economics on December 29. Nia is Purpose on December 30. Kuumba is Creativity on December 31. And Imani means Faith on January 1. My parents, in an act of love and creativity, assigned each of us children a principle to embody. Despite coming from a large family — more than seven siblings, plus the many others my mother took in over the years — each child had a day, a principle. Self-determination became mine. It’s a mantle I have embodied with the dedication of an ancient griot.
Not only was I raised by and through the principles of Kwanzaa, but my wife and I have also raised our children by and through its principles. My children have experienced Kwanzaa every day of their lives, raised in the rhythm of kujichagulia and the wisdom of the Nguzo Saba. Over the years, I’ve reflected deeply on the concept of self-determination — as a husband, father, teacher, writer, brother and son. Each role channels its own version of self-determination, woven from a deep and innate sense of identity forged over decades of living within and through these principles.
Kwanzaa’s principles are universal in their applicability, but they were born from the particular demands of the African American experience. They were crafted to heal, uplift, and affirm those descended from enslaved Africans in this country.
Kwanzaa is a week-long cultural celebration that honors African heritage and the African American community. It was created in 1966 by Dr. Maulana Karenga, a professor of Black Studies and an activist during the Black Power Movement. It is a cultural holiday that was established as one way to reconnect African Americans to their cultural roots and to reinforce community values. Kwanzaa begins on December 26 and ends on January 1. It is grounded in and by seven principles, known as the Nguzo Saba, which emphasize unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and faith. The name “Kwanzaa” is derived from the Swahili phrase matunda ya kwanza, meaning “first fruits,” reflecting African harvest traditions.
Kwanzaa’s principles are universal in their applicability, but they were born from the particular demands of the African American experience. They were crafted to heal, uplift and affirm those descended from enslaved Africans in this country. Some call us ADOS (American Descendants of Slavery), others Freedmen, and still others simply African Americans. For myself, I define who I am in plain terms: I am a Black man. That’s my self-determined language. It’s not to diminish the importance of other terms, but to center myself in the truth of my identity, as I live and breathe it daily.
Defining oneself, with others
And yet, kujichagulia isn’t just about naming or defining oneself. As the National Museum’s definition reminds us, it also encompasses creating and speaking for ourselves. And here’s where the plurality of the principle comes alive. Kujichagulia cannot exist in isolation; its essence thrives in community, in family. The grammar of self-determination, the “deep structure,” resides in the plural. It’s about the interplay between the individual and the collective — how we actualize and articulate our identities in concert with those around us.
In linguistics, deep structure refers to the underlying, abstract meaning of a sentence — its core semantic content, irrespective of how it’s expressed on the surface. Similarly, self-determination’s deep structure transcends its surface expressions. I may define myself as a Black man, but that deep structure might manifest in various ways: African American, Freedman, ADOS. These are surface variations of the same profound truth.
This interplay between the individual and the collective is mirrored in my family’s practice of Kwanzaa. As a Peterson, I carry not just a name, but a culture — a shared legacy shaped by my siblings, my parents, my wife, my children, and the principles we’ve cultivated together. Within our family, we’ve developed our own “Petersonisms” — traditions and values that build on the foundation of Kwanzaa, fortifying our bonds and guiding us to honor both past and future generations. Some of our “Petersonisms” are borrowed from wise conventional sayings like “it is what it is,” a simple phrase that reflects our dedication to dealing with the challenges of life together and with an unwavering constitution. Another is “God willing,” a phrase I use to close out “Evening WURDs” on WURD. This one speaks for itself.
Some of the deeper Petersonisms are a bit more specific to our lived experiences. One of my favorites — “When your hair catches fire, don’t panic. Put the fire out.” — references the time when our power was out and we were doing our homework by candlelight. One of my sister’s hair caught on fire and another didn’t panic for a second, she just put it out and eventually, we went back to our homework. For us, the deep structure of being a Peterson is a commitment to family that surpasses every other commitment, save the one we make to God.
In this critical juncture, Kwanzaa’s principle of self-determination serves as a clarion call, requiring us to come together, honor our shared heritage, and build the future our ancestors envisioned.
When we broaden this concept to the collective Black identity, we encounter complexities and tensions. Today, debates abound about what it means to be Black, whether race still matters, and how lineage factors into identity. Some argue that self-determination for African Americans should emphasize distinction from other Black identities across the diaspora. But for me, such exclusionary practices are antithetical to the spirit of kujichagulia. Unity (umoja), after all, is the principle that precedes self-determination. True self-determination must include a commitment to unity — a unity that acknowledges the richness and diversity of the African diaspora.
To disconnect from our African, Caribbean, or other diasporic brothers and sisters is to fracture the deep structure of our shared identity. The self-determination I practice requires an expansive unity — one that traces our lineage back to the African continent, through the horrors of the transatlantic slave trade and the resilience of Middle Passage survivors, and forward into the myriad expressions of Blackness across the globe: in the U.K., Asia, Cuba, Latin America, and yes, here in the United States.
In this moment, self-determination for Black people is vital and urgent. We find ourselves navigating a turbulent time marked by heightened racial tensions and an administration emboldening policies and practices reminiscent of the 60s, a time of civil unrest and a return to our struggle for basic human rights. The systemic challenges we face today — police violence, economic inequity, and efforts to suppress our voices — mirror the battles that birthed Kwanzaa as a celebration of solidarity and self-determination. In this critical juncture, Kwanzaa’s principle of self-determination serves as a clarion call, requiring us to come together, honor our shared heritage, and build the future our ancestors envisioned.
So, as we celebrate kujichagulia, let us remember that our self-determination is not just an individual act but a communal one. It is realized in the multitudes — in the intersections of our identities and the connections we nurture across time and space. I am a Black man. But the deep structure of that definition encompasses far more than my singular self. It is woven into the collective fabric of Blackness, resilient and expansive, embracing all that we are and all that we will be.
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