Whether or not it’s culturally accepted, art is the great unifier. The best artists throughout centuries are able to look at their medium and feel encouraged to tell stories. What may seem like a mundane detail to others suddenly is illuminated with a rich tapestry of deeper meaning. The best of art will bring people together, making them understand and even relate to something strange and new. It is provocative, able to last centuries as a cultural touchstone that shapes how the world is seen. It changes the perception of history, allowing a conversation to be molded into something exciting and new.
In January 1977, Roots achieved that status. Over the course of eight nights, the series introduced the world to the American slave trade through an unlikely protagonist: Kunta Kinte. Whereas history has often favored white perspective, here was an adaptation of Alex Haley’s equally groundbreaking novel that sought to show the journey of a Mantika warrior, plucked from Africa to become enslaved. Even with its limitations from budget and TV capabilities, it managed to convey a story lasting over a century, reflecting how the spirit of one man lasted through 18th century America well through to the Emancipation Proclamation.
There are a variety of reasons that Roots became a cultural phenomenon. On the surface, it was a study of a family that hadn’t been seen before. It was a view on how ideals are passed down, even to generations who may never see the shores of their African homeland. They just have to believe that one day they will understand the freedom that Kunta spoke of. The Haley narrative helped to launch the modern genealogy movement and created pride in the Black identity.
Suddenly they were given a view of history that could be sympathetic and rich with a personal connection. The family that Haley focuses on is his own, being pulled from 12 years of research. Every person in the story is drawn from his own life, given permanent documentation that seeks to encourage similar narratives. These were the people that mattered to Haley, who deserved far more respect than they got in their lifetime. Their stories now exist at times as cautionary but more important as hopeful, that one day they will know what freedom feels like.
The story starts in Africa with one simple goal: name a newborn child. As he views his son, days old and crying, Omoro Kinte asks for guidance. What is the value of the name? It’s a part of your identity that will live through the centuries, proving that you ever existed. Before Kunta’s story begins, the narrative is already dealing with richer mythology on the value of culture. A name isn’t something to just be given. It has to symbolize something greater and, for Kunta Kinte, it’s something that will resonate for the next two centuries. As Omoro holds his child to the sky, he declares that the universe is the only thing greater than him.
Kunta is a warrior, participating in the familiar traditions of his ancestors. He’s the perfect blend of naïve, especially in the hands of the soft-spoken LeVar Burton. As he grows older and tests the waters of his power, he is constantly reprimanded by his parents, by townsfolk, who put the idea of power in relation to respect: a perfect antithesis for everything that follows. There is a liveliness to this word, of a tribe that doesn’t plan to change career paths anytime soon. In that sense, Kunta is just another person.
But anyone who even knows the least bit about Roots knows the tragedy that lies on the outskirts of the first episode. For as much as empathy and comfort is built over the first 40 minutes, everything to follow becomes a traumatic story in search of hope. What makes it even more harrowing is that this isn’t a narrative with direct villainy. While there are racist white slave owners, it’s a story as much about values and doing the right thing when given power. Kunta isn’t captured by a white man, but a series of locals bullied and manipulated into cornering him. As the chains slap onto him, Kunta falls to the ground in a pained reality.
He will never see his family again. He will be carted off to a foreign land to speak a language that isn’t his with a name that is rudimentary and impersonal. Kunta is no Toby, and yet with enough whipping, he becomes submissive. The building loneliness is perfectly executed, with the inhumanity never feeling exploitative. It isn’t meant to be about the misery, but the hope that freedom will one day prevail. It’s a part of Kunta’s spirit that never dies, even as he grows old and finds himself feeling alone. He may have a new family that he sacrifices for, but there is this terrible sense that Kunta will only be free when he dies, freed from this mortal coil and the endless dehumanization. For as much hope as he bestows on his daughter Kizzy, the real tragedy is that nobody understands truly what it was like to be part of the happier, freer Mantika tribe. Even if Kunta made it back, it’s unlikely that he would get there in time for the overdue closure he deserves.
It’s bittersweet, especially with moments that paint American history in a complicated life. Kunta represents the only character who truly knows freedom for most of the story. Even after passing, he’s left hoping that Kizzy will get there. The story is at its best when it adds wrinkles to the narrative, finding that not everyone is vindictive. Capt. Davies grapples with faith and whether what he’s doing is humane. Missy Anne Reynolds will only be friends with Kizzy in private. Then there’s Squire James whose sexual assault of Kizzy results in her son Chicken George. It’s a mixture of history that causes a lot of questions and would be so unbelievable if they weren’t likely true. It’s one that revels in the inhumanity that Haley’s family faced, and asks what was it all worth?
More importantly, it’s a story about the will to survive, to believe in something greater. In the time of being stuck on plantations, there is a strong focus on the community that the slaves make outside of picking crops. It comes in the celebration of marriage (or “jumping the broom”) or playing the fiddle during a personal dance. The world around may be at times horrible, reminding them that they aren’t yet truly free. But for those moments where they escape into their cabins, they find the true humanity, understanding that they need to stay together.
It shines bright in moments such as when Fiddler, a man born into slavery, trains Kunta to speak English. As they ride around in a carriage, he points to a tree and asks Kunta to name what he sees: a tree, a dog, the sky. It’s the simple things that slowly connect them, understanding parts of each other’s world. This is the bonding that makes Roots at times powerful, showing how humanity shines through, giving the Black perspective a more three-dimensional view of history. Just because they are slaves doesn’t mean that they aren’t human, capable of living their own meaningful lives within the confines of shackles, the fear of whips just out of frame.
What becomes incredible over the near 10 hours of the miniseries is the feeling of time passing, of one generation fading into another. While it all centers around Kunta, there is more time focused on the family he helped create in America, producing an incredible strength in every decision they make. Every episode centers around different themes of their humanity, starting with the concept of freedom before turning into morality clauses. What does Chicken George do when he discovers his father is an abusive white man? What happens when Nat Turner leads a slave rebellion and turn the south into a paranoid, gun-toting frenzy?
As much history as the story covers, it rarely uses it for novelty. The Turner subplot never builds to a pointless cameo. The most familiar event that happens is the Reconstruction, where freedom is on the precipice for these characters. It wrangles in The KKK and delves into racist ideology, itself reflective of the theme of freedom: how could a marginalized group who never knew freedom possibly be free? Where some see it as a learning curve, others see it as an insecure reason to burn down homes. Everyone learns lessons, and it ends with the profound sentiment that the whole show is based on. It’s a story of hope and one that exists even in the worst of times.
As the Kinte family evolves, changing their surname to their various slave masters, they never lose sight of their origins. Even those who only know Kunta by name have a profound respect for him, now buried in an abandoned field. He sacrificed so much for their chance at freedom, and it makes the whole thing bittersweet. As the final minutes click, there is that appreciation for what Kunta symbolizes, wishing he was there to once again understand what freedom means. It’s so beautiful, and the excellent score by Quincy Jones adds a beautiful orchestral score that evolves over the different eras, adding texture as the family evolves and forms a deeper core.
 |
| Alex Haley |
There is another chapter to this story to be found in Roots: The Next Generation, but it never had quite the phenomenal reputation of the premier series. It could be that it told one of the most essential stories in American history. Considered to be “the original sin,” slavery will always remain a problematic note. By giving the Black perspective a chance to express themselves, it allows history to be more dimensional, reflect a side needing to have their voice heard. If it’s not, it will remain trivialized, lessons not learned as they fade into caricature and text that lacks emotion.
In some ways, Roots is a bit too of its time. Not necessarily in how it was produced, but in how it tells its story. Haley famously wanted to tell the story with white screenwriters because he believed a Black writer would just tell their story. While this is fine, the emphasis on white characters at times is both a fascinating wrinkle but also reflective of insecurity to paint characters in a negative light. While there are some truly racist figures (Evan Brent), others have a moral grey area that is endearing. Capt. Davies exists to question his moral complacency in the slave trade, but what does it add to the story? Kunta’s story by itself is rich enough with the uncertainty that it could’ve carried the series. It may add narrative devices to fill out any hour, but it reflects a need for small bits of comfort, that humanity can’t be that bad.
For whatever flaws Roots may have, it never strays too far from its core principles. The script is expertly written, finding ways to mix themes of family and freedom with American history in such a way that it transcends taboo. It seeks to ask hard questions about this nation’s identity, and it does so by providing a deeper study of the people who lived there. By capturing generations of a family, it finds the ways that each character is similar and ever-evolving, using the principles of their Mantika warrior past to better their own lives.
It’s a profound look for hundreds of reasons, and they all inform a shift in the culture. It’s a story of having pride, even when the world doesn’t see it. It’s about being allowed to have your story heard, to know that history isn’t dictated by one archetype. Everyone contributes to their identity, and this is a perfect turning point for how media reflected Black identity on television. For once, they were humans who could be vulnerable one minute and laugh another. It’s something that makes American history richer. It’s what great art does. Even if there are more nuanced and ambitious takes on the subject, Roots will continue to matter for what it symbolizes to the bigger narrative. It’s art that made the world see itself differently in ways both permanent and positive.
Comments
Post a Comment