Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself...
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About Me
For those of you who might not know, my name is Robert Jones, Jr. I am a writer by purpose and a public speaker by necessity. I am the author of the novel, The Prophets, which was a New York Times bestseller, winner of Publishing Triangle’s Edmund White Award for Debut Fiction and a finalist for the 2021 National Book Award for Fiction. My work is also featured in the critically acclaimed anthologies, Four Hundred Souls and The 1619 Project. I am the creator of the social media platform Son of Baldwin, which I retired in 2022.
I was born and raised (and am currently living) in Brooklyn, New York, USA—the best city in the U.S., according to me. LOL! I grew up primarily in the housing projects of South Brooklyn. My husband (an attorney) and I have been together for almost 20 years. And while we do not have any human children, we are, in fact, pretty decent uncles if we do say so ourselves; and we do have a child of the feline persuasion named, of course, Baldwin.
Let’s see, what else? I’m a Taurus. I’m left-handed. I love the rain and taking long walks around the city. Autumn is my favorite season, followed by spring. I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 2019, so some days are harder than others. I’m I was a huge Janet Jackson fan. R&B is my favorite genre of music. I have been collecting comic books for 49 years (Wonder Woman is my favorite character), but I absolutely have superhero movie fatigue. I can’t stop watching cleaning videos on YouTube. I like to watch horror films. I hate injustice. I love reading complex novels. And I am currently working on my second novel in addition to writing for Witness and other publications. You can find a more comprehensive list of my work on my website, www.sonofbaldwin.com.
About Witness
After I retired Son of Baldwin, for reasons that I outline in my essay “To Fare Well,” I started Witness as a way to continue sharing my writing with the public without having to expose myself to the rampant toxicity and psychological violence of social media. I must say that it was one of the best decisions I have ever made in my entire life and I have actually seen tangible improvements in my mental and physical health upon leaving social media behind.
With Witness, I am attempting to articulate, in a modern sense, what James Baldwin said plainly in Notes of a Native Son:
I think all theories are suspect, that the finest principles may have to be modified, or may even be pulverized by the demands of life, and that one must find, therefore, one’s own moral center and move through the world hoping that this center will guide one aright. I consider that I have many responsibilities, but none greater than this: to last, as Hemingway says, and get my work done. I want to be an honest man and a good writer.
I want to do all of that while also striving to be my highest self, which means knowing that:
I will make many, many mistakes.
Safety is an illusion.
Compassion is a virtue.
When possible, all efforts should move in the direction of harm reduction.
The most revolutionary force imaginable is love.
Here, you will find both short and longform essays about politics, literature, film, television, music, theater, and art. You will also find information about my upcoming engagements and events. For Founding Members, there will be some exclusive behind-the-scenes material as well as early sneak peeks at projects that I’m working on. I’m still exploring other ideas like podcasting and such. So stay tuned!
Thank you again for choosing to be part of this community.
Gratitude
I’m trying to figure out how to put this.
2024 has been the year of my greatest loss, a loss that has fundamentally changed me. But also, 2024 hasn’t been complete misery. In fact, some good things have happened to me; and I’m trying to cling to those good things as a way to trust that the blessings can, at least, match the curses. Or maybe that within the curses, there are some hidden blessings. I don’t know if this approach is foolhardy, a kind of unhealthy avoidance, naive, an understandable coping mechanism, a justifiable both/and stance, just plain human, or a combination of all of those things. All I know is that for me to make it from one day to the next, I must attempt to hold on to joy as tightly as my abiding companion sorrow frequently clings to me.
Forgive me for being coy. I still don’t have the guts to put into writing what the sources of sorrow are; they are too tremendous and require much of me. But I do have the gumption to write about the joy—in the form of gratitude.
Honestly, I never thought I would make it past the age of 30. Those of you who are old enough might remember how we were constantly bombarded with the research, studies, and nightly newscasts that told us how likely it was the Black men would die before reaching 18 or 25 or 30 or some other too-soon age. The causes ranged from violence to emotional/physical/psychological health. But the insidious origin of these ills, patriarchy, remains, to this day, largely overlooked, normalized, and unnamed.
Anyway, I thought I would die at the age of 29. “2000 zero zero, party over. Oops! Out of time” as Prince sang on his classic “1999.” I thought I would be murdered by racist mobs or at the hands of other Black people who do the selfsame work of racist mobs. I thought I might be gay-bashed to death or that Ronald Reagan and his cult would find a way to destroy me via drugs or illness. And I thought these things because I watched so many others become the statistical evidence. I saw it on television, in movies, in books, on the radio; all of those formats persuasive and in collusion to ensure that it occurred in my neighborhood and neighborhoods across the diaspora. Last year, literary legend
wrote an article that highlighted the omnipresence of this phenomenon:It’s time to count up the cost.
So I made a spreadsheet of people in hip-hop who died before their time. Almost all of them are Black men. With hesitation, I stopped at 63.
Stare at the spreadsheet long enough, and names push limblike through Excel’s cells. The stacks of narrow boxes are like coffins in a queue. No list could include all who are gone. Already I’m guilty about the absence of neighborhood superstars and the critically unacclaimed. I also have not listed the men in rap who walk among us but who are dead inside.
So much loss. And for what? For what?
By the grace of my Ancestors, I made it past 30. I am now 53. And for that I have a haunting kind of gratitude because I know so many people who did not make it past 18, 25, 30, or some other too-soon age. And while I no longer believe that I’m going to die before 30 by virtue of the fact that I’m still here 23 years later, that feeling of impending doom continues to linger.
So, you see, joy is also a survival mechanism for me. I call upon it to help remind me that while death is real, so is life. And I’m happy that I’m often surrounded by people who put forth that notion in the work that they do and the art they create and the way they regard me.
Take for example, my homebrother
. Fred is a multitalented writer who writes across literary genres: fiction, nonfiction, poetry. My G can prolly write songs and plays and librettos and whatever else there is to write, too. Homie can sing and dance as well. Just a renaissance dude and whatnot. A few months ago, he wrote about our friendship in an essay that I still haven’t read in its entirety because I’m one of those people who can’t hear nice things said about me without feeling awkward or underserving. And not on some false modesty shit; more like I sometimes feel that people say nice things to me just to be nice and not because they genuinely believe it.
I know that is so unfair—and likely very wrong—but I’m being honest. Further, I fear that if I believe the nice things that are said about me or allow myself the happiness of the good things that happen to me, then it’s not fair to people who are not experiencing those things. Moreover, I believe that if I open myself up to those things, something will come along to ruin it.
I admit that this is a sad and difficult way to live. And it runs contrary to my attempts to embrace joy for survival. Trust me: I know and I am working on it. Therapy and some close friends, including Fred, have been helping me to approach these things in a much more balanced and healthy manner. And I appreciate that so much.
Something that I appreciate just as much is Fred’s commitment to life, which is epitomized in his severely underrated essay collection, Patriarchy Blues: Reflections on Manhood, and his new poetry collection, We Alive, Beloved. When I engage with his work, I am inspired to investigate the contours of my living, rather than stay too long in the depths of anguish.
These, family, are the blessings.
Another homebrother of mine, Samora Pinderhughes, is someone else whose art helps me to traverse life’s hills and valleys. Samora’s work often focuses on healing and justice. In particular, his work has been essential in terms of how I’m navigating grief.
His new album, Venus Smiles Not in the House of Tears, will be released on October 18, 2024. You can pre-order the album on Bandcamp: HERE.
I had the chance to visit my bestie Sherise and bestie-in-law LaFawn on the West Coast recently. It was my very first time in the Bay Area. It was all so beautiful, warm, and welcoming beyond measure. I’ve never experienced anything like it.
One of the things I love to do when I’m out of town is visit local bookshops, especially independent bookshops owned by people from marginalized communities. I always like to see if the stores carry books by me and my friends. If my book is on the shelves, I’ll sometimes write messages in them for readers, things like: “To whomever saw fit to purchase this book, I appreciate you. Thank you. Blessings!” And then, I’ll sign it.
I stopped in Fabulosa Books, in the heart of San Francisco’s Castro District (Y’all, I will one day have to write about the real-time NC-17 things I saw in ’Cisco. Whew, chile! LOL!) and the very kind people who worked there were happy to tell me that they had my book and books by my homies in stock. So of course, I took photos.
I made a special trip to Oakland, California in order to check out Marcus Books, the oldest Black-owned bookstore in the United States.
The bookstore’s founders, Drs. Raye and Julian Richardson met at Tuskegee University which they both attended. In 1946 Julian started Success Printing Co. in the Fillmore District of San Francisco and in 1960, the two founded Marcus Books (named after political activist and author Marcus Garvey). Together — and through both the publishing press and bookstore — they fiercely advocated for Black history, exchange, and knowledge of self. They published now canonical books (that had before their resurrection gone out of print) and work by independent authors, poets, and artists. Marcus Books is an institution where those who have written books, produced visual work and more can see themselves on a shelf, wall or counter surrounded by other Black makers.
I had the esteemed pleasure of meeting co-owners Blanche and Billy Richardson, the children of Drs. Raye and Julian Richardson, and they gave me a backstage tour in which I got to see their printing presses.
And, of course, I had to look for books by the homies.
More blessings.
The incredible Jason Reynolds said some really nice things about The Prophets that I am trying hard to receive:
As we moved to another section of the room, where a bright yellow Eames chair sat in the center, he grabbed a copy of Robert Jones Jr.’s “The Prophets,” calling it “a masterpiece.” When it was published, in 2021, “we hadn’t seen anything like it. Of course there were enslaved people who were gay. That story has been left out, but of course, people have been people for as long as people have been.”
I want to take a moment to thank James Baldwin’s family—especially Baldwin’s nephew, my “cousin,” Trevor Baldwin—for allowing me to participate in “A Century of Baldwin: The Legacy Lives!” a tribute held at Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall on August 2, Baldwin’s 100th birthday.
Electric Literature included the character Amos from The Prophets in their “7 Literary Villains and a Group of Malevolent Nuns” list, recommending “books with fictional evil-doers that teeter between victimhood and unforgivable crimes.”
Like Ward’s Let Us Descend, The Prophets is a neoslave narrative. But while Ward’s novel shines a light on the horrific disciplinary relationship between master and slave, Jones’s story is more complex. Operating under the umbrella of the oppressive master/slave relationship is Amos the betrayer. Like the young lovers Isaiah and Samuel, Amos is a slave. There are certainly white villains aplenty roaming Jones’s novel about life on a southern plantation called “Empty”: the slave master Paul, who is cold-blooded in his operation of the farm; his wife Ruth, who tries to seduce Samuel and has him punished when he doesn’t respond; their son Timothy, who forces (and obtains) sexual favors from Samuel. But Amos is a particular kind of villain; a preacher, he convinces himself and others that, counter to West African traditions, homosexuality is counter to a Christian god’s will. Amos’s betrayal of the lovers, after they resist the breeding project they are forced into, is best for the slave community as a whole, or so he convinces himself and others. While the results of this betrayal are horrifying, there’s a lifting at the close of this lyrical novel that owes much to Toni Morrison’s Beloved, with the intimation that the worst of villains and villainous institutions can never extinguish the human spirit.
Shout out to
for recommending Witness as a featured publication! Thank you!
Congratulations to my homesister,
, who was invited to give the keynote speech at the 2024 Howard University School of Law Pinning Ceremony.Congratulations to the homie, Phillip B. Williams, whose debut novel, Ours, has been longlisted for the Crook’s Corner Book Prize!
Back in March of 2024, The New York Times invited me to participate in their compiling of the “100 Best Books of the 21st Century.” I was asked to submit a list of 10 books published from 2000 to 2024 that I felt were the best I’ve read. I stuck to fiction/novels as that it my area of expertise. Still, it was tough to narrow it down to just 10. There were so many others that I wanted to include. Here is what I ultimately submitted, in no particular order:
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by
These Ghost Are Family by
The Good House by Tananarive Due
Erasure by Percival Everett
Black Leopard, Red Wolf by Marlon James
Long Division by
The Final Revival of Opal & Nev by
A Mercy by Toni Morrison
The Sexy Part of the Bible by
Moonrise Over New Jessup by
And while The Prophets didn’t make the Times’ list, it was recommended to readers who were interested in Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad, which came in at number seven.
Well, fam, that is all for this edition of Witness. Thank you for chilling with me. Some things coming up this year on Witness include insight into my neighborhood walks; and an essay on my relationship to hip-hop, my personal recollections of its early years, and my favorite rappers of all-time—yet another challenging list to compile.
In the meantime, I hope I get to see some of you at Vassar College on September 23 for “A Conversation with Robert Jones, Jr.” where I will be discussing The Prophets with Professor Michael Reyes Salas and the Vassar campus community. The lecture is free and open to the public.
And I also have another special appearance that I will be announcing soon. So please keep checking back for that. Until then, remember:
Cruelty is never a rock; it is always a boomerang.
Take good care.
Blessings upon blessings,
Robert