Kwanzaa’s Red Carpet: How Black Hollywood Reclaims Roots, Ritual, and Resistance

Max Sterling, 12/27/2025Kwanzaa isn’t just a holiday; it’s a week-long syllabus of unity, resistance, and soul food, where Black history meets present-day purpose—and everyone’s invited to the feast. Forget Hallmark—this is radical renewal, seven principles at a time, with candles, kin, and a mission that outlasts December.

Kwanzaa seldom announces itself with garish flyers at the supermarket. No animatronic snowmen here—just a kinara on the table, the smoke of seven candles tangling with the scent of sweet potato pie and something heartier, say, jollof rice. The spirit is unmistakable: less a Hallmark holiday, more an open invitation to reckon with ancestry, activism, and, yes, a little bit of soul food.

The roots are as prickly as they are profound. Maulana Karenga put pen to paper in 1966—still close enough to the Watts Rebellion that you could probably smell the tear gas clinging to his notes. Kwanzaa never tried to hide its agenda. If Christmas is about peace on earth, Kwanzaa is about self-determination on American soil. In 2023, Karenga still reminded us it was "an act of freedom, an instrument of freedom, a celebration of freedom, and a practice of freedom." Heavy stuff, carved into speeches just a few years ago, echoing through a country that has stubbornly resisted giving Kwanzaa a federal holiday slot.

What happens in Flint these days offers a glimpse into Kwanzaa’s living heart. Take the Odyssey House Adolescent Center. For a week, the place transforms—part community symposium, part homecoming, and, maybe unintentionally, a seven-day crash course in the Nguzo Saba. The lineup? Faith leaders, educators, nonprofit workers with a taste for ambitious undertakings—all orchestrated by DeWaun E. Robinson, a man as likely to be seen at a BLM rally as behind the microphone in a packed community hall.

Is seven days too many? Possibly, for those who prefer their holidays neatly boxed. Yet, Kwanzaa’s not your run-of-the-mill calendar filler; each night, the candles aren’t just for ambiance but for contemplation. Black, red, green—Karenga borrowed from both ancient Africa and modern art theory: a palette that says more about survival and hope than a shelf of self-help books ever could.

The week’s lineup unfolds like a play, and not a short one. Day One: Umoja—unity—because in Flint, that’s the baseline. Not a fuzzy wish, but a lifeline. The days march on: Kujichagulia (self-determination—a mouthful, but worth repeating), Ujima, Ujamaa, Nia, Kuumba, then finally Imani. Ella Greene-Moton from the local NAACP chapter steers that last day. Where else do you get a climactic finale that asks folks not just to believe in themselves but to keep faith with an entire community’s ongoing struggle? New Year’s Eve looks downright flimsy next to that.

It’s tempting to pigeonhole Kwanzaa as strictly a Black American affair, but it’s always been more welcoming than it gets credit for. The rituals? Intricate, yes, but never exclusive. Corn for the kids, a kinara for memory, gifts swapped for meaning more than price tag. The celebrations sprawl from LA to Detroit, backgrounds blurring as families improvise menus or stream events online (especially true now, with digital gatherings almost as familiar in 2025 as mismatched socks).

But take a closer look—the kind you’d need to spot the fingerprints on a favorite record sleeve—and you’ll see the DNA of protest everywhere. The push-pull between remembering and resisting is baked in from the start. The old demand to feel both "fully African and fully human" rings out, perhaps even louder, as 2025 draws communities back together after rough years on the national stage.

Maybe that’s why Janine Bell of Richmond’s Elegba Folklore Society insists Kwanzaa isn’t just nailed to a week. It’s a template—for 365 days of intention, or at the very least, a year’s worth of reminders to do the hard work of collective identity. To call the holiday a “renewable resource” feels just right—something to charge yourself on, season after season.

So, whether it’s candles flickering in a Michigan rec center or the smell of peanut stew leaking from a Brooklyn brownstone, Kwanzaa persists. It’s more than ritual; it’s audacity stitched to memory, the kind of weaving that dares a country to fill in its blank spaces with meaning. As January arrives and the last candle’s wax cools, the guiding question remains—not how to celebrate, but how to carry these lessons beyond the confines of one week.

Some years, it’s enough to know the work continues. After all, in Flint and far beyond, community isn’t just a word. It’s the point.

Between December’s last faded daylight and the bright, well-meaning clatter of New Year’s lies a peculiar no man’s land. Some call it "Betwixtmas." Others just call it the week with too many leftovers and not enough ambition. But, over in communities like Flint—where hope is often hard-won—this is precisely when Kwanzaa settles in. Here’s a holiday that doesn’t just fill the gap; it hands out a syllabus for the soul.Kwanzaa seldom announces itself with garish flyers at the supermarket. No animatronic snowmen here—just a kinara on the table, the smoke of seven candles tangling with the scent of sweet potato pie and something heartier, say, jollof rice. The spirit is unmistakable: less a Hallmark holiday, more an open invitation to reckon with ancestry, activism, and, yes, a little bit of soul food.The roots are as prickly as they are profound. Maulana Karenga put pen to paper in 1966—still close enough to the Watts Rebellion that you could probably smell the tear gas clinging to his notes. Kwanzaa never tried to hide its agenda. If Christmas is about peace on earth, Kwanzaa is about self-determination on American soil. In 2023, Karenga still reminded us it was "an act of freedom, an instrument of freedom, a celebration of freedom, and a practice of freedom." Heavy stuff, carved into speeches just a few years ago, echoing through a country that has stubbornly resisted giving Kwanzaa a federal holiday slot.What happens in Flint these days offers a glimpse into Kwanzaa’s living heart. Take the Odyssey House Adolescent Center. For a week, the place transforms—part community symposium, part homecoming, and, maybe unintentionally, a seven-day crash course in the Nguzo Saba. The lineup? Faith leaders, educators, nonprofit workers with a taste for ambitious undertakings—all orchestrated by DeWaun E. Robinson, a man as likely to be seen at a BLM rally as behind the microphone in a packed community hall.Is seven days too many? Possibly, for those who prefer their holidays neatly boxed. Yet, Kwanzaa’s not your run-of-the-mill calendar filler; each night, the candles aren’t just for ambiance but for contemplation. Black, red, green—Karenga borrowed from both ancient Africa and modern art theory: a palette that says more about survival and hope than a shelf of self-help books ever could.The week’s lineup unfolds like a play, and not a short one. Day One: Umoja—unity—because in Flint, that’s the baseline. Not a fuzzy wish, but a lifeline. The days march on: Kujichagulia (self-determination—a mouthful, but worth repeating), Ujima, Ujamaa, Nia, Kuumba, then finally Imani. Ella Greene-Moton from the local NAACP chapter steers that last day. Where else do you get a climactic finale that asks folks not just to believe in themselves but to keep faith with an entire community’s ongoing struggle? New Year’s Eve looks downright flimsy next to that.It’s tempting to pigeonhole Kwanzaa as strictly a Black American affair, but it’s always been more welcoming than it gets credit for. The rituals? Intricate, yes, but never exclusive. Corn for the kids, a kinara for memory, gifts swapped for meaning more than price tag. The celebrations sprawl from LA to Detroit, backgrounds blurring as families improvise menus or stream events online (especially true now, with digital gatherings almost as familiar in 2025 as mismatched socks).But take a closer look—the kind you’d need to spot the fingerprints on a favorite record sleeve—and you’ll see the DNA of protest everywhere. The push-pull between remembering and resisting is baked in from the start. The old demand to feel both "fully African and fully human" rings out, perhaps even louder, as 2025 draws communities back together after rough years on the national stage.Maybe that’s why Janine Bell of Richmond’s Elegba Folklore Society insists Kwanzaa isn’t just nailed to a week. It’s a template—for 365 days of intention, or at the very least, a year’s worth of reminders to do the hard work of collective identity. To call the holiday a “renewable resource” feels just right—something to charge yourself on, season after season.So, whether it’s candles flickering in a Michigan rec center or the smell of peanut stew leaking from a Brooklyn brownstone, Kwanzaa persists. It’s more than ritual; it’s audacity stitched to memory, the kind of weaving that dares a country to fill in its blank spaces with meaning. As January arrives and the last candle’s wax cools, the guiding question remains—not how to celebrate, but how to carry these lessons beyond the confines of one week.Some years, it’s enough to know the work continues. After all, in Flint and far beyond, community isn’t just a word. It’s the point.