Kendrick Lamar, Uncle Sam, And America’s Next Captain

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Millions watched, but only a few truly saw what Kendrick Lamar’s Super Bowl performance revealed about America’s soul. It wasn’t just a show—it was a challenge. A confrontation, a moment where history and spectacle collided, demanding we decide what kind of country we are becoming.

It was the kind of performance that unsettles. The kind that lingers in the mind, making some cheer and others uneasy. And like any moment that forces us to look in the mirror, it has sparked debate.

And that’s a good thing.

Debate—especially about American culture and identity—is necessary. It is how we interrogate meaning, how we push back against false narratives, and how we make sense of where we stand in history. My purpose here isn’t to shut down the conversation—it’s to deepen it. To add another layer, one that resists easy labels and challenges us to see what’s really at stake.

One take gaining traction is the claim that Samuel L. Jackson’s role in the performance was that of the “house slave.” This interpretation is not just wrong—it fundamentally misreads both Jackson’s presence and the deeper symbolism at play.

Samuel L. Jackson’s portrayal of Uncle Sam wasn’t a throwaway gimmick. Dressed in a star-spangled suit, Jackson opened the show with, “Salutations, it’s your Uncle Sam,” a line heavy with weight. But he wasn’t there to perform a sanitized patriotism or to be a passive servant to power. His presence was a choice—an invitation.

He wasn’t a “house slave.” He was Legba.

In African diasporic traditions, Legba is the guardian of the crossroads—the moment of decision, the place where past and future collide. At that moment, Jackson wasn’t just playing Uncle Sam. He was embodying the American dilemma itself. His presence was not about blind allegiance to the state, nor about rejection—it was about the reality that America, like Legba at the crossroads, must decide which path it will take.

Kendrick Lamar’s performance was filled with these moments of decision, these calls to reflection. It was not just about Black struggle, but about power, agency, and the choices that define American history. And history does not move forward without those who dare to choose.

This debate isn’t new. Non-Black America—including progressives and the political leftist—has always struggled to understand the full scope of Black political, social and cultural thought. There’s a comfort in seeing Blackness only in opposition, only in resistance. But what about Black people like Kendrick who claim America on their own terms? Who shape it, bend it, define it?

Calling Jackson a “house slave” oversimplifies Black identity instead of engaging with its full depth and complexity. It’s a familiar trap, often repeated in non-Black spaces across the political spectrum: the idea that Black identity is either radical or compliant, field slave or house slave, revolutionary or sellout. But Blackness has never been that simple. It has always existed at the crossroads—reshaping America, challenging it, refusing to be boxed in by the narrow choices that others try to impose.

We see this throughout Black history—especially during Black History Month, when narratives are often reduced to easy soundbites.

Malcolm X was once viewed by America as irredeemable, only to later be recast as a symbol of enlightenment. But Malcolm was never just one thing—his politics evolved, his vision expanded, and in the end, it was his complexity that made him a threat. Even to those who had claimed him in his previous evolutions.

James Baldwin refused to be reduced to a singular identity, rejecting the simplistic binaries of race and sexuality that White and Black America often tried to impose on him. He was both deeply American and profoundly critical of America because he understood that real love—for a person or a nation—means demanding more from it.

Audre Lorde, a Black lesbian feminist warrior-poet, pushed back against the very idea that liberation could come from narrow definitions. She spoke of the power of difference—not as a division, but as a source of strength.

And Marsha P. Johnson, a Black trans activist, refused to let history erase her or define her solely through the lens of struggle. She fought for LGBTQ+ rights at a time when both the mainstream and the margins tried to silence her existence. She was more than just resistance—she was joy, vision, and a refusal to be flattened into one story.

Like them, Jackson’s role in Kendrick’s performance wasn’t about fitting into a false dichotomy of acceptable or radical Blackness. It was about forcing America to confront its own contradictions.

This performance was about choice. Not just for Kendrick Lamar or Black people—but for America.

And the question isn’t just being asked at half-time. It’s playing out in pop culture, too.

Source: Marvel Studios / Marvel Studios

In just a few days, Marvel’s Captain America: Brave New World will hit theaters, with Sam Wilson—played by Anthony Mackie—fully stepping into the role of Captain America. It’s a film wrestling with the same question Kendrick posed in his halftime show: Who gets to define America? Who holds power? And what does it mean to carry that weight as a Black person in a country that still struggles with its own contradictions?

Jackson’s Uncle Sam wasn’t there to reassure anyone. He wasn’t there to beg for acceptance or to wave the flag without question. He was there to remind us that Black people have always been at the heart of what it means to be American—often in ways that neither conservatives nor progressives fully care to understand.

So here we are, standing at the crossroads, just like Jackson in that moment.

The crossroads isn’t an abstract idea—it’s here, now. Will we move toward an America that recognizes the full depth of Black identity and its promise of liberation for all? Or will we remain trapped in the false choices of the past?

Kendrick Lamar gave us a vision. Jackson pointed to the road ahead. But neither of them could choose for us.

That’s up to us.

That’s up to you.

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