Narrator: Imagine a room crackling with tension. On one side sits Robert F. Kennedy, the Attorney General of the United States, a man of immense power and political ambition. On the other, a group of Black luminaries—artists, writers, and activists—gathered by the brilliant author James Baldwin. Kennedy expects a polite, intellectual discussion about policy and progress. Instead, a young Freedom Rider named Jerome Smith, his body still bearing the scars of Southern brutality, unleashes a torrent of raw, unfiltered anguish. He declares he feels sick to his stomach sitting in the same room as the nation's top law enforcement officer and that he would never fight for a country that had so thoroughly failed to protect him. The room falls silent. This was not a debate; it was a reckoning. This explosive 1963 meeting, and the unfinished conversation it represents, is the heart of Michael Eric Dyson’s book, What Truth Sounds Like: Robert F. Kennedy, James Baldwin, and Our Unfinished Conversation About Race in America. The book dissects this pivotal moment to explore what happens when the comfortable narratives of power collide with the searing truth of lived experience.

Narrator: The book opens by establishing a powerful, paradoxical theme: the blood of martyrs strengthens the cause they died for. Dyson argues that attempts to suppress a movement by assassinating its leaders often have the opposite effect. The act of martyrdom galvanizes supporters, deepens their commitment, and transforms the fallen leader into a powerful symbol.

This pattern is woven into American history. When John Wilkes Booth murdered Abraham Lincoln in 1865, he hoped to revive the Confederate cause and halt the liberation of enslaved Black people. Instead, his fatal shot solidified Lincoln’s legacy as a martyr for the Union and the abolition of slavery, strengthening the very cause Booth sought to destroy. Similarly, the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy in the 1960s did not extinguish the hope they represented. Instead, their deaths forced a national reckoning with America's deep-seated racism and moral failings, inspiring a new generation to continue the fight for justice. For the author, a nine-year-old boy watching King’s funeral on television, the event was a formative trauma. It was a moment that made the threat of white supremacy feel terrifyingly real and instilled a lifelong quest to understand the logic of sacrifice in the face of such hate.

Narrator: The centerpiece of the book is the historic 1963 meeting between Robert F. Kennedy and James Baldwin's hand-picked group of Black intellectuals and activists. Kennedy, grappling with the escalating civil rights crisis, sought to understand the racial tensions brewing in the North. He came to the meeting armed with policy points and a list of his administration's accomplishments, viewing the problem through the lens of political pragmatism.

He was not prepared for what he encountered. The group, which included playwright Lorraine Hansberry and psychologist Kenneth Clark, had no interest in a sterile policy debate. They came to bear witness. The turning point came with Jerome Smith’s emotional testimony. His raw anger and declaration that he was ready to take up arms because the government had failed to protect him shattered the room's decorum. When Hansberry supported Smith, telling Kennedy, "the only man you should be listening to is that man over there," she was articulating the group's core message: the truth of Black suffering could not be found in statistics or legislative agendas. It had to be witnessed in the pain and rage of those who lived it every day. Kennedy initially left the meeting feeling defensive and misunderstood, but the encounter planted a seed. It forced him to confront the moral rot at the heart of the issue, a confrontation that would ultimately transform his understanding of race and justice.

Narrator: Dyson argues that American politics and the state have historically existed to defend white interests and identity. Whiteness, he explains, has long been the unspoken, default position of American life, granting unearned privileges without ever needing to be named. This created a political system where leaders often prioritized the comfort of white voters over the urgent needs of Black citizens.

John F. Kennedy’s presidency serves as a prime example. He made symbolic gestures, like calling to get Martin Luther King Jr. released from jail, which helped secure the Black vote. Yet, he simultaneously assured white Southern leaders he would not be a forceful advocate for civil rights and appointed segregationist judges to the federal court. This "racial bipolarity" was a political calculation designed to maintain power. Decades later, the election of Barack Obama, while a monumental symbol, did not erase this history. The fierce backlash, particularly the "birther" movement championed by Donald Trump, revealed a deep-seated refusal to accept a Black man as a legitimate American leader. Dyson provocatively suggests that Trump’s presidency inverted this dynamic, treating the entire nation with the same dismissiveness and contempt that Black people have historically endured, causing outrage among many white Americans who were unaccustomed to such treatment.

Narrator: For Black artists, their work is never just art. It carries the heavy burden of representation. Dyson explores how Black artists have navigated this pressure, using their platforms to challenge white supremacy and affirm Black humanity. This role is fraught with danger, as speaking truth to power often invites persecution.

The life of Paul Robeson is a stark illustration. A world-renowned singer and actor, Robeson was a fierce critic of American racism and imperialism. For his outspokenness, he was blacklisted during the McCarthy era, had his passport revoked, and was hounded into silence by the government, dying a broken man. Harry Belafonte, Robeson's mentee, learned from this tragedy. He adopted a more strategic approach, carefully choosing roles and projects that challenged racist stereotypes while publicly aligning himself with the more palatable leadership of Martin Luther King Jr. In the modern era, artists continue this work of reimagining American identity. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton uses hip-hop to cast the nation's founding as an immigrant story, while films like Black Panther and Get Out create worlds that center Black experience and expose the horrors of liberal racism, proving that art remains one of the most powerful weapons against oppression.

Narrator: The tension that defined the Kennedy-Baldwin meeting—policy versus witness—remains a central dilemma in Black activism. Is it more effective to work within the system to change laws, or to stand outside it and bear witness to injustice in order to change hearts?

This conflict was vividly replayed in 2015 when Black Lives Matter activists confronted presidential candidate Hillary Clinton. Like Kennedy, Clinton focused on her detailed policy proposals for criminal justice reform. The activists, however, demanded something more personal. They asked what had changed in her heart. Clinton’s response was telling: "I don’t believe you can change hearts. I believe you change laws." This exchange highlighted a generational and philosophical divide. While older models of activism often separated the political labor of policy from the moral labor of witness, movements like BLM insist they are inseparable. They argue that policy alone is insufficient because hate and bigotry can adapt to and undermine any law. True change requires a transformation of both systems and souls.

Narrator: When Black athletes step out of the arena and into the world of social commentary, they often face a specific type of vitriol. Drawing on Baldwin’s term, Dyson explains that Black heroes who challenge the status quo are often branded as "bad niggers" by a white America that prefers its athletes to be grateful and silent.

Muhammad Ali was the archetype. When he changed his name from Cassius Clay and refused to fight in Vietnam, he was widely condemned. His famous declaration, "Ain’t no Vietcong ever called me nigger," connected the oppression of Black people at home with American imperialism abroad. He sacrificed his title and his prime years for his principles, becoming a powerful symbol of integrity. Decades later, Colin Kaepernick faced a similar backlash for kneeling during the national anthem to protest police brutality. Critics, including the president, accused him of disrespecting the flag and the military, deliberately ignoring the substance of his protest. Like Ali, Kaepernick was effectively exiled from his sport for his activism. The pattern shows that those who celebrate Ali’s legacy today but condemn Kaepernick’s protest fundamentally misunderstand the tradition of Black athlete activism. It is a form of humanitarianism, a righteous witness against injustice that demands both courage and sacrifice.

Narrator: Ultimately, What Truth Sounds Like argues that America’s conversation about race cannot be resolved through policy papers or polite debate alone. It requires a willingness to listen to the uncomfortable, unfiltered, and often angry truth of those who have been marginalized. The explosive meeting between Robert F. Kennedy and James Baldwin serves as an enduring symbol of this necessary, painful, and transformative process. Kennedy’s evolution after that meeting, from a pragmatic politician to a genuine champion for the oppressed, shows that change is possible when power is willing to be vulnerable to truth.

The book leaves us with a profound challenge. The title itself is a question: What does truth sound like? Dyson’s answer is that it sounds like the righteous rage of Jerome Smith, the defiant poetry of James Baldwin, and the silent protest of Colin Kaepernick. It is the sound of a community refusing to be silenced. The real question is whether we are finally ready to listen.