Saidu Tejan-Thomas Jr.: Hey, just a quick warning: this episode of Resistance has some strong language in it. We'll get started right after this short break.
Saidu: What's good y'all. We're back. We've been gone for a pretty long time, but it's so good to be back because one of the last things we did before the break was this live show at the Tribeca Film Festival out here in New York.
Saidu: So basically, Tribeca gave us access to this dope-ass rooftop where the vibes was immaculate, the skyline was doing its thing and something like 75 folks showed up to watch us do our thing. And it was a chance for us to do our first ever live edition of the Fuck Your Water Fountain Hall of Fame.
Saidu: If this is your first time hearing about the hall of fame first off, where you been at? And second, I definitely suggest you go back and check out the first three episodes in that series named "F Your Water Fountain," "F Your Bayonet" and "F Your Everything." I love, love, love what we got to do with those episodes because the hall of fame is a chance for us to really pay respect to those lesser-known radicals who didn't let threats from the state, agents of the state, shit, even their moms, they didn't let none of that hold them back. These are folks who really embody the word "resistance" in every single way imaginable.
Saidu: So at our live show we invited three talented artists and friends of the show to pull up and do us the honor of laying tribute to three new inductees into our hall of fame. There was some grooving, some laughing and a little crying—I'm not gonna lie. We kinda went to church a little bit. But if you've missed us and also hate that you missed the live show, it's all good because today we're bringing it right to your front door. I'm Saidu Tejan-Thomas Jr. and this is Resistance, with our first ever live edition of the Fuck Your Water Fountain Hall of Fame. Let's get it.
Saidu: One of the first performers who blessed us with an induction into the hall of fame was a friend of the show, comedian Elsa Eli Waithe. Elsa did a whole stand up set on one of our episodes, called "Lesser Known Creeps," where Elsa and their homies went around New York uncovering the racist roots of some of the city's most infamous street names. This was Elsa's first time on stage since the pandemic, and like a lot of us, they'd been inside for a really long time. So before they got to their induction, they had a lot of stockpiled jokes they needed to get off their chest real quick.
Elsa Eli Waithe: I haven't done comedy live in over a year, you guys. This is my first time back. I don't know if I can—I don't know if I'm gonna be funny. Also, y'all haven't seen comedy in a long time, so I don't know if y'all know what funny is. We're both in the same boat. I don't know if this is gonna be a controversial statement, but I would like to start this off with a good robust "Fuck the police!"
Elsa Eli Waithe: Yeah. Okay, cool. Cool. We're in the right audience. I do that up top just to gauge what audience I'm in. Okay. If I get complete silence then the rest of the 10 minutes is not gonna go well. Yeah, you guys, the police are liars. They're liars, okay? Because just off of this one thing: how come Black people are always lunging for the gun but we don't ever get it? That don't make no sense to me. Y'all know Black people are like 85 percent more lunge-y. It stands to reason that we should get this at least one in four times. They're lying.
Elsa Eli Waithe: Listen, I was in the subway the other day, and walking up the stairs to leave the subway, this guy in front of me, he's adjusting his wallet in his pocket or something and a $20 bill falls out of his pocket. It's floating on the gossamer wind down the stairs, and I went to try to grab it. And this Black guy three steps behind me reaches his leg up, stomps his foot down on the $20 bill. I said, "Sir, you would get the gun every time. You'd get it every time!" Now I know he doesn't know what I'm talking about, but that surely illustrates the point, okay? It does. The police are liars. They're stupid, too. Police are stupid, you guys. I've been trying to, you know, like, jazz up my look lately. You know, we haven't been going anywhere for real, so I just been, like, experimenting with stuff. And one day I was wearing a white bandanna, right? And I come to a corner and there's some cops there and he says, "Hey! Hey you!" I'm like, "Aw, man." And I walk over to him. He says, "What set is that?" Excuse me? He says, "What crew is that?" I'm like, wait, wait. Does this cop think that my white bandanna means I'm in a gang? "Sir, what gang is white bandanna? The give up gang? The surrender squad? I only know one gang that wears white. I don't think I meet membership requirements, you know? Thank you for laughing.
Elsa Eli Waithe: I don't know. The police are stupid, and they're fucking up. And they know. They know they're fucking up, right? Because about two summers ago in my neighborhood, the police threw a block party, right? And me, I'm down for block parties. I heard it going on, and I arrive on the scene, right? And I realize this street is empty save for, like, 20 or 30 police officers. And then it dawns on me: oh my God, is this a block party the police are having for the neighborhood? Of course no one showed up. How do you have fun at a party where the cops are already at? Like, what do you do? Like, what do you do with your hands? Do I dance? Do I keep my hands out of my pocket? It's too much stress. It's too much stress.
Elsa Eli Waithe: But I'd already fucked up. I was already on the block, you know? I was already there. And one of the cops, she sees me, right? She sees me, and she's like, "Hey! Hey, come on! Hey! Hey!" I was like, "Uh, absolutely, not bitch! What? Stop waving at me." I just moved to this neighborhood. I don't want to look like the neighborhood snitch on the third day. I don't care what hot dogs y'all got going on over there. And I'm trying to hustle through this block because I'm like, fuck, wrong place. And then the DJ, right? I said, "Let me find the DJ, because that's what drew me over here anyway—the music," right? And so I said, "Let me find the DJ." You guys, I get to the DJ booth, DJ's a fuckin' cop! In his uniform! Like, can you—are you allowed to do that? Is that in the handbook? Right? And it's already too late because he's seen me bopping to the music, right? And so he, like, acknowledges me. He throws me, like, a little thumbs-up right here. I throw him a real little one, real low down here, you know? Like, "Oh yeah. The music, yeah. The music's good." And then he's like, "Come on! Come on!" I was like, "I told the last bitch no." And then, you guys, he throws finger guns! And I was just like, "No! No!" I was like, "Bro! Bro, that is not how we build community trust with finger guns, okay? You can't finger gun. Don't you guys know what you're doing? You can't finger gun."
Elsa Eli Waithe: I don't know. I think I'm really just tired, right? Just tired. If, like, a white person would never talk to me again, that'd be okay, you know what I'm saying? That would actually be okay. You can laugh at that, white people. You can. You can. It's okay. You can laugh at that. I also realized you can live in New York and go weeks without talking to a brown person, right? White people, that's a choice. That is a choice you are making. If you went all week and this is the first time you're hearing authentically from a Black person, you're doing New York wrong. You're doing New York all the way wrong. Carry your ass back to, what, Idaho? I don't know. I don't know where they make white people. I feel like they make white people in Idaho, and then they just distribute them across the country, right? Something like that. I don't know where they make white people. I feel like they make it in Idaho. It's like a Idaho potato. They just—you plop them out of the dirt and you just, you know, you flash freeze them. All right. I'm supposed to be inducting somebody into this. Supposed to be inducting somebody. My fault, y'all. I haven't been on stage in a year, I'm just having a good time. You guys, if I just start doing fart jokes. Thank you. All right. Now for my dick joke material.
Saidu: So at this point Elsa puts up a photo on the screen behind them. It's of a young Black dude with dreadlocks wearing a t-shirt designed like an American flag. I'm sure you've seen this one already. The guy's in the middle of the street about to hurl what looks like a glowing ball of fire straight into the sky.
Saidu: The glowing ball was a tear gas canister that had been shot by police at a group of young protesters. And the guy who picked it up and threw it away was a man named Edward Crawford. This is one of the most iconic photos that came out of the Ferguson protests, and I think a lot of people looked at it and thought it was some seasoned protester jumping into action. But this was Edward Crawford's first time doing anything like this.
Elsa Eli Waithe: Okay, so I just want to point out the beautiful irony of his American flag t-shirt. Like, he came dressed and ready for this, okay? Also, you guys, the dreads, these locks, all right? Long, flowing, in action, okay? He looks like a Black superhero here, right? I want you to also get into his legs, all right? These legs are a perfect 16, 19 degrees apart. This is a perfect yeet stance, okay? And we can assume from this perfect yeet stance that this smoke grenade went into fucking orbit, okay? It was a God-like yeet, okay? It's a once in a lifetime yeet. Also you guys, I want you to peep his hand here. In his other hand—he's got smoke grenade in this hand, flash grenade here. But peep his other hand, you guys. In his other hand, I zoom enhance, zoom enhance, zoom enhance, CSI style, okay? And we got this photo, and I realize that's a bag of Funyuns. That's a bag of hot Funyuns. Hot! I didn't even know they made hot Funyuns. N****s gonna n**. Okay? Hot—hot Funyuns. White people can't laugh at that one. Don't laugh at that one. That one wasn't for y'all. But see, okay. Funyuns, Funyuns are what? They're supposed to be onions, okay? Onions. The Funyuns are in the shape of an O. O stands for "oppression." All right? And then when you bite into the Funyon, you break the chain.
Saidu: Stay woke, stay woke, stay woke, stay woke, stay woke. Keep your third eye open. Third eye.
Elsa Eli Waithe: Right? And so this is him breaking the chains of oppression, and also staying nutrient—nutriezed. Neutra—that's a word. Fuck y'all. That's a word. It's a word now. Staying nutrinized during the protests, you know? And what I really like about this is this photo exemplifies a couple of things for me, knowing the back story. You don't got to be nobody special. You don't got to be in any sort of position to do the right thing. Now he was not a protester before this, and in his own words, he wasn't really active after this, but one instance of bravery was all it took. And we have this iconic photo, right? Unfortunately, he was allegedly shot in his car, like a lot of Ferguson protesters have been suspiciously shot in their car. So I don't know what to believe, right? But I do know this. I do know this: Eddie Crawford taught me three very important things, okay? Be fearless, be brave. Protect the children. Never drop your snacks. Never drop the snacks. All right? And for that, I would like to induct Eddie Crawford into the Fuck Your Water Fountain Hall of Fame.
Saidu: Yes! Let's get it! Thank you so much, Elsa. Yo, give it up for Elsa one more time.
Saidu: Another friend of the show came out to induct someone into the Hall of Fame: Ivy Sole. Ivy is a rapper and singer from Charlotte, North Carolina. And you know that moment at the end of our episodes when you stop listening to me talk and start listening to the music? Well, two of my favorite songs we've used in those credits have been Ivy's songs. Ivy came through to induct someone really special to her—a woman named Claudia Jones. Now if you know Claudia Jones, you're gonna love Ivy's induction. But if you didn't—like me—lemme get you hip real quick.
Saidu: Claudia Jones was a lead organizer in the Communist Party of the United States back in the '40s. She was way ahead of her time in thinking about things like workers' rights and the means of production. You know, all those words people casually throw around today to critique capitalism. She was already on that. And she was also pushing folks to also think deeper about gender and race. But back then, you couldn't just go around critiquing capitalism the way we do today and think you were just gonna get away with it.
Saidu: In the 1950s, after she wrote a particularly radical piece opposing war, the feds came through, scooped her up and accused her of advocating for the violent overthrow of the US government. Wild. But no matter. After spending nine months in jail and getting deported to England, Claudia did what any self-respecting Caribbean-born intellectual would do: she threw a party. Specifically, she started what would become the Notting Hill Carnival. You know the big Trinidadian celebrations with the huge costumes and people dancing soca, marching up and down the streets? She brought that to England and showed them how Black folks get down.
Saidu: But the big thing she was really up to in England was running a newspaper called the West Indian Gazette, where she reported stories that got Caribbean folks in the diaspora to really start connecting the dots between the struggles they were facing in England with the struggles their people were facing back home.
Saidu: When Ivy stepped onto the stage, a photo of Claudia appeared on the screen: a Black woman on a rotary phone sitting in front of a typewriter. Next to her is a copy of the paper she helped found.
Saidu: So Ivy decided to do what she does best and induct Claudia Jones with a song.
[IVY SOLE PERFORMANCE]
Saidu: After the break, I'm gonna get y'all hip to a really good friend of mine named Dominique Christina. Dominique is one of the coldest poets I know, and if you've never heard her spit before, just know you're probably gonna be sitting down when she starts, by the time she finishes, you'll be out of your seat.
Saidu: We'll be right back.
Saidu: I'm about to bring up our last performer. Some people call her the author of four books, a five-time National Poetry Slam champion, actor and writer in HBO's High Maintenance. I call her at odd hours asking for relationship advice, asking for somebody to just listen to me. I call her "Mama," I'll call her "Auntie," I call her "Sister," I call her "Boo." I call her all of that. But y'all can call her Dominique Christina. Everybody, please help me welcome Dominique Christina to the stage.
Saidu: All right, so do not embarrass me in front of these people.
Dominique Christina: All right.
Saidu: Okay. We actually have to ...
Dominique Christina: Wait, I know shit. All right.
Saidu: [laughs] So all right. So can you tell us who you're inducting today?
Dominique Christina: A sister by the name of Pamela Echols in 1967. She did that at a race riot in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Yeah.
Saidu: Behind me and Dominique right now is a photo of a woman named Pamela Echols. And Pamela is decking a cop straight in the face with a mean right hook. And somehow, she's still holding onto her purse with her left. And the look on her face says everything you need to know about her: she was over it.
Dominique Christina: Yeah, yeah. It's dope, right? How many of you have seen that photo? Yeah, a good number of people.
Saidu: This is one of those photos you see and you immediately gravitate towards it, and you fuck with it, you love it, but you know nothing about who the person is.
Dominique Christina: No, I didn't. When I chose her, I didn't.
Saidu: Yeah. Talk to me about that process of, like, not knowing who she was, finding out who she is and then writing this poem that you're gonna spit for us.
Dominique Christina: Yeah. So I learned something about myself and my process, because I realized, like, so much about my witchcraft or, like, my magic making is in naming things. And I didn't have her name when I wrote the poem. They got an archivist to find her name, and the poem was already written before I knew her name was Pamela Echols. But she is familiar to me. She's also extraordinary in, like, her risk-taking behavior. You don't even have to know back story. This photo tells you she took chances. Like, incalculable chances, right? So for me, it was about the acknowledgment that Black women in particular have always been so extraordinary, so supernatural, whether we have been named or not. That's why I was drawn to her.
Dominique Christina: And again, because his uniform suggests that he's a police chief. So something catalyzed this sister to jump off the curb and do this, knowing that she might not make it home, you know? I'm fascinated by that. I'm fascinated by the ancestors whose names we don't know, whose miracles that they performed and we weren't aware of them, but we're still the beneficiaries of miracles.
Saidu: Yes, yes, yes!
Dominique Christina: I'm fascinated by that.
Saidu: Facts. So writing something for a woman you've never met before who inspired you in some way, who you wanted to give agency to, this is something that you've done before in your book Anarcha Speaks. And Anarcha is the woman who was—one of the enslaved women who was operated on by the guy who's considered the modern—who's considered the father of modern day gynecology. Exactly.
Saidu: I'm wondering, like, what is the difference between writing that book for Anarcha and writing this poem for Pamela? Like, what—yeah, what did you discover in this process of giving her—creating a story for Pamela?
Dominique Christina: So this is my specific philosophical orientation. So I'm not trying to preach or proselytize or suggest that this applies to everyone. But I do operate from a fair amount of ancestral logic, which is to say I'm willing to be available to whoever needs to say something, right, to or through me. And for her, she preceded me, and there was all this life happening before I even entered the chat, right? Before I even was on the planet. And yet she is my familiar in the same way that Anarcha is my familiar, though she lived and died before I was ever even a concept.
Dominique Christina: And so for me, it's about we still have the opportunity to family folks whose names we may not know, whose backstory we may not know. We still have the opportunity to family these folks, to bring them into the chat, to bring them into the space, to bring them into our consciousness, to center them and say, "You deserve."
Saidu: Facts. Facts.
Dominique Christina: Yeah. So it matters. It's all good medicine. Anarcha was the subject of experimentation. To talk about her, you had to talk about J. Marion Sims, the white man who experimented on her in order to be known for gynecological work. Pamela Echols had this moment, and then as far as history is concerned or archives are concerned, she went on being a Black woman, living her Black-ass life. We don't know what happened after this, but this moment was seismic. And it needed to be named and it needed language to be curated for it. So I was really happy to be able to do that.
Saidu: Yeah. Yeah, definitely. Yes, yes, yes. Yeah. I'm like, "Amen," right? Ashay.
Dominique Christina: Ashay and amen, yeah.
Saidu: Yeah. I'm like—one, I'm so excited to hear the piece out loud because I've read the piece, and I'm excited for folks here to hear it as well. But, like, I guess I'm wondering, like, what do you hope the people here take away from Pamela's story, from the photo and Pamela's story that you've—the language that you've created, curated for her? Like, once this is all over, what is the thing that you hope that people will leave with?
Dominique Christina: Okay. So I think that you should know that there was a critical juncture in this woman's life at that riot in Wisconsin in 1967, in which she was willing to get her chin out over her feet and risk her life to mean something. I want you to know that you borrow bone and blood from somebody who did the exact same thing at one point or another, or you would not be here.
Dominique Christina: I want her to matter to you. Even if she's new to you, I want her to matter to you. I want you to family her in whatever way feels appropriate. I want you to say her name, if that feels appropriate. I want you to remember that ordinary people do extraordinary things all the time. And you don't need TMZ to tell you that. Ordinary people do extraordinary things all the time. You've probably performed several miracles this morning just to get here. That's what I want you to know. That's all I want you to know.
Saidu: Yeah, I don't—I'm gonna shut up. [laughs] I think it's time. Is it time, y'all? Is it time to hear? Yeah? All right. Go ahead.
Dominique Christina: One more time for the acts before this.
Saidu: Yes! Please give it up.
Dominique Christina: And for the inductees. One more time for the DJ.
Saidu: Yes, Ethan! Please, hey, hug up my man Ethan.
Dominique Christina: One time for the host.
Saidu: Thank you. Thank you.
Dominique Christina: I love him. Okay, literally. All right. So this poem is for Miss Pamela Echols.
It's the Long Hot Summer of '67 and
Somebody took a picture of you
Punching a police officer
We gotta talk about it.
Before I learned your name you looked like a Gladys or a Henrietta to me-
One of them Negro names that got a story
Attached to it or an ancestor
Maybe you had a seamstress job or
Worked nights in a bakery so you could
Go to community college during the day
Maybe you wanted to be a nurse and
Maybe you still lived with your mama
Maybe she made banana pudding
Every year 'round Christmas time and
Maybe you helped her with it-
Maybe you had two brothers
One named Harold
The other called Al
Standing by the window
Waiting for you to come home and
When you didn't maybe your mama grabbed her purse and
Sent the boys to a lady called
Mama Anne who lived next door
Maybe your daddy left work early to
Look for you
Your mama probably told him
She heard there was trouble
And since you weren't
Home maybe you were mixed up in
I'm sayin' I see you
Getting off the bus headed to the movies
When a brother runs up
With a wild in his eye that won’t be
Talked down by anything
Telling you cops beat a boy
Over on 3rd and Walnut and
Since black folk were already dying and
Always dying without any businesses
Closing early or shops boarding their windows
Or traffic delayed because of it maybe
Milwaukee needed a revolution
Hell, Harlem and Philly had one in '64
LA in '65, Cleveland and Chicago in '66
And in the summer of 1967 in Milwaukee
On July 30th you wore a white sweater and
Took the time to curl your hair to go to
A picture show with a man you met at church
The week before
You calculated that it would take you an
Hour to get ready
10 minutes to walk to the bus stop
28 minutes on the bus
7 minutes to the theater that left you
With 20 minutes to spare but
A brother you'd never met before
Hooked his arm in yours and told you
Your purpose was waiting for you
On 3rd avenue
You wore a black skirt with
Patent leather shoes and
A white sweater you had been careful to
Do you hear me careful to
Make sure it stayed white
But there you were walking down the street
Headed toward 3rd-
Headed toward a crime scene knowin'
You would get dirty…
You see that vulture circling overhead imitating winter?
There's always a vulture in a poem like this one-
Lookin' for the bodies
When they find 'em, they feast
Never mind that-
A girl in a red dress runs by with a baby
On her hip and rollers in her hair
Headed toward 3rd and Walnut same as you-
By the time you get there you gon' be red too
Too red to be a girl or a daughter or a nurse
You swallowed your tongue and
A razorblade grew in its place
You got one mind now
One heart- a blood corsage
Stitched in your chest
Nonviolence is a stillbirth-
A baby you don't know how to hold
Cut to three boys throwing rocks
Fires being set
Cut to looting fighting whole lotta folks screaming
Shots heard on Center Street
What do you do first?
Did you join the ones singing 'bout Eyes on the Prize
Or the ones running into stores and
Coming out with lamps and cigarettes,
Quilts and cowboy boots they'd never wear
A sharp thud happens behind you
2 officers pulled a boy to the ground
He's foaming at the mouth and kicking
An officer with blonde hair sits on his legs
The red head one puts a knee in his neck
Black is going blue
You didn't know it then but the same thing
Would happen 53 years later to a man
In Minnesota and fires
Were set in his name
I think they mighta called you Henrietta-
Something sturdy like that
I think midnight was coming on
Resuscitated by the crack of the whip
The thump of the Billy club
(Don't have the same ring to it but I'll keep it current)
I think you stood on the block and meant it
Got your chin out over your feet
Leaned into your rage and
Found it to be a holy place
The temple with gamblers beaten inside…
The bloody knuckle worship service.
Here come the vultures again. Circling. Like they do.
I don't know what tipped you over
Don't know what kinda rumble you had
Inside you but you found it
Incubating behind your ribs,
Your ribs a rotting harp,
A rollick and sizzle behind the eyes, war…
The Shango gene
Colossal woman with a bone to pick
Two ripe fists be how you worship
Plucked from your outrage
I can see you taking it all in:
The boy on the ground with his skull busted open
Cops standing on his neck watching him go blue
A girl your age with a broken jaw
It's dangling on her neck like a wind chime
Black folk screaming
Cops snatching collars
The Billy club bludgeoning,
You can't find the girl with the red dress and rollers
You wonder if her baby's okay
The brother you came with is in the back of a patrol car
His left eye swollen shut, war.
You hear a child cry but can't figure
Where the sound is coming from
All the white-owned stores are on fire
Black soot falling on your face
The world got so much hurt in it
It's spilling out right here on 3rd and Walnut
You got one heart two fists
No point signifying
You ain't come all this way to be tragic
Not in your winter white sweater on a date night you didn't…
You gon' work out your destiny
Right here on this corner
A pilgrimage to the lion's mouth
Police chief coming up mean and quick
Everywhere you look, a cracked bone
Gotta mean it
Your mama’s favorite scripture
Sounding off in your ears:
If God is for us, who can be against us?
Now you Medusa
An old curse
Tituba back with bigger hands
You gon' use 'em
Come off that curb with your people
On your back
You know what it means
Chief got a feeling you gon' be a problem
Got his club already raised
He doesn't know who you are
The version in his head is fiction
Bed wench wet nurse mammy
He doesn't know you detonated
Every story that languaged you small
He thinks you're conquered
He finna fuck around and find out
Black women been impossible
Been crooned a midnight curse
Been a blood ritual
What mattered, in the end, is the distance between
Your fist and your fear
You cursed the curse sis
Got behind it and put it under your feet
In my world
(And it's my poem so it’s my world)
You made it out that night
In my world you win
You buried your fist in the police chief's face and
I'm writing this so
I bring you a chariot trembling up from
The earth, cracking the pavement
To lift you out and away that night
In my world there are Black people in the future
In my world we forget how to die
In my world you borrow from the lineage of Lazarus
Brave sister, archival conqueror...you the biggest pronoun and so...
I write you, ALIVE
Whole and intact somewhere with grandbabies who
Drop applesauce on your floor and have your smile
Maybe you got a Newport tucked behind your ear
A gin and tonic in your hand
Feet up in the living room listening
To Marvin Gaye
I come up hard baby…but now I'm cool
Ferocious sister as it turns out,
They call you Pamela.
A Greek name that means “all sweetness”
I know you by how you throw your right hand
I know you by your knuckles
Pamela means “all sweetness...”
You looked like a Henrietta or a Gladys to me.
But Miss Pamela mostly,
You look like possible to me
You look like love to me
You look like the future to me
You look like every poem I wanna write
Every day I survived childhood
Every time I said no and meant it
Every traffic stop I made it out of
Every CVS burning
You look like who I'm tryna be
You look like who we've always been
Miss Pamela, you look like home to me
You look like home to me
You look like home
Saidu: Oh my God. Thank you. Thank you so much. Please, please. Louder, louder! [laughs] Can we bring up the rest of our performers from today? Elsa, Ivy, can y'all please come up? Don't stop clapping. Yo, ain't they amazing? Aren't they awesome? Thank you guys so much for coming out and doing this today for your inductees: Claudia Jones, Ed Crawford, Pamela Echols. They are now forever and always will be part of our Fuck Your Water Fountain Hall of Fame. Give it up for them!
Saidu: Resistance is produced by Salifu Sesay Mack, Bethel Habte and Aaron Randle, and hosted by me, Saidu Tejan-Thomas Jr.
Saidu: Our supervising producer is Sarah McVeigh. We're edited by Lynn Levy, Brendan Klinkenberg & Lydia Polgreen.
Saidu: Mixing, scoring and magic by Haley Shaw. Also, huge shout-out to Catherine Anderson for bringing all her incredible talent and vibes to the show this past year. Thank you so much, Catherine. We are so grateful for everything you've done for us, and best of luck with everything you're gonna accomplish in the future.
Saidu: Additional scoring and theme by Bobby Lord. Our music supervisor is Liz Fulton. Original compositions by Drea the Vibe Dealer, and Teiji Mack. Fact-checking is by Rosemarie Ho. Our show art is by Darien Birks of The Stuyvesants.
Saidu: Credits music—what you're listening to right now is "Hey Mrs. Jones" by Ivy Sole. This song isn't even out right now, so thank you Ivy for blessing us!
Saidu: And special thanks to the folks at the Tribeca Film Festival for having us. And also huge shout-out to Kimu Elolia, Daniela Araya and everyone else who helped us pull off our first ever live show. We're gonna do more of those, so make sure you catch the next one.
Saidu: Resistance is a Spotify original podcast and Gimlet production.
Saidu: All right, see y'all in two weeks. We back!