Kendrick Lamar’s Halftime Show Was a Liberation Anthem—And So Is My Book

When Kendrick Lamar gave us that final toothy grin as he “turned the TV off” and the lights went out, I was immediately invigorated. My heart pounded, my mind spun. I cheered loudly, as if my living room were in the middle of the Superdome—as if Kendrick himself could hear my screams. Somehow, I needed him to know he had just changed my life.

I rushed my kids to bed so I could hop into a steaming hot shower, Squabble Up blaring from my portable Marshall speaker, and process everything I had just witnessed. My mind bounced between the depth of the artistry and the powerful messages Kendrick boldly proclaimed during one of the most tumultuous times in recent history. My experiences as a Black woman in America felt validated. The fire in my soul reignited—an urgent call to unapologetically fight for Black liberation. And I ached to create art that disrupts, awakens, and liberates—just as Kendrick had done.

To be honest, I was a bit envious—not in a bitter way, but in a way that awakened something forgotten in my soul. Lately, I’ve wrestled with feeling insignificant, my creative energy lying dormant. Or was it seething energy—born from watching white supremacy tighten its grip and hard-fought liberation slip away—with nowhere to escape? Likely both.

I’m finally reckoning with the truth: I am a creative. An artist. A word artist. I have an inherent need to create daily, and I refuse to ignore it. I also have a message—one I believe the Lord placed in my spirit to share—yet lately, it has felt lost, fleeting. I’ve questioned both my art and my message, wondering if I can even call myself an artist when my writing feels subpar and my words are disregarded. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe I was never meant to be the revolutionary writer I once envisioned.

Watching Kendrick on Sunday reignited a flame that had dimmed—and uncovered envy I hadn’t realized I felt. All I ever wanted was to create art so truthful it stopped people in their tracks. Why couldn’t I do that? What had I gotten wrong with my own word art?

Then it hit me—Kendrick’s performance was a visual and musical parallel to everything I wrote in my book, We’ll All Be Free.

Instant chills.

The story Kendrick told on stage with his art is the same story I told in my book—with my art. I had already done what Kendrick did. Not at his level of magnitude or genius, of course—I’d never claim that. Not only is that impossible, but it’s also not my purpose. Some of us are meant to have a massive global impact, while others create smaller, yet just as meaningful, waves. I’m learning to embrace the latter—to let go of the pressure to go viral in order to be revolutionary.

Recognizing the parallels between Kendrick’s performance and my book reminded me that my art, no matter its reach, is powerful—and my message is undeniable.

With that, I felt compelled to revisit every moment of his performance—not just as a fan, but as a writer who had already explored these very themes. And as I unpacked each moment, I saw my own words reflected back at me—chapter by chapter, message by message.

Here’s how his performance and my book tell the same story.

The Great American Game is The Inescapable Grip of White Supremacy

ICYMI (though I’m sure you didn’t), the show opens with a wide shot of the stage, resembling a PlayStation controller with blinking lights—like a video game loading screen. (Some analyses suggest the stage design also nods to Squid Game, but since I haven’t seen it, I won’t include that in my analysis.)

We’re then introduced to “Uncle Sam,” played by the legendary Samuel L. Jackson. Dressed in a way that mirrors the real Uncle Sam, he welcomes us to the Great American Game. That game? Systemic white supremacy—and every oppressive system that upholds it.

Trapped within white supremacy’s walls, we don’t realize we’re merely pawns, controlled by the system. We’ve been conditioned to follow the game’s rules without question—nodding in obedience, suppressing every movement, shrinking ourselves in hopes of “winning” an unwinnable game. And should we dare to live the truth embedded in our DNA, we are policed, prohibited, and, as Uncle Sam warns, “deducted a life” until we have none left.

In We’ll All Be Free, I use the walls of a house, similar to the walls within The Great American Game, to illustrate how we are trapped inside white supremacy. This house has no windows, and its doors are bolted shut. Because we never have access to the “outside,” we can’t see the life of liberation waiting just beyond these walls.

We adhere to the system because it is all we know, programmed to trust its legitimacy and authority. Little do we know, we are controlled by this system. Controlled by the game. We think we are operating the controller, but it’s merely a lie we have been fed as gospel. “We are in control of our own destiny! If we simply ‘follow the rules’ we will win the game!”

Just as we mistakenly believe we are safe inside the house of white supremacy—a metaphor I return to throughout We’ll All Be Free—we also trust that we are in control of the game we’re playing. The truth? We are far from safe, and the game is controlling us. In doing so, it has stripped us of our humanity while blaming us for the consequences of that destruction.

This is especially true for Black Americans, as the house—or the game—was designed specifically to control and exploit us to build the power and dominance of whiteness. But what many white people don’t realize is that the very game controlling Black people also dominates and manipulates them.

White Supremacy Culture has taken our humanity away from us. Every single system that falls under the umbrella of white surpemacy has confused us into believing that our humanity and our worth are conditional, and we’ve honestly fallen for it. We have cultivated a culture that has abused power, neglected emotions and trauma, degraded people for having imperfections, and dehumanized us for our differences. Every single one of us is affected by this.

- Caroline J. Sumlin, We’ll All Be Free

Uncle Sam Represents the Unattainable Standards of White Supremacy

The first songs Kendrick performed after Uncle Sam welcomed us to the Great American Game were an unreleased freestyle, seamlessly transitioning into his latest hit, Squabble Up. I believe these songs represent, among many other things, Lamar’s early attempts to play the game like the rest of us—believing, at first, that we can simply be ourselves, “work hard,” and everything will fall into place. But what we don’t realize is that this game is rigged. We’ve been placed into predetermined societal positions that dictate our value, our worthiness, and ultimately, not just our chances of success, but our very survival.

Black Americans have been assigned the lowest tiers of society since we were trafficked here in chains. We have been forcibly locked within these predetermined positions, blamed for our oppression, and chastised for both the struggles we endure and the victories we claim. Yet, the beauty of Blackness lies in our relentless ability to rebel, resist, and revolutionize every obstacle this racist society throws our way. Still, no matter how masterfully we carve out our own success, we are never deemed enough by white supremacy’s standards. Society demands that we shrink ourselves, “tighten up,” and obey the very rules designed to keep us in our place.

“No, no, no! That’s too loud! Too reckless! Too…ghetto! Mr. Lamar, do you really know how to play the game? Then TIGHTEN UP!”

As soon as Squabble Up concludes, Uncle Sam’s angry outburst makes it clear—our joyful cultural expression will always be seen as a threat, met with punishment. From there, Kendrick transitions into HUMBLE., a track from his Pulitzer Prize-winning album, DAMN. The song itself has many layers, including Kendrick confronting himself in the mirror, urging himself to “be humble.” I won’t get lost analyzing every nuance—Kendrick’s songs have more layers than an onion, and one could easily spend days unpacking them. But the strategic placement of HUMBLE. right after Uncle Sam’s reprimand highlights America’s expectation that we know our place and, quite literally, “sit down and be humble.”

As Lamar performs HUMBLE., his ensemble of Black male dancers—dressed in red, white, and blue with bold elements of Black culture—form the American flag, while Kendrick dramatically splits it down the middle, delivering an unmistakable political statement about our nation’s foundation on stolen Black labor and forcing America to confront this truth. They begin “nodding in obedience” to the beat, a striking display of subjugation under systemic oppression.

In We’ll All Be Free, I explore the controlled, pressurized chase for worth dictated by white supremacy culture. Desperate for our humanity to be accepted, we submit to coercion—bowing our heads in humility. We strip ourselves of our identity, conforming to white supremacy’s expectations, clinging to the hope that assimilation will finally make society recognize our worth. But it never does.

The systems of white supremacy have created norms, customs, values, beliefs, and standards that have taught us that whiteness is better, whiteness is success, and whiteness is value—and unless you assimilate yourself to strive for whitness, you are forever not good enough.

- Caroline J. Sumlin, We’ll All Be Free

The Refusal to Play the Game is the Revolution for Liberation

Immediately after HUMBLE., Kendrick transitions into DNA.—a song that boldly declares the loyalty and royalty woven into the DNA of Black kings and queens, a powerful reclamation of the dignity that white supremacy seeks to erase. He follows with Euphoria, reinforcing this zealous defiance of Uncle Sam’s playbook while foreshadowing the inevitable consequences of such resistance. Lamar pushes back once more with a stunning bebop rendition of Man at the Garden, a compelling track from GNX that serves as both a manifestation and a declaration that Kendrick—and all Black kings and queens—deserve it all.

There are many layers to unpack in this segment, but I believe at its core, it conveys a yearning to break free from the system—or the game—as one becomes painfully aware of the distress it causes and the humanity it depletes.

We’ll All Be Free encapsulates that desperation. This book was born from that anguish and longing—a deep understanding that this system, this game, is rigged, and an urgent, rebellious desire to escape. We have spent our lives attempting to humble ourselves within it—despite knowing, deep down, that royalty has always run through our blood—all in hopes of increasing our chances of survival and perceived worthiness in this nation. The result? Exhaustion. Infuriation. And unwavering resistance.

My book is an invitation to reclaim everything The Great American Game has stolen from you, your family, and the ancestors who came before you. It is also a call to extend that liberation—to your friends, your community, and the generations to come—by making resistance the new norm, no matter the cost.

As a society we have shut down humanity for far too long, and it cannot go on any longer. … Let’s make our generation the last generation that ever has to feel ashamed of their humanity. Let’s make our generation the last generation that ever has to question the worthiness of our existence. Enough is enough. It’s our turn to take on this world and create lasting change that says, “Oppression has no place here. Marginalization has no place here. Dehumanization has no place here.”

- Caroline J. Sumlin, We’ll All Be Free

“Oh! I see you brought your homeboys with you! The ol’ culture cheat code! Scorekeeper, deduct one life.”

The reprimand from Uncle Sam following Man at the Garden is a chastisement that, I’d argue, every Black person in America has faced in some form—especially when we dare to pursue the liberation we rightfully deserve. As the most abused and oppressed racial group in this country, we have relentlessly fought for freedom—not just for ourselves, but for all. We have always reached back, extending our hands to uplift our community, ensuring that our collective liberation is never an individual pursuit. And yet, the result? The deduction of one life for every hand we extend, every table we build, and every time we create beauty from the ashes we’ve been given.

In We’ll All Be Free, I discuss how systemic and cultural backlash have transpired throughout history, and how this retaliation has intentionally destroyed our collective mental health.

The same system that was built to dehumanize and terrorize Black, Indigenous, People of Color has dehumanize and terrorize Black, Indigenous, and People of Color has dehumanized and terrorized us all. We are all drowning.

The harder you fight an oppresive system, especially without attacking it at the root, the harder the system fights back. An oppressive system is only able to exist when there is something, or someone, to oppress.

- Caroline J. Sumlin, We’ll All Be Free

If This World Were Mine = The Cost of Conformity

After Man at the Garden, Kendrick swiftly transitions into Peekaboo, another track from GNX. I won’t dive too deep into an analysis of this song, but what’s notable is that immediately following this continued declaration of defiance, Kendrick teases the opening of his five time Grammy award winning anthem, Not Like Us. However, rather than launching into the explosive track, he pivots—slowing things down with luther and All The Stars, two chart-topping duets with SZA.

Right as those songs begin, we hear Uncle Sam yell, “Oh! You done lost your damn mind!,” serving as a harsh reminder that the government/society is always watching, correcting, and condemning your every move. However, that is quickly forgotten as we hear the sultry vocals of Luther Vandross’ If This World Were Mine, which is the sample Kendrick uses for luther.

While the song is a tender exchange between lovers longing to take away each other’s pain and make their dreams come true, it also feels like a poignant reflection of the Black experience—a quiet yearning to ease the weight of oppression, to reclaim joy, and to finally see our dreams fully realized… if this world were ours.

After enduring the brutal consequences of daring to be ourselves in a game rigged against us, a painful question arises—should we just… play? Would it be easier to shrink, submit to the illusion of inferiority, and become the hollow version of ourselves that society demands? Is that the price for survival? Is that what it takes for all the stars to align so that our dreams are just a bit closer?

This is exactly what Uncle Sam—society—wants us to believe. That’s why we hear Uncle Sam’s condescending praise: “Hey! That’s what I’m talking about! That’s what America wants! Nice! Calm! Then, with a smug satisfaction, he says, “You’re almost there. Don’t mess this u—,” before he is interrupted by the highly anticipated introduction to Not Like Us.

In We’ll All Be Free, I intertwine my personal story of endlessly striving to meet society’s demands. From attempting to shrink my body to fit America’s whitewashed beauty standards to allowing the world to chip away at my sense of self, I spent years believing that conformity was the key to feeling whole, free, and worthy. After all, this is what America insisted—this was the price of admission to the life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness it promised.

But was it worth it? Is it ever?

The capitalist agenda promptly begins, but it’s disguised as the American Dream: “Work hard, get good grades, go to college, get a job, and make something of yourself. That is the key to success. That is the key to happiness. That is the key to freedom.”

Yet that promised freedom is nothing short of a mirage. An illusion that draws you in, hypnotizing you into the system. Dazed, you unknowingly walk onto the white supremacy conveyor belt with no end in sight.

The goal: mold yourself into an object whose sole purpose and worth are based on your ability to produce and consume in the global marketplace.

The real result: dehumanization.

- Caroline J. Sumlin, We’ll All Be Free

Not Like Us: The Liberation Rallying Cry

We’ve arrived at the defining moment of the show—the one that instantly went viral, sparking endless imitations, analyses, dance challenges, and more. This is the moment Kendrick Lamar unapologetically chooses himself—and invites us to do the same.

As he prepares to rock the world with Not Like Us, he says, “It’s a cultural divide, I’mma get the on the flo’,” and his background dancers repond, “Are you really ‘bout to do it?” This is the moment where he boldly defies every cultural norm, audaciously televising the revolution.

While Not Like Us was originally written as a diss track aimed at obliterating Drake and declaring victory in their longstanding feud, as with everything Kendrick creates, there are layers upon layers of meaning. The song doubles as a liberation anthem—a rallying cry for us to wake up and reclaim our freedom by any means necessary. It is an affirmation that they (the oppressors upholding white supremacy) are not like us (those who have endured its crushing grip). And it is a reclamation of power—a celebration of the majesty of Blackness, unapologetically and in full force.

We’ll All Be Free is your personal guidebook to arriving at this moment. After unpacking the history of white supremacy and reckoning with its brutal impact on your self-worth, you’ll make the bold decision to break up with The Great American Game—and I’ll be there to gently guide you through that process.

By the time you turn the final page, you’ll be equipped to relentlessly reclaim your worth, joy, and liberation. My hope? That your reclamation manifests as your own version of Kendrick’s two-step strut as he declares, “Mustard on the beat, bro!”

Now we’re takin our power back and dismantling white supremacy right where we are. We know that our power is more than enough and that, by being faithful, our power will be multiplied. We have the tools we need, and we are committed to our freedom.

And we’ll all be free.

- Caroline J. Sumlin, We’ll All Be Free

And, we commemorate this moment of jubilee we battled for with “MUSTAAAAARD!”

This was my favorite moment of the show. When I first heard tv off on GNX, I was baffled—why did Kendrick randomly belt out “Mustaaaaaard!” in the middle of the song? But I loved it. How freeing it must be to shout whatever you want, with no rhyme, reason, or care in the world.

This moment validated the nerdy, carefree, joyful Black girl within me—the one I’m often afraid to set free. This system… this game…this society has silenced us for so long that simply being can feel unnatural, out of place. But something as simple as yelling “Mustaaaard!” in the middle of a song and having a blast doing it? That is one of the most powerful statements of resistance.

And that’s how the show ends—an unashamed decree that our freedom, our joy, and our revolution are ours. We’re not hiding. We never were.

Oh, and for everyone else who benefits from The Great American Game? You can turn your TV off—and get to work. The time is now to resist every structure and system, to declare liberation for us all—before it’s too late.