Image for “Pushing the Rock” is Generational Resistance
What Does it Mean to Push the Rock Against Racism?
Every movement needs a symbol. This image is ours. The image behind Pushing the Rock isn’t just a graphic—it’s a message. It shows what it feels like to resist something bigger than you. It shows children leading, parents following, and brothers, sisters, and ancestors holding the line from behind. It’s history. It’s memory. It’s momentum.
More about Pushing the Rock
Pushing the rock is what it feels like to fight racism in America. Not winning. Not losing. Just pushing.
At the John Brown Project, we use the phrase "pushing the rock" to describe what it means to do the work of equality, even when the hill gets steeper. It’s a metaphor, sure—but one grounded in real stories of resistance and courage, from John Brown and Ida B. Wells to Dave Brubeck and Malcolm X. We tell these stories through film, music, and art to remind people that they’re not alone—and that they can push, too.
TL;DR: Pushing the rock against racism means carrying the fight for equality forward, even when the odds are long. It's not about instant wins. It's about stamina, memory, and courage. Through history, art, and song, we tell the stories of those who pushed before us so we can inspire those who'll push next.
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If you’ve ever read about Sisyphus, you know the story: cursed to push a boulder uphill forever, only for it to roll back down. But for us, pushing the rock isn’t punishment. Its purpose. Each time we push—through song, story, or screening—we move forward. Not all at once. Not always visibly. But meaningfully.
We follow in the footsteps of freedom fighters
John Brown pushed the rock at Harpers Ferry. Ida B. Wells pushed it in Memphis. Homer Plessy pushed it in New Orleans when he sat where he wasn’t "supposed" to. During World War II, the Tuskegee Airmen pushed the rock in the sky, and Dave Brubeck pushed it through a mudhole in France. These weren’t accidents. They were decisions. Acts of clarity, rooted in conscience, carried out with courage.
Why music? Because sometimes, plain facts aren’t enough. A song can sneak past defenses. It can evoke an emotion before someone knows what they’re feeling. When we embed our stories in rhythm and harmony, they resonate deeper. That’s why we sometimes write our own music. That’s why we use historic recordings. That’s why the rock we’re pushing sometimes hums.
Systemic racism didn’t just happen—it was built
The film doesn’t ask whether systemic racism exists; it asks when it ended—and so far, there’s no answer. Our films don’t shout. They show. We walk through history with guides such as Dr. Manisha Sinha, Dr. Lou DeCaro, and General Enoch Woodhouse II. We give context, not just quotes. We offer timelines, testimony, and tunes.
In the face of book bans, curriculum censorship, and political backlash, silence feels easy. But silence is weight. It slows the next person down. When we push—whether it’s a tiny film festival or a community screening—we’re helping someone else lift. Even when we’re tired. Especially when we’re tired.
We don’t tell tragedy without triumph. We don’t wallow in despair. The people we highlight made music, made change, and made history. They didn’t wait for perfect moments. They made the moment they had matter. That’s what we’re trying to do, one project at a time.