Reynolds goes on to cite as examples of the respectability and Christ-like behavior to which we young proponents of Black Lives Matter should aspire the families of the Charleston nine, who told the world they’d forgiven Dylann Roof before the bodies of their beloved were even in the ground. But Reynolds neglects to consider the fact that those dead victims were living, breathing images of respectability—praying in a Church and welcoming in a strange white man—when they were slaughtered. Their respectability did not save them. The most offensive remark of Reynolds’ Charleston nine invocation is this blatant lie: “As a result [of their pronouncement of forgiveness], in the wake of that horrific tragedy, not a single building was burned down. There was no riot or looting.” In the Post itself alone were published reports of five black churches burned within a week of the attack. Not a single building was burned down, indeed — five were. It’s clear that Reynolds meant no buildings were burned by black protestors, which might suggest that the families were able to speak to those rightfully angry blacks, but not those responsible for the churches that went down in flames.

Those churches were burned for many reasons. One reason is that respectability politics cannot save us.

There is one part of the op-ed where Reynolds admits that BLM has many positive attributes that the Civil Right Movement did not have. She’s willing to admit that “BLM has improved on the previous generation” by rejecting the traditional straight male hierarchical leadership, by demanding that women be seen and heard as integral to the movement and that LBTQ rights be a part of the intersectional narrative. She has no problem admitting that King’s movement was “sexist to the core, imitating the tone of the country at that time,” as if that didn’t signify a greater problem. It’s true that respectability politics is not entirely about the imitation of white, hetero-normative, Christian behavior—what the Church women activists were doing in the 1800s was more complex than that. But the fact that a black movement adopted misogynistic approaches (just as enslaved blacks did the same, in imitating the white nuclear families that owned them) is not a mere aside—it’s one of the very reasons BLM must be so, very different from the generations of activism that came before.

So yes, respectability is rejected. Yes, the vow of non-violence and non-retaliation is often rejected, though mostly on principle—all of the more public BLM activists have yet to exact violence during any protest, though, like Malcolm X, many don’t appreciate being told that they do not have the right to do so in their own defense. And yes, the hetero-normative, male-dominated movement with one central, deified figurehead is rejected as well. Such rejection does not signify disorganization, as Reynolds and so many believe. Such rejection does not signify a disdain for all who gave their lives, time, and literal blood, sweat and tears—quite the contrary.

This rejection suggests that we are not living in 1965. It suggests that, like most generations, we want to do things our way—to embrace the past where it seems right and to construct a new path that is specific to our time. I wasn’t there, but from what I understand the young people of the Civil Rights Movement were often chastised and criticized by their own parents and by those of the generations before them for going about things in a new way—for pushing too hard up against injustice. Like so many other movements, it was the young people who fought, and they did not always have the support of those who came before them.

Black Lives Matter, like the Civil Rights Movement, does not need the support of every black person in America. It does not need their approval or their permission to operate, or be successful, productive and organized. But even as I write this piece against the words of a person who I believe is ultimately on the same side as me, I can’t help but wish for the putting aside of these differences that were not created by those of us in the fight. It’s like debating the difference between a so-called thug like Michael Brown and a so-called respectable intellectual like, say, Henry Louis Gates Jr. These distinctions are very much a fabrication—both men were victims of racial profiling in their own neighborhoods, though one with obviously more tragic results. It’s the perceived difference between an educated Sandra Bland and, say, the model Sumaya Ysl—both were victims of a very similar system where black women’s lives do not matter. As much as I’ve argued that BLM rightfully and intelligently rejects certain tenants of the Civil Rights Movement, I’d also argue that the differences between the two are more unnecessary constructions meant to divide a group of people that, like any group, is better off as a single unit—a mighty fist that (forgive the “Soul Food” reference) can strike a mighty blow.

Years ago, I left the Church. I was raised Baptist, by a woman whose parents were both missionaries. My mother was one of those kids who went to church five to seven days a week. I no longer consider myself a Christian, but I am a product of that upbringing and of my mother’s upbringing. Even as I have chosen to go in a different direction, I benefit from that upbringing, and the remnants of vacation Bible school and choir practice and springtime revivals show up in almost everything I write. You can appreciate a legacy, and you can respect a legacy. And you can still decide for yourself that you will pass on a new legacy to your children, inspired by your childhood and your parents, but uniquely reflecting your education, your peers and your experiences. No, this ain’t our grandparents civil rights movement — and as Ta-Nehisi Coates put it, neither was our grandparents’. It’s our movement, inspired by their legacies and still determined to be what it must be on its own.