LOCKED OUT THE DEI DOOR

Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives have become a controversial topic in recent years, with the term itself evolving from a hopeful vision to a divisive and polarizing concept. Today, the word "DEI" often evokes more contention than consensus. It’s like standing before a tall, imposing door and hoping it opens—the door a symbol of opportunity for some, but an insurmountable barrier for others. To understand how we arrived here, it’s worth reflecting on the historical, cultural, and political shifts that shaped this narrative. To do this, we must revisit a time when the American spirit shaped by both war and peace drove our nation.

After 9/11 (2001), this nation was united in a way that transcended race, ethnicity, and socioeconomic status. America had faced a common enemy—extreme Islamic terrorists—and for a fleeting moment, the melting pot ideal seemed real to our nation. ADOS, White, Black, Hispanic, and Asian Americans stood together in solidarity, mourning the lives lost during the terrorist’s attacks against our nation and we rallied behind a shared sense of patriotism. This unity was reflected in the collective determination to protect the nation, as young men and women from diverse backgrounds joined the military or contributed to the war effort in other ways. The focus in America became external—on wars overseas and the threat posed by figures like Osama bin Laden. This unity continued throughout the early 2000s, but as the years past, domestic challenges mounted and the historical cracks in the sense of togetherness in American began to reappear.

The years following 9/11 were defined by war, economic upheaval, and shifting national priorities. As the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan drained resources and morale, the country faced another crisis this time on the home front. Late 2007 marked the beginning of the great recission, banks began to fail. By 2008, the U.S. economy was unraveling. The collapse of the mortgage industry triggered a financial meltdown that devastated millions, disproportionately impacting Black communities. Generations of hard-won progress in homeownership were wiped out almost overnight, echoing the devastation of the 1929 stock market crash. At the same time, the auto industry, long a pillar of American economic strength teetered on the edge of collapse, further deepening the crisis. Families lost homes, jobs, and any sense of financial security, widening the economic divide in ways that would take years to repair.

Then, in 2011, the capture and killing of Osama bin Laden marked a turning point. For many Americans, it was a moment of closure a symbolic victory after a decade of war. Yet, as the country exhaled, its focus turned inward. The wars had already taken a toll, and now economic, cultural, and political tensions were boiling over. The sense of unity that briefly followed 9/11 had eroded, exposing deep divisions that had been simmering beneath the surface.

In truth, this dynamic began to shift with the election of President Barack Obama. His victory was celebrated as a historic milestone, a symbol of progress and the breaking of racial barriers. At first, Black Americans seemed unified in their support, but as questions about his identity surfaced, a different narrative began to take shape. President Obama leveraged the ADOS story to get elected, but once in office, it became clear that American Blacks, descendants of slaves, were not his priority. Many within the Black community quickly realized that we couldn’t depend on Obama to shift the existing tides that shaped our reality.

Black Americans have long understood that our rights were protected under the Constitution and that legal segregation was a thing of the past. While racial barriers remained, they were no longer enforced through overt acts of violence by white mobs. Instead, systemic challenges persisted in more insidious ways. Policies like affirmative action were intended to level the playing field, fostering a cautious optimism about the nation’s progress. However, the realities of economic disparity, disenfranchisement, and underrepresentation in key industries revealed that true equality was still far from being realized.

However, Obama’s presidency did reignite racial tensions in ways few had anticipated. His very presence in the White House challenged longstanding power structures, forcing issues of race, privilege, and systemic inequities back into the national conversation. The celebration of his election was accompanied by an undercurrent of resistance, as debates over race and identity took center stage in American politics once again.

This period also coincided with the rise of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion as a formalized concept in corporate and institutional settings. While President Obama may not have coined the term, the broader adoption of DEI initiatives gained significant momentum during his presidency. His administration’s focus on addressing systemic inequities and fostering inclusivity likely contributed to the increased prominence of these efforts. While DEI was designed to address historical inequities and foster inclusivity, it has become a lightning rod for criticism. For some, DEI represents a necessary reckoning with systemic racism and a pathway toward justice. For others, it is viewed as divisive, a symbol of overreach that prioritizes identity politics over merit. The polarization surrounding DEI can be traced, in part, to the cultural and political shifts that unfolded in the years following Obama’s presidency.

It’s important to consider the historical context leading up to this moment. During the George H.W. Bush era, the appointment of Clarence Thomas to the Supreme Court in 1991 marked a significant milestone for Black representation in the judiciary. His confirmation sparked intense debates about race, identity, sex, and qualifications, underscoring the complex dynamics of race in America at the time. At the same time, systemic racism was still a pervasive issue, but there was a sense of progress within Black communities.

The unity forged after 9/11 was a temporary reprieve from these ongoing struggles. During this period, many of us were focused on building lives and pursuing dreams. I remember buying my first home during President Obama’s presidency, as a single parent, working at a bank in Philadelphia. Back then, the cost of living was manageable, and the city was a place of opportunity. But as time passed, gentrification transformed Philadelphia, turning it into a hub for corporate interests with beer gardens and upscale restaurants replacing familiar landmarks. The sense of community and affordability I once knew was gradually eroded.

The housing crisis during President Obama’s tenure added another layer of complexity. Leading up to his election, Black homeownership had reached significant levels. Many of us had worked hard to achieve the American dream of owning property. But with the collapse of the auto and mortgage industries, this progress was undone almost overnight. Entire communities were devastated as people lost jobs, cars and homes. The divide between those who could hold on and those who could not widened drastically.

Around the same time, the resurgence of drugs in Black communities further stalled progress. The crack epidemic of the 1980s and 1990s had already inflicted deep wounds, and its aftershocks were still being felt. There was no Black person who didn’t know someone impacted by crack addiction. Our communities recognized that a dangerous underworld—an insidious system—was deliberately targeting us. Films like Five on the Black Hand Side gave way to New Jack City, reflecting the stark realities of this underworld. Many in our communities stepped right into the belly of the beast, drawn by the allure of love, status, or survival.

By 2016, when Donald Trump took office, crack had become even deadlier, now mixed with prescription medications—Percocet, Valium, and eventually fentanyl—wiping out Black families and homes in mass numbers.

These shifts—cultural, economic, and political—set the stage for the contentious debates surrounding DEI. Today, DEI has become an extreme push away from the Constitution, expanding in ways that often feel disconnected and, ultimately, unfair. This disconnect has led many to question its effectiveness, particularly within corporate structures. Corporations often receive incentives and accolades for implementing DEI initiatives, while simultaneously ignoring the systemic racism that persists within their organizations. A 2022 study by McKinsey found that while 87% of companies reported having DEI initiatives, only 37% had implemented clear accountability metrics, leaving systemic inequities unaddressed at the leadership level. These efforts are performative, focusing narrowly on race, disability, gender, or sex, and introducing terms like "intersectionality" to highlight every perceived difference or disadvantage. Meanwhile, these same organizations perpetuate inequities in hiring, promotions, and leadership representation. For example, Black professionals hold only 8% of managerial positions and less than 1% of Fortune 500 CEO roles, despite making up nearly 13% of the U.S. population, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics.

Black talent in organizations, lawyers, doctors, entertainers and athletes, often face the brunt of these inequities. Black talent in various industries remains controlled by White executives, handlers, and power brokers. In sports, Black athletes generate millions for organizations, yet these organizations are rarely held accountable for providing long-term care for these players who sacrificed their bodies. Why can’t these organizations be forced to provide lifetime care for their players, especially after using every ounce of the bodies of these men for trophies? This systemic cycle underscores the need for real change, beyond the surface-level initiatives DEI currently offers.

Over the last few days, the Black community has been unsettled by fear tactics surrounding the idea of DEI. President Trump has issued executive orders rolling back many of the DEI initiatives put in place under Joe Biden, including overturning key diversity-focused policies. These moves have forced many to confront the effectiveness of DEI as it stands today. Voices like Sabby Sabs, Native Land Podcast, and Dr. Umar Johnson, along with some pastors from the pulpit, have shared their perspectives on DEI. While some argue that DEI has done little to benefit the Black community and is not worth the fear or outrage, others, like Tiffany Cross and Andrew Gillium, from Native Land, have expressed anger and disappointment at the rollbacks.

This division reflects a deeper misunderstanding of DEI’s purpose and implementation. For some, it is seen as a necessary acknowledgment of historical inequities; for others, it has become a surface-level approach to addressing systemic issues. This tension has manifested in protests, boycotts, and calls to action—with companies like Target and Walmart facing backlash for eliminating DEI initiatives. These boycotts highlight how deeply intertwined DEI has become with public perception, yet studies indicate that 70% of corporate DEI initiatives fail due to a lack of commitment from leadership. The palpable fear from some stems from the idea that dismantling DEI is equivalent to removing protections for marginalized groups. However, this perspective often overlooks the constitutional protections already in place. The 13th, 14th, and 15th Amendments guarantee American Blacks their rights and affirm their place as equal citizens of this country. While DEI attempts to address disparities, it cannot replace the foundational guarantees enshrined in the Constitution.

I will say that I myself have faced racism in the workplace. My story illustrates how DEI truly operates:

After years of excelling in my role at a top American organization, after I was recognized, by my only Black female manager, as the crème de la crème—meaning I was performing at the highest level. Eventually, my performance solidified a broader role, I accepted a lateral move into a prestigious team of highly effective influencers, believing this would be my opportunity to grow into a managerial role. I outperformed expectations, yet I was significantly underpaid. Despite my success, as a Black woman, I still wasn’t given a promotion, yet I continued to perform above par.

Countless White colleagues were hired and promoted, yet I remained in the same lateral position. I finally decided to fight for my own advancement. I built a business case, presented my performance reviews, and had respected colleagues and leaders advocate on my behalf. After years of proving myself, I was finally promoted. But the moment I received my promotion; I suddenly became a problem that needed to be managed out.

Not even two months after my promotion was officially announced, my role was quietly removed without transparency, my support system dismantled, and I was reassigned to another team under the guise of ‘growth’ in my professional development. In reality, I had been demoted—pushed three steps down. Complaints to team members and leaders were met with silent hostility. I was expected to be grateful just to have a job—even though it was beneath my capabilities—and told there was nothing I could do.

Calls to the DEI hotline and internal inquiries only made matters worse. White DEI representatives conducted so-called investigations, and, without a single report of their findings, not a shred of real evidence or accountability, unsurprisingly determined that my claims had ‘no merit.’

Forced into a lower role on a new team, I soon discovered that certain managerial and senior managerial positions were only available to a select few ‘professionally trained’ members of that team—very few were Black. Within a month, four White colleagues were promoted into senior roles, bypassing me entirely. When I asked where the job postings for these positions were, I was told, ‘Aren’t they on the job board?’ My new manager and I pulled up the board together—and there was exactly one listing, located in India.

Then, one of my White colleagues on my new team, who had just been promoted to a senior managerial role, casually greeted me and revealed that we had essentially switched places. He had been given my former responsibilities, while I was placed in his old, lower role. Leadership on the team justified this by claiming that I ‘needed to learn the lower process’ before being considered for advancement—yet my White colleague was promoted without that same requirement. He was given the benefit of the doubt. He had not performed at the high-executive level I had been performing. Nor was he required to do so to be promoted. I, on the other hand, had to pay this poll-tax in order to advance. I was treated as an out-of-place Black woman who somehow lacked professional experience—despite my record of success and years of loyalty to the team I supported and the organization.

Insulted but determined, I braced myself, leveraged my skills, and found another role at a different organization—on my own terms.

I never stopped calling out the racism—I never stopped exposing the hypocrisy. But just to add insult to injury, the day before I left, my former team held a grand sendoff over Teams. They spoke highly of my contributions over the years, reflected on the ways I had stepped in to manage, and acknowledged that I had been not just the glue of the team, but its most trusted member. Yet, every single person on that call—all White—remained silent about what they knew had happened to me. The only other Black person on the team didn’t dare show her face, unwilling to stand in solidarity with someone deemed ‘a problem.’ This organization required employees to complete endless trainings on how to ‘recognize and report racism,’ yet when the moment came to act, not one of the employees called out the racism.

They watched as I was systematically sidelined. Not one of them dared jeopardize their own position by picking up the phone and calling the integrity hotline. Every year, we sat through hours of DEI training—yet when it mattered, when it was happening right in front of them, they chose silence. They chose self-preservation. They chose complicity.

This experience was both humiliating and humbling. It took a mental toll on my well-being. As a Black woman and a widow, financial strain was a reality, and the fear of losing it all—or being forced into a role far beneath my capabilities—became a pressing question I had to answer. Fear brought tears, uncertainty, and overwhelming anxiety.

At first, I doubted myself. But then I learned something. The individual who was promoted to the role I had rightfully earned had been working in a bookstore in 2018. He had no professional experience at all, and his degree was a Master’s in Divinity. My professional experience far surpassed his. Looking for the difference between us, there was only one: he was White, and I was Black. Then, I saw it for what it was—racism at its finest.

There was no need to continue sitting and waiting, hoping that someone would recognize my situation and step in to bring about change. Though I wasted many weeks speaking with leaders, they eventually made it clear: no one is going to magically take you from way down there and put you back up there. Here was my opportunity to prove my worth—not through DEI, not through corporate performative allyship, but through my own skills, perseverance, and resilience.

I hustled, put in the work, interviewed, and landed another role—not by chance, but by my own strength. Not because of some arbitrary DEI effort, but because of my own capabilities and merit.

If we want to fix DEI—lateral moves at any organization should be reevaluated. Research suggests that lateral career opportunities can be valuable for skill development and retention, yet Black professionals often take these roles with hopes of proving themselves, only to find that when they take the leap, no real opportunities await them. While lateral moves may benefit some, systemic barriers often prevent Black employees from advancing beyond them.

Despite this, you should still speak out against inequities. DEI investigations should be documented, and conversations confirmed. Remember, DEI or Integrity hotlines often prioritize protecting the organization over addressing legitimate concerns. If you suspect misconduct, consider documenting your experiences thoroughly and seeking support from trusted professionals, advocates, or external resources to ensure your voice is heard.

No Black person is exempt from the systemic challenges present in many organizations. Talented individuals are often sidelined or displaced before they can find new opportunities. This not only stifles individual growth but also diminishes the acknowledgment of ADOS contributions to America. From building wealth with our hands and minds to farming lands to leading in military roles, ADOS contributions have been vital in shaping this nation. Yet, these contributions are frequently undervalued, and we are too often relegated to lesser roles because of persistent misconceptions about our capabilities.

That was what it felt like for me. I have sat at tables with influential executives. I put in the work, showed up, and demonstrated my talent. Yet, in the end—I lost. But what I gained, I carry with me—proud and strong, ready to take the leap again. I am not in position because of DEI, but because of my strength and resilience. This realization continues to empower me as I navigate these systems and seek to build a future where these dynamics no longer hold us back.

When the ADOS community considers DEI and wonders how this will impact our lives, we should have confidence in our own capabilities. We don’t need to seek validation or recognition from those outside our community; instead, we must stand on our own strength. Have no fear that DEI is no longer here—we never needed the expansive extension of these benefits anyhow. DEI is nothing more than a corporate policy framework and offers no legal protection. My rights are protected by the Constitution, and that will never be taken away by an executive order or a shift in corporate thinking.

I say to White people—if you are curious about my hair, please ask—I will not be offended. I am glad I no longer have to pretend during ‘Say This, Not That’ trainings. These superficial attempts at inclusion missed the deeper realities of systemic inequities. True progress comes from authentic dialogue, from recognizing our own worth, and from moving forward without reliance on performative initiatives.

As we enter the next four years and witness Trump issue executive orders that will have dire consequences for communities across the world, it’s essential that we trust ourselves and embrace our communities so we remain unified. To get there, we must ask hard questions about how we’ve arrived at this point and where we go from here.

Ultimately, will we confront the systemic issues that persist, or will we continue to let unity slip through our fingers, as it has so many times before?

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This content is the intellectual property of Jacqueline Session Ausby and may not be reproduced, distributed, or used in any form without my express written permission. For inquiries or permission requests, please contact me at Jmbeausby@aol.com.

Wake-Up for Unity

“Wannabee | A person who tries to be like someone else or to fit in with a particular group of people—

Jigaboo | A derogatory term historically used to demean and dehumanize darker-skinned African Americans, labeled simply as “offensive” in most references.”

— Google

I must state that I am deeply disturbed by the growing divide within the Black community—between Black elites and entertainers, between ADOS (American Descendants of Slavery) and Black immigrants, and even more starkly, between pastors who dare to support ministries that align with Donald Trump and those who reject him outright. These divisions feel like a betrayal of the unity our community has long sought, and they raise painful questions about our collective identity and the cost of political loyalty. These rifts are more than disagreements—they are fractures in the foundation of a people who share a history of struggle and resilience, bound by the fight for equality and restitution, not merely corporate promises of equity.

The Divide Today

The movie School Daze by Spike Lee, released in 1988, struck a powerful chord within the American Black community, particularly in the North, because it brought these terms—Wannabee and Jigaboo—to the forefront. The "Wannabees" were light-skinned, upwardly mobile Black individuals striving for acceptance in elite circles, while the "Jigaboos" were darker-skinned, often excluded, and dismissed. What made the movie so impactful, though, wasn’t just its exploration of colorism and class. It was the deeper truth that both groups, despite their differences, were chasing the same thing: freedom.

The tension Spike Lee highlighted felt real and familiar. At the time, many Black Americans were stepping out of apartment buildings and into the broader world, ready to claim their place in the American economy. But that journey wasn’t the same for everyone. Those with lighter skin found doors slightly more open, while darker-skinned individuals faced greater hurdles. Yet, despite these differences, the lesson was clear: we were all united by the same blood, the same history, and the same struggle for dignity and progress.

Spike Lee didn’t stop at showcasing these divisions—he challenged us to move beyond them. The ringing of the bell at the end of School Daze wasn’t just cinematic; it was a demand to wake up. It was a reminder that as a community, Black Americans have a mission—one designed by God—to create pathways for the oppressed, to unite in purpose, and to deliver those still bound by systemic chains.

The Evolving Face of Racism

Today, one of the most significant internal divides within the Black community lies in the distinction between American Descendants of Slavery (ADOS) and Black immigrants who migrated to the United States after 1965. Recognizing this distinction is essential because it shapes the unique experiences, histories, and challenges faced by these groups. ADOS have a lineage rooted in this country, shaped by centuries of enslavement and systemic oppression, while many Black immigrants hold ties to their native lands and often aspire to replicate their cultural lives here in America. For ADOS, however, America is home. It’s the land our ancestors built, and it’s where our fight for justice and equality must take place. This isn’t shade to Africa—it’s simply the reality of our unique lineage, one that was severed from its roots but cultivated here through resilience and determination.

In many ways, we are no longer fighting the overt racism of the past. There are no police officers setting attack dogs on peaceful protesters or water hoses spraying people in the streets without consequences. However, racism has not disappeared—it has become more insidious, deeply embedded in our institutions. It lingers in our prison systems, where sentencing disparities persist; in our educational structures, which often fail to provide Black children with equitable opportunities; and in our corporate organizations, where advancement is often hindered by systemic bias. It hides behind a facade of progress, masked by well-meaning efforts like Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives that may look good on paper but often fail to create meaningful change.

DuBois, Washington, and Education

The divide between W.E.B. DuBois and Booker T. Washington continues to echo through our community. DuBois believed education would empower the “Talented Tenth” to lead the race to progress, while Washington emphasized practical skills like farming and trade as the foundation of independence. But somewhere along the way, education turned into programming, and the value of hard work was replaced by jails and prison cells.

The prison system, which disproportionately incarcerates Black men and women, has become a modern-day tool of oppression, deliberately reinforcing cycles of poverty and exclusion. These systems are not broken—they are operating as they were designed, targeting individuals who have already been failed by an education system that offers no real pathway to success. Instead of rehabilitation, the prison system prioritizes punishment, destroying families in the process. It creates single-parent households, leaving mothers to struggle alone, often with no choice but to rely on welfare and public housing subsidies, which only further entrench them in poverty.

In the past, television series like Good Times, The Jeffersons, A Different World, Living Single, and Martin reflected Black love, family, and ambition. These shows were aspirational and authentic, portraying the richness and resilience of Black life in ways that resonated deeply with the community. However, over time, media representation has grown and shifted. Today, instead of celebrating the diversity and complexity of Black experiences, we are often presented with shallow caricatures that reduce Black life to stereotypes.

This shift extends beyond media to music, which frequently glorifies violence and materialism, shaping a culture that equates success with becoming "Mainstream"—whether through music, podcasting, acting, or landing corporate jobs to live a cushy lifestyle. Yet, these corporate spaces are often another battleground for systemic racism. The barriers manifest in specific schools for recruiting or growth opportunities only offered to certain career levels. Tokenism is often displayed by uplifting one Black "star" while tearing down others to preserve the unspoken "one-rule" image of diversity. On so many occasions, Black professionals are not treated as individuals but as exceptions, symbolic representatives of their entire race. These systems prioritize optics over actual change, leaving most Black professionals without the mentorship, resources, or opportunities needed to truly thrive.

Unity: A Principle We’ve Forgotten

Back in the 1960s and 70s, Black Americans worked together to achieve common goals. What happened to us? Heroin, crack, greed, and a relentless pursuit to “be the GOAT” have fractured our unity. Prisons became glorified warehouses for talented Black young men, robbing our communities of their potential and turning promise into punishment. Corporate spaces turned into barriers instead of ladders, and media reduced our stories to shallow entertainment. We’ve grown more focused on individual status than on building the solidarity that once strengthened our community.

Unity in practice begins with acknowledging that ADOS have a unique identity, shaped by our specific history in America. We must respect that lineage while also working to bridge gaps with immigrant Black communities. Together, we can find strength in our differences, recognizing that progress for one group uplifts the collective.

Wake Up: A Call to Action

At its core, School Daze reminds us that the "Jigaboos" and the "Wannabees" were after the same thing: freedom. Both groups yearned to rise above their circumstances, to claim their dignity and worth. Spike Lee’s ringing of the bell at the end was a wake-up call—a reminder that Black Americans have a mission designed by God to create pathways for the oppressed. But we cannot fulfill that mission if we remain divided, consumed by envy, self-interest, and shallow judgments.

I don’t have all the answers. My hope is that our community leaders, political representatives, and church leaders can come together in unity before God to make feasible, lasting changes in the Black community. We need to wake up, and we need to do it quickly. In four years, there will be another election upon us, and the stakes have never been higher. Our unity is not optional; it is essential.

This content is the intellectual property of Jacqueline Session Ausby and may not be reproduced, distributed, or used in any form without my express written permission. For inquiries or permission requests, please contact me at Jmbeausby@aol.com.

Fragments of Hope through a new lens

"The cost of liberty is less than the price of repression."
– W.E.B. Du Bois

Since Donald Trump’s presidential election, I’ve been amazed at how often I hear the claim that Black people are at risk of returning to slavery. While the idea of a literal return to chattel slavery may sound extreme, it reflects a deeper fear rooted in our collective history. This fear persists because slavery, far from being a relic of the past, has evolved into modern forms of exploitation. Across the globe, it exists in stark realities—from the mines of the Congo to the trafficking networks in Mauritania. In the United States, it thrives in more insidious ways. Our prison system incarcerates extraordinary numbers of Black men, exploiting their labor while sustaining a multibillion-dollar industry built on punishment and profit.

Recently, I listened to a podcast about Anthony Johnson, a Black man described as “probably” the first slave owner in America. This narrative is sometimes wielded to justify centuries of enslavement, as though one man’s actions could absolve a nation of its systemic oppression. It reminded me of Edward P. Jones’ The Known World, a haunting depiction of a Black slave owner in the antebellum South. Both the podcast and the novel underscore an unsettling truth: racism and exploitation are systems, not isolated acts of prejudice. They endure because they are deeply ingrained in policies, structures, and institutions designed to uphold inequality.

Racism impacts every class of American Blacks. From those living in public housing to those who own homes and land—even those who have achieved financial success and social status—it is clear that no ADOS Black is immune. Smaller organizations profit from low wages, while larger corporations hold back ADOS talent, subjecting them to unfair standards and imposing moral expectations rooted in white cultural norms. The closer one is to what is deemed socially white and acceptable, the better their chances of success.

Meanwhile, the prison system sees young Black boys as pawns in its machinery. Like crude oil, they are extracted, exploited, and used to fuel an industry built on oppression. Both corporate America and the prison-industrial complex reflect a society that thrives on using Black lives as resources while denying their humanity. Just as the prison system profits off incarcerated labor, corporations exploit talent while maintaining a veneer of equity. Together, these systems form an intricate web that sustains systemic racism.

Racism as a Systemic Issue

Racism isn’t just about personal prejudice or isolated events—it’s a system that touches every part of society, from our streets to our workplaces. This systemic nature makes racism harder to see, especially when its mechanisms are disguised as policies, traditions, or even well-meaning initiatives. By understanding racism as a structural force, we can shift the focus away from blaming individuals and toward confronting the systems that sustain oppression.

Yet, confronting these systems requires courage. Silence is not always golden; in fact, silence can be complicity. Too often, we sit quietly, watching another Black colleague face unfair scrutiny, labeled as "unfit," "unprofessional," or "defensive" simply for standing up for themselves. Meanwhile, those who remain submissive are rewarded with survival, a stark reminder of the cost of resistance. This complicity echoes across history—from those who turned a blind eye during slavery, prioritizing profit over humanity, to today’s corporate structures that demand silence in exchange for perceived security.

Specific Examples of Systemic Racism

Sandra Bland’s tragic death is a stark example of how systemic racism intersects with gender. A Black woman with a fiery disposition encountered a white male racist, and the result was explosive—oil and water do not mix. Sandra’s strength and defiance were viewed as threats rather than traits of humanity. Her death in a jail cell is a modern echo of Fannie Lou Hamer, another Black woman with a big voice and an imposing presence. Hamer’s outspokenness intimidated white men so profoundly they saw no humanity as they beat her nearly to death.

But this systemic scrutiny isn’t reserved for the outspoken. It happens even to those who are soft-spoken. We want so desperately to believe the world has changed, but in many ways, it remains the same. This harsh truth should not deter us from standing up for ourselves. Silence is not safety—it is complicity. Pretending racism isn’t happening because it’s not happening to you only allows it to persist. We must reject complacency and speak out, even when it feels like the odds are stacked against us.

The Role of Allies

W.E.B. Du Bois wrote in The Souls of Black Folk about the paradox of white support. While some genuinely sought progress for Black people, others acted out of a need to preserve their own moral image. This distinction remains relevant today. There are allies who genuinely believe in Black talent and work to dismantle oppressive systems, mirroring the white supporters of the Civil Rights Movement. However, allyship can be complicated, as seen in the YSL RICO case. The white defense lawyers seemed to respect their clients in a way that stood in sharp contrast to the Black prosecutors, including Mrs. Love and Mrs. Hylton, who led the prosecution under a Black district attorney. The dynamic underscored a troubling reality: even within systems designed to uphold justice, biases and hierarchies persist, often creating tension among those tasked with navigating these roles.

True allyship demands more than good intentions—it requires action, accountability, and an understanding that privilege can be used as a tool for collective liberation. Allies must move beyond silence and stand beside those who are fighting for equity, even when it is uncomfortable.

Taking a Stand: Courage in Action

Courage can dismantle systems of oppression. The YSL RICO case in Atlanta offers a powerful example. Six defendants stood firm, refusing to accept plea deals that would harm their co-defendants. Their collective resistance ultimately led to not-guilty verdicts for two defendants facing murder charges. To be clear, even the last two defendants had other charges to face, but at least the murder charges were behind them. Their refusal to accept unjust pleas highlighted the power of unity in resisting systemic biases within the justice system.

In organizations, we can take similar action. When we see discrimination, we must document it, call it out, and use the same policies that organizations use against us to hold them accountable. Flooding the system with truth—standing up for ourselves and others—can disrupt the structures that sustain systemic racism.

Circling Back: The Lessons of Anthony Johnson

As I think back to the story of Anthony Johnson, I’m reminded of how narratives shape systems. His story has been manipulated to deflect responsibility for centuries of oppression. But the lesson isn’t about one man’s actions—it’s about the systems that have used stories like his to perpetuate inequality.

If we’ve learned anything, it’s that change requires collective courage, relentless truth-telling, and the refusal to let systems of oppression define us. Whether it’s in prisons, boardrooms, or communities, the roots of racism run deep—but so do the branches of hope.

We have the power to stand, speak, and dismantle. The question is: will we?

Reflections from a Quiet Room

There are moments when I sit alone in my room, basking in a fleeting sense of peace, only to have a thought intrude—a tinge of guilt, a reminder of those far away. I imagine the refugee camps in Sudan, dust-laden fields stretching endlessly under a harsh sun. Women with their heads covered, feet bare, children clinging to their backs, their cries a constant, haunting melody. The wars in Ukraine, the unrest through the Middle East—the faces of women flicker through my mind.

In these quiet moments, I find the strength to keep moving. If they must journey across desolate lands in herds, then I have no choice but to press forward here. Anything less would feel like a betrayal of their resilience. I hold onto simple joys—taking my grandchildren to the mall, watching them pretend to be grown or risk it all in a game of chess. These moments remind me of my responsibility.

Perhaps they, too, carry their children, only to be met with the news that their sons have fallen on distant battlefields, victims of bloodshed at the hands of some unseen force. I see the camps so clearly—fields of dust, the air thick with despair. The faces of women, etched with hardship, bear the weight of their children and their futures. Above them, drones drift like silent predators, unseen yet ever-present, delivering death with chilling precision. They are the snipers of the sky, casting shadows over lives that have never known peace.

Forever refugees—across Sudan, Ukraine, the volatile Middle East. Each place burns in its own way, a center of the world where every eye watches, waiting for Christ. We fix our gaze on Jerusalem, knowing that the story there is far from over. Sometimes, I wonder: If America had been the land that birthed the Son of God, would life be different? Perhaps not. But one day, our worlds will collide, and I might find myself over there instead of here. Would God vanish in that moment? No, He’s always been present, both here and there.

There’s no need for empty promises or quick fixes. The world is as it is—full of struggle, love, pain, and rare moments of peace. Yet, in the midst of it all, there’s a breath, a heartbeat that keeps us moving forward. Perhaps, for now, that is enough.

WOMEN AT THE WELL

Recently, I watched an episode of Freaky Fridays, a podcast featuring Cam Newton. Cam hosted two Atlanta adult entertainers, India and Diamond. Both women were prominent dancers at the iconic Magic City nightclub, making substantial money without, as they put it, “selling their souls.” There names were featured in prominent Rappers lyrics and their shared stories navigated a space steeped in judgment while maintaining boundaries, even as others around them crossed lines. Listening to them, I was struck by the complexities of their experiences and found myself grappling with what it truly means to be a woman in a world that defines us so narrowly—by our choices, our bodies, and our perceived morality.

Their stories lingered in my mind, stirring reflections that reached far deeper than the surface. What does it mean to be seen? To be valued? Since the days of Adam and Eve, womanhood has often been framed through the lenses of sin and sexuality. Biblical narratives have repeatedly painted women as bearers of both temptation and redemption, creating a tension that has shaped societal expectations for generations.

The story of the Samaritan woman at the well embodies this tension. Standing before Jesus, she brings with her all the weight of her past, her troubles, and her sacrifices. And yet, Jesus sees her. Not just her sin, but her humanity. He acknowledges her pain, her longing, and offers her the ultimate gift of redemption. Isn’t that who we all are? Women, carrying our stories, our burdens, and our hopes, longing to be fully seen and understood.

India and Diamond’s stories remind me of the Samaritan woman in many ways. They too navigate the complexities of judgment and redemption. They’ve carved out freedom for themselves in a system that often exploits the very essence of who they are. And yet, even as they’ve stepped away from dancing, they still hire women to perform at their parties—a nod to their past, but also a reinforcement of the very system they once sought to escape. Is this empowerment, or is it another layer of entrapment?

There’s a paradox in breaking free from something and yet continuing to contribute to it. It’s as if, in escaping the cage, you still find yourself drawn back to its bars. For India and Diamond, this complicity feels like both a reflection of their journey and a reminder of how hard it is to leave certain systems behind.

Cam Newton’s perspective added another layer to this complexity. As he spoke about strip clubs—his money thrown around, the naked women dancing before him—there was a hint of glorification in his tone. For him, these spaces are arenas for power and performance, a place to display wealth and indulge in the spectacle. But for the women in those spaces, it is something far more intimate. It’s their essence, the sacredness of their bodies on display, reduced to a transaction. This tension—between what women give and what men take—remains at the heart of the conversation.

In moments like these, I think about the blood. Between women and men, between exploitation and liberation, there is always the blood. Biblically, blood signifies life, the ultimate symbol of humanity and sacrifice. For women, it is deeply tied to identity—the blood of creation, the blood of pain, the blood that sustains life itself.

When men like Cam get so close to the essence of who women are, it is the blood that still separates them. It is the unbridgeable gap between seeing a woman as a whole being and reducing her to an object of desire. The blood demands reverence, but too often, it is ignored in favor of the spectacle.

India and Diamond’s stories resonate deeply with me because they are part of my generation—the Hip Hop generation. We were shaped by the beats, the lyrics, and the culture that celebrated both triumph and struggle. It was a world where survival meant finding your voice, your hustle, and your way forward, even when the odds were stacked against you.

Their paths and mine are vastly different, but what strikes me is how, in the end, our roads often cross and recross. No matter where we started or how far we’ve come, we all find ourselves in the same place: searching for redemption, for love, and for the assurance that we are seen. We carry our baggage—some visible, some buried deep—and yet, like the Samaritan woman, we stand before God, hoping He sees beyond our mistakes and choices. We pray that He sees our hearts, our sacrifices, and our humanity.

What I see in India and Diamond’s stories is a reflection of this generation’s longing. We all want to be seen, not for what we’ve done but for who we are. Their stories remind me that the road to freedom and redemption is not a straight path. It loops back on itself, weaving through moments of empowerment, complicity, and, sometimes, painful realizations about the systems we thought we had escaped.

But through it all, we keep praying. We keep hoping. And we keep trying to find our way back to ourselves, back to love, and back to the God who has seen us all along.

The Shades of Exploitation: Lessons from Jay-Z, P. Diddy, and Our Cultural Conditioning

Lessons from the Kaleidoscope of Black and White

Growing up, my world was a kaleidoscope of black and white—a moral dichotomy where right was right, and wrong was wrong, with no room for shades in between. My mother raised us to embrace the light and shun the darkness. She worked tirelessly—three jobs at times—as a warehouse worker during the week and a house cleaner on weekends. She provided food, shelter, and even the small luxuries of television, books, and games, ensuring her children could walk the “right” path. Her lessons, though steeped in love, were shaped by a world that dictated “appropriate” behavior through the narrow lens of movies, media, and societal expectations.

I learned early on that the lighter hues—metaphorically and literally—were deemed more acceptable, while the darker ones were cast as inappropriate, even dangerous. The cultural conditioning was relentless, teaching us to strive for the “right” side of things as defined by forces outside our community. My mother reinforced these lessons not out of malice but out of survival—understanding that stepping out of line could mean dire consequences.

And yet, as I reflect on those lessons, I see the contradictions we’ve been fed. Stories of success, especially for Black men like Jay-Z and P. Diddy, tell us to celebrate the climb. But the reality is much more complicated. These men climbed through the cracks of a system that both enabled and scrutinized them. For decades, they symbolized success, breaking through spaces that historically shut Black men out. But as they climbed, they entered a world that demanded something in return—a world where scrutiny is masked as praise, and the same people who build you up are just as quick to tear you down.

Take P. Diddy. He’s now at the center of sprawling allegations—allegations so wild they feel more like a spectacle than reality. I don’t know if he’s guilty. I’m not here to judge. But it’s hard not to notice how the system plays its game. Build someone up. Strip them of value. Repeat. It’s an endless cycle, and every time it happens, I can’t help but see the reflection of a long history of exploitation in America.

The Exploitation of Black Success

Growing up, my community was taught to question ourselves and place our trust in American systems—systems that dangled visions of success before our eyes, fully aware they never intended to include us. I’ll be the first to admit: I prefer living low. I see beauty in the struggle, in the way families once helped one another. Back then, one community shared a common goal—freedom. But at some point, we were sold a lie: “Moving on up” meant leaving behind those who couldn’t.

This mindset of “every man for himself” has fractured our communities. We’ve been told that eating with plastic spoons and paper plates is for barbecues, not everyday life. That pig feet are out of style and corn cakes should be swapped for scones. We’re told to escape liquor stores and failing schools by moving to the other side of the tracks—as if success is found in distance, not in our roots.

The same systems that gave us these messages haven’t stopped there. Nonprofits swoop into Black communities, scouting for talent with promises of bright futures. But their bright futures often come at a cost—removing young people from the only places they’ve ever known and planting them in spaces they barely recognize. Add in the distractions—groupies, easy access to drugs, and money that feels like it’ll never stop flowing—and it’s no wonder many find themselves trapped. These setups aren’t accidents; they’re calculated moves designed to keep Black men in the guise of success, all while under control.

I think of O.J. Simpson as a cautionary example. He left his roots, trying to be something the world deemed better, only to find himself lost in a system that used him as much as it praised him. His name became synonymous with scandal, and while his choices were his own, they were made within a world that seemed ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness. It’s a story that’s replayed over and over, from sports to music to Hollywood. The higher they climb, the sharper the knives waiting to cut them down.

The Responsibility to Reclaim Our Narrative

Over the last several years, Jay-Z and Beyoncé have become more than artists—they’ve become symbols. A Black family, polished and pristine, like a modern-day Adam and Eve. Of course, no one can rise that high without whispers. Illuminati this. Dark magic that. I’ve heard it all. Do I believe it? Not really. But what I do know is that their perfection seems to invite something darker—this unrelenting hunger to expose them, to dig up dirt that doesn’t exist.

Jay-Z’s name is now being dragged into lawsuits dating back decades. Executives and lawyers with reputations to build know that blood in the water will draw the vultures. Allegations swirl with no proof, and suddenly, the whispers become louder. It’s not new. We’ve seen this with others, from P. Diddy to Michael Jackson. The stories start small and grow until the court of public opinion has already decided guilt.

I don’t know if Jay-Z is innocent. That’s not for me to say. But what I do respect is when someone stands tall, refuses to bow to the chaos, and shifts the narrative. Not every Black man fits the stereotypes imposed on him. Some fight for truth, even when the odds are stacked against them. Jay-Z’s case may prove him foolish or fearless, but what matters is the responsibility that comes with his platform.

As a community, we must reclaim our stories. For too long, success has been defined by how far we move away from our roots. It’s time to reverse that thinking. Our brilliance doesn’t need validation from a system that wasn’t built for us. We can support one another, create spaces for our stories, and celebrate our culture without apology. Jay-Z’s truth, whether it stands or falls, reminds us of the stakes—and the cost of silence.

We need to come together and learn from the mistakes of our African ancestors, who sold their futures to possess what white men owned. History has shown us the cost of division and complacency. Let’s demand accountability—not just for Jay-Z or P. Diddy, but for all of us. If Jay-Z is guilty, let the evidence speak—show the DNA and prove it. But if not, we cannot sit back and watch as another Black man is cast as a monster without proof, scapegoated by a system that thrives on tearing us apart.

It’s time to break free from these cycles of exploitation and destruction. No more Black monsters—no more narratives that vilify our men without cause. We must reclaim our stories, support one another, and reject the narratives designed to diminish us. Our stories are powerful. They deserve to be told on our own terms, in our own voices, for the future we want to build—not the one handed to us.

Beyond the Rap Battle: Navigating the Divide in Black Identity

Growing up, I never knew I was anything different from my cousins, family, and neighborhood friends. We were all Black. We shared the same stories: descendants of slaves who managed to escape the legacy of oppression. Though we were poor, we held a dignity that could not be denied. This was the sound of the American Black story, one of resilience. Figures like Billie Holiday, who fell victim to heroin, and others like Mary J. Blige and Lauryn Hill, who rose to prominence, were a testament to our collective journey.

Rap music became the heartbeat of our culture, the fuel that powered the Hip Hop Generation. MTV and shows like The Cosby Show and Living Single educated us on the value of hard work, perseverance, and education. Rappers like Rakim and Tupac told the stories of our struggle: the harsh realities of drugs, crime, and violence, and how we tried to overcome them. These stories resonated deeply with us, showing a path forward despite adversity. By 2008, the narrative shifted, and suddenly, Blackness was inflated to include everyone who wasn’t white. As our struggles were subsumed under the broader banner of “people of color,” the issues uniquely affecting American Blacks began to get lost. The same trend became evident in corporate and political spaces, where Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) efforts often overlooked the lived experiences of ADOS (American Descendants of Slavery) Black Americans in favor of a more generalized approach to “diversity.”

This shift has been especially noticeable in our entertainment industry, where the depiction of Blackness has been commodified and altered to fit mainstream, global tastes. The recent Drake-Kendrick Lamar rap battle is a microcosm of this larger issue. On the surface, it may seem like just another rap beef, but in reality, it highlights the growing divide between ADOS Blacks and immigrant Blacks in the public sphere.

The Cultural Divide: Rap as a Reflection of Black Identity

The Kendrick Lamar-Drake debate is more than just two artists vying for supremacy; it’s about contrasting visions of Black identity. Kendrick Lamar, with his deep lyrical introspection and social commentary, represents the lived experience of American Black life. His lyrics are a window into the struggles and triumphs of ADOS Black Americans—resilient, proud, and shaped by a history that cannot be ignored.

Drake, though half-Black, was raised in a very different cultural context. Growing up in Canada, he doesn’t share the same generational struggle that American Blacks face. Despite his Black heritage, his upbringing in a predominantly white, middle-class setting places him in a position more akin to an immigrant, disconnected from the historical depth of American Black identity. His music, often more aligned with mainstream pop culture, lacks the rawness and authenticity that Kendrick Lamar’s does. This distinction—between the commercial appeal of Drake’s music and the deep, often painful truths in Kendrick’s—is what sets them apart. While both are successful, their version of Blackness reflects very different narratives: one shaped by a specific, localized struggle in America, the other by a more globalized, palatable version of Blackness.

The Problem With the “All Blackness Is the Same” Narrative

The unfortunate reality is that, while ADOS Black Americans fight to reclaim their narrative, immigrant Blacks often align themselves with white social norms, distancing themselves from the authentic experiences of those who’ve built the culture they now thrive in. Take figures like Denzel Washington, who, despite his significant credibility in the Black community, is increasingly being pushed into roles that feel disconnected from the true essence of Black identity. Denzel, known for avoiding trite roles and instead taking on powerful, meaningful characters in films like Fences, has been a beacon of Black excellence. But lately, there’s a shift, and it raises the question: Is he being molded into something he’s not, or is the industry now dictating what it means to be Black in America?

What’s happening with Denzel is part of a broader trend that the entertainment industry is pushing forward: the erasure of the nuances of Black identity. The problem lies in the insistence that all Black experiences are the same, even when they are not. Figures like Joy Reid, an immigrant Black woman, continue to represent this narrative by suggesting that figures like Kamala Harris are authentically Black, despite their disconnection from the struggles that define American Black identity. This narrative distorts the real experiences of ADOS Blacks, creating confusion about what it means to be Black in America.

A New Paradigm: Understanding the Different Struggles

The question now becomes: when will we, as ADOS Blacks, begin to confront this myth that all Black people are the same? This idea needs to be challenged, because it’s ultimately harming the fight for our own justice. We must acknowledge that the wounds we carry as ADOS Blacks are deep, stemming from the brutal legacy of slavery, systemic racism, and centuries of disenfranchisement. Immigrant Blacks may share some experiences of marginalization, but their wounds are less visible, often subtler, as they don’t bear the same history that ADOS Blacks do.

This divide between ADOS and immigrant Blacks is becoming more pronounced, and it’s time to recognize it. Until we can address the complexities of our respective struggles, we will continue to be divided. The rap battle between Kendrick and Drake is just one example of how this divide plays out in the public sphere. The entertainment industry—and society as a whole—must recognize that the Black experience in America is not a monolith. Only then can we move forward together as a unified bloc, advocating for change in a way that genuinely reflects our distinct histories, struggles, and identities.

Conclusion

As ADOS Blacks, we must reclaim the narrative that has been stolen from us for far too long. Our story is one of resilience, defiance, and strength, and it deserves to be told authentically. We cannot afford to let our struggles be subsumed under a false, universal version of Blackness that erases the real experiences of those who have lived through slavery, Jim Crow, and the ongoing fight for equality. If we are to build a future that truly honors our past, we must first confront the uncomfortable truths about how Blackness is represented in our culture, both in entertainment and beyond. The battle is not just about who’s winning in the rap game—it’s about who gets to define what it means to be Black in America.

Lost Foundations: Reclaiming the Soul of the Black Church

Then shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten virgins, which took their lamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom. Matthew 25:1

I am just one woman—but I am a Black woman who feels compelled to offer a rebuke to the Black church. I use the term "Black" intentionally, acknowledging its universal application to those of us with more melanin than others within the human race. More specifically, I write for and to the American Black church—an institution whose influence is renowned, not merely because of race but due to its unique role in the history of the American Black community. The Black church, seen globally as a moral compass, carries a legacy shaped by struggle, resilience, and spiritual power. But these days, I have to question: where is the power of the Black church?

The Black church has always been a place of safety. For me, it was where I could hear the voice of God most clearly—where the community gathered in reverence and worship, finding solace and strength. But it is becoming painfully obvious that many of today’s mega Black churches are not established for the Gospel. Pastors sing "Wade in the Water" from wooden pulpits, exploiting the Black struggle while collecting inflated offerings. These churches, built as monuments to personal grandeur, fail to reflect the humility of the Gospel they claim to preach. The true purpose of the church—the Gospel—has been overshadowed by personal wealth and power.

Pastors without a foundation in faith masquerade as men of God, yet their actions betray them. They continually exploit the flock, promising blessings in exchange for financial contributions, showing little concern for the spiritual well-being of their congregants. Take Pastor Jamal Bryant, for example—after marrying on November 14, he stood before his congregation on Sunday, asking for $50,000 while his child’s mother fought for financial support in court. Bryant, who pretends to be upright and moral, skipped out on court to honeymoon in Israel, exposing the tragic irony of his actions. His public persona as a preacher of righteousness stands in stark contrast to his personal life, where his choices undermine the very moral compass he claims to uphold.

This issue of exploitation is not limited to male pastors—women leaders in the church also contribute to this erosion of faith. Women pastors and self-proclaimed prophets like Juanita Bynum and Tiphani Montgomery sell false hope for a price. They promise blessings—finding a husband, a home, financial abundance—in exchange for "blessed" prayer shawls and offerings. Like their male counterparts, they distort the truth, focusing on personal gain instead of faith. These pastors don’t believe the Gospel they preach. They don’t believe that Jesus Christ is the Head of the Church. It’s heartbreaking to see Black men and women twist the Word of God for selfish purposes. "Give, and you will get," they say, promising material wealth while diverting attention from spiritual salvation. The church should not be a place to build personal empires—it should be a place to uplift the soul.

Historically, Black women have been the prophets and teachers of our community, praying for the enslaved who fled under the cover of darkness, seeking freedom and refuge. These women carried the weight of a true calling from God, unlike the women we see today who have traded that calling for fame and fortune. The Black church was once a place where the voice of the oppressed could cry out for justice, where the powerless could find the strength to stand tall. Now, it seems the church itself has been swallowed by the very things it once sought to fight—greed, selfishness, and exploitation.

The tragic irony is that these pastors hold tremendous influence in our communities. Many entertainers in the Black community are lost and in need of deliverance, but when they reach out, they find themselves tied to powerless leaders. P. Diddy reached out to T.D. Jakes for support, only to find biblical advice replaced by worldly performances. Kamala Harris tried to sway Black voters by highlighting Rev. Amos C. Brown of Third Baptist Church. Yet none of these efforts shifted the deep, systemic challenges that persist.

This erosion of the Black church’s power is perhaps best illustrated by figures like Bryant, whose actions—abandoning his child’s mother while begging for money from his congregation—highlight the abandonment of true faith. It’s a clear example of how easily we can be led astray when the pursuit of wealth overshadows the calling of righteousness.

The Black church’s decline mirrors the tragic downfall of Mike Tyson—a metaphor for how far we’ve strayed. Tyson, who grew up Catholic, was once an icon of strength and determination. He achieved fame and fortune through raw power, only to see his life unravel in a series of poor decisions. Like Tyson, the Black church was once a pillar of strength and purpose, but now it is increasingly defined by empty promises and self-interest. Tyson’s fall symbolizes a life sold to the highest bidder—just as the church’s integrity has been sold out in exchange for personal gain. Both serve as cautionary tales of how power and influence can be corrupted when unmoored from foundational values.

Where do we go from here? It’s time for a reckoning. We must ask ourselves if we’ve lost our way, blinded by the glitter of false prophets and material wealth. Are we truly serving God—or have we become willing participants in a system that values vanity, power, and greed over truth and salvation?

To reclaim what was lost, we must rebuild the church on a foundation of true faith and justice. Communities must demand accountability from their leaders and seek out those who align with the Gospel’s message of humility and service. The Black church must return to its roots—where the voice of God is heard clearly, where the oppressed find refuge, and where salvation is not a business but a calling. Only then can we restore the integrity and power of an institution that has shaped the soul of our community for generations.

ELECTION 2024 | DECIPHERING THE RED Writing on the Wall

A Call for Real Change After Election Night

The Wake-Up Call We Didn’t See Coming

Last Tuesday’s election went surprisingly smoothly, and for a moment, I thought we might finally be able to move forward with Donald Trump as the President-elect of the United States. I hoped we could put the 2024 election behind us and focus on the future. But it’s becoming increasingly clear that, for the next four years, liberal elites and pundits will continue to direct their frustration toward the establishment out of dissatisfaction with the outcome.

In many ways, this election served as a wake-up call—a rejection of policies that, under the guise of progress and inclusivity, seem to undermine common sense and longstanding societal norms. The results reflect a public unwilling to accept extreme positions that compromise parental rights, distort biological reality, and involve children in ideological experiments. This shift sends a powerful message to leaders who have ignored or dismissed these concerns: Americans are no longer willing to watch fundamental values erode under an agenda that wealthy elites view as “enlightened.”

A Long-Simmering Frustration

This election wasn’t just about one candidate or party; it was about years of frustration boiling over. The middle-class response to this election is deeply rooted in policies that date back to the 2008 financial crisis, the economic impact of COVID-19, and the constant push for social changes that feel disconnected from their realities. Many middle-class Americans feel disproportionately burdened by rising inflation, shifting energy policies, and foreign conflicts—all while being excluded from the discussions shaping these policies.

The frustration spans across communities, including those of us who have faced racial tensions, economic instability, and shifting cultural landscapes. For many, this election was a chance to push back against an agenda that felt imposed by elites more focused on ideology than the everyday struggles of working people.

The Disconnect of the Elite

Election night only made this divide more apparent. Watching CNN and the Native Land Pod—where Black elites streamed live from Howard University in anticipation of Kamala Harris’s victory speech—was surreal. Both groups seemed out of touch with the realities of working-class Americans. While CNN’s anchors tried to maintain an air of objectivity, their shock was palpable as state after state reported results that spelled trouble for Harris. Meanwhile, the Native Land Pod panel, featuring Angela Rye, Tiffany Cross, Andrew Gillum, and Charlemagne tha god, kept hyping Kamala Harris’s historic potential even as the numbers painted a grim picture.

The panel’s commentary felt disconnected from the concerns of everyday Black Americans. These figures, who rose from humble beginnings, seemed to have forgotten what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck. Their focus on progressive ideals and policies doesn’t resonate with those of us still grappling with systemic issues like inflation and resource scarcity.

As the results rolled in, the gap between reality and rhetoric grew wider. Jake Tapper, standing at CNN’s “magic wall,” visibly struggled to identify any states where Kamala Harris was leading. When Iowa, a state Democrats had briefly hoped to flip, went to Trump with 56% of the vote, it became clear: this wasn’t just a loss—it was a repudiation.

A Call for Authentic Leadership

The results of this election are a wake-up call for both parties, but especially for the Democrats. Americans have had enough of policies that cater to elite sensibilities while ignoring the struggles of the middle class. They’re tired of being dismissed or labeled as unenlightened for holding to values that prioritize family, community, and individual responsibility.

What angers me most is the hypocrisy of so-called Christians who criticize me for supporting Trump. They argue, “A woman has a right to control her body,” without acknowledging the deeper ethical concerns tied to policies they champion. Leaders like Pastor Jamal Bryant, who allowed Kamala Harris to campaign from their pulpits, remind me of biblical figures who flaunted their sins in defiance of God. We forget that God is not only loving but also just—and judgment will come for those who lead others astray.

This election sent a clear message: Americans are drawing a line. They’re rejecting policies that prioritize ideological experiments over protecting children and preserving innocence. There’s a growing demand for leadership that doesn’t just talk about inclusivity but also respects the voices and values of the people it claims to serve.

Looking Ahead

Tuesday’s results may have shocked the elites, but for many of us, it was a long time coming. America has finally said, “Enough is enough.” The question now is whether political leaders will heed the message or continue down a path that alienates the very people they’re supposed to represent.

If there’s one takeaway from this election, it’s this: Americans want authentic leadership—leaders who respect family, faith, and freedom. It’s time for the parties to wake up and listen. Maybe next time, they’ll nominate a candidate who truly represents the people, not just the agendas of the elite.

Winds of Change: Riding the 2024 Election Train

The recent election has brought to light an essential conversation America has yet to fully engage in: What does it mean to be “Black” in this country, and who defines that identity? This election underscored a misalignment in our understanding of Black identity and highlighted the need to unify around a clear and authentic definition. Kamala Harris’s campaign appeared to align with African American communities, but in practice, it felt like an attempt to secure votes rather than genuine engagement. Her role in shaping our current economic and geopolitical landscape has furthered the perception of America as weakened and disorganized, a nation influenced by corporate elites who see themselves as righteous visionaries fulfilling a self-imagined legacy. Yet this vision is often disconnected from the actual needs and values of everyday Americans.

In this post, I reflect on these themes and my own journey through this election cycle, exploring the implications of identity, leadership, and accountability in a country facing pivotal questions about its future.

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As the 2024 election cycle finally came to a close, I was startled to find Trump had won so decisively. I had expected a wave of drama and riots, eagerly hyped by media pundits desperate for a headline. But as Trump’s numbers steadily grew in the Electoral College, I had to confront what I’d suspected for months: People weren’t truly voting for Kamala Harris.

Kamala’s campaign leaned into her identity, presenting her as a candidate aligned with African Americans in hopes of securing our vote. She positioned herself as a moderate Democrat—supportive of Israel, a believer in fracking and American ingenuity, with policies designed to keep a careful balance. Yet this alignment felt insincere, more like a calculated move than a genuine connection. The shift in the media atmosphere was so abrupt, it was like the wind had suddenly changed direction. One moment, Abby Phillips was broadcasting from Howard University, capturing the enthusiasm there; hours later, she reappeared, visibly stunned, struggling to put a positive spin on what was unfolding. The Harris campaign’s path had veered sharply from the Sunbelt to the Rust Belt, a last-minute scramble for support in places they hadn’t counted on.

Watching this all unfold, I thought, isn’t it interesting how, today, people can be “lynched” not only by words on paper but by words on video? A video acts like a time capsule, capturing one’s likeness, voice, and stance in a single moment. Kamala’s strong support for the Green New Deal and her stance on energy policies and “Medicare for All”, had once helped define her progressive appeal but were now seen as threats to the very people she needed to win over. In real-time, I was witnessing the train wreck of her campaign, her approval plummeting faster than the wind could keep up.

The night before Election Day, I sat with my ballot in hand, staring at the names: Trump, Harris, Stein, Kennedy, DeLaCruz. I felt the weight of my options. I could follow the usual Democratic narrative and align myself with what was expected of me, or I could go another way. After much reflection, I made my choice. I marked my vote for Trump and filled in the rest of the ticket as I saw fit, satisfying my own sense of history and agency. For the first time, I felt that my vote wasn’t just a reflex but a conscious decision shaped by my economic reality and my beliefs.

When the results started to come in, I felt oddly satisfied, even relieved, as Trump gained momentum across the map. This was the first election I had deeply grappled with. In the past, I’d voted Democrat without much thought, trusting the familiar line. But now, the stakes felt different. My economic situation demanded I consider the facts over feelings, the policies over platitudes.

Since the election, I’ve faced backlash from friends and others online, who question my choice as if it’s some sort of betrayal. The irony isn’t lost on me: liberals, who profess to champion free thought, often act as though we’re only free to think as long as we align with their views. Comments like, “They’ll put us back in chains,” or warnings that my grandchildren might suffer under future Republican policies—these are the responses I’m hearing from people who are supposed to support democracy and respect different perspectives. To them, it’s as if voting anything but Democratic means I deserve whatever consequences come.m

Yet, this reaction highlights a divide not just between political ideologies but between those who claim to represent the middle and working class and those who truly understand it. Teachers, professors, and activists—many from comfortable backgrounds—flooded social media, condemning those of us who dared to think differently. It felt like they were shouting from a distance, far removed from the concerns of people actually living with the policies they advocate.

In my own household, filled with both liberals and conspiracy theorists, everyone has an opinion—even my grandkids. As the election approached, my grandchildren came home from school talking about it. My grandsons were mostly blasé, too absorbed with football practice and Xbox. But my granddaughters soaked up liberal teachings like sponges. One of them proudly declared she was “voting for God,” while another said, “I’m voting for Kamala Harris.”

On election night, when it became clear that Trump had prevailed, we waited for Kamala to make her concession speech, but it didn’t come. Finally, on Wednesday night, my granddaughter lay across my bed as we watched Kamala’s speech together. I could see her struggling to process the loss, her admiration for this woman evident in the way she listened intently. Watching her look so overwhelmed, I felt torn. Part of me wanted to embrace her and acknowledge her feelings, yet I knew I couldn’t have cast my own vote for Kamala. In that moment, I was struck by the strength of her conviction and the pride she felt in this candidate.

As I listened to Kamala’s speech, I felt a pang of conflict but also reassurance that I’d made the right decision. This election wasn’t just about Trump or Harris; it was about stepping back and recognizing that sometimes, the “elite” voices don’t speak for the whole country. Watching the campaign unravel, like a train derailed from its tracks, I realized that maybe, just maybe, America isn’t as fractured as I once thought.

From Sacred to Secular: The Hijacking of the Black Church

New Birth Missionary Baptist Church in Atlanta, currently led by Pastor Jamal Bryant, has long been surrounded by controversy. Before Bryant took over, the church was under the pastoral leadership of Eddie Long, a man who presented himself as a moral authority while secretly concealing his true identity. Though condemning homosexuality from the pulpit, Long was privately engaging in sexual relationships with young Black men. This duplicity eventually came to light, and though he was shunned by many, he remained in the pulpit at New Birth until his death from cancer.

Jamal Bryant’s personal life is no less scandalous. Known for his extramarital affairs and fathering children out of wedlock, Bryant still managed to land the leadership position at New Birth after Long’s departure. Despite his flawed character, Bryant became the face of a church that had already suffered through scandal. What’s troubling is not just Bryant’s past, but his doctrine—at one point, Bryant claimed that half of Jesus’s life was spent outside of God’s will. Such statements directly conflict with core Christian teachings and verge on blasphemy. How can anyone claim that God, who knows no sin and hates sin, would take on the form of man and then sin? That would nullify His entire purpose for coming to Earth. Yet, Bryant continues to hold influence over many in the Black church.

Bryant’s influence becomes even more troubling when his actions and beliefs reflect deeper contradictions. Most recently, Bryant reached out to apologize to LGBTQ Black pastors on behalf of the Black church, condemning what he called homophobia among those who follow biblical teachings. He is the same pastor who endorses abortion, making headlines when he performed a baby dedication ceremony shortly after Roe v. Wade was overturned. These contradictions raise a critical question: What responsibility does the Black church have when its leaders stray so far from scripture and endorse tradition and culture?

As I get older, I’ve noticed how much more liberal America has become, especially in its moral compass. There’s nothing wrong with a culture recognizing gay rights or defending personal freedoms, but when pastors like Bryant mix secular liberalism with sacred doctrine, we must question where the church stands. The Bible calls us to love our neighbor, yes, but the first commandment is that we love God with all our heart, soul, and mind. When the teachings of the church bend to fit the culture, there will inevitably be a divide.

This tension between politics and religion came to a head this past Sunday when Kamala Harris made an appearance at New Birth. To say she is exploiting the Black church for political purposes is an understatement. I felt like asking her, "Harris, have you no shame?" Harris stood in the pulpit, attempting to galvanize the Black vote by aligning herself with faith.

Her hypocrisy is staggering, especially after calling out two students the day before for being at “the wrong rally.” After her overplayed spiel on women’s rights and access to healthcare (read: abortion), two kids in the crowd shouted, “Jesus is Lord,” to which she dismissed them, claiming, “You’re at the wrong rally,” and laughed. The implication was clear: Jesus had no place at her rally. But what does politics have to do with Jesus? Jesus is King—He has nothing to do with abortion, LGBTQ rights, or Kamala Harris. These issues belong to the government.

To think that Jesus would have said to the woman at the well, or the woman with the issue of blood, “You have a right to do what you want with your body,” is blasphemous. To think Jesus would have no connection with the unborn is sacrilegious. Yet, not long after this incident, Harris walked into New Birth and delivered a distorted version of the Good Samaritan parable. In her narrative, Harris cast herself and the Democratic Party as the Good Samaritans. They are the compassionate figures, the ones who help the downtrodden. "You who are uneducated, unknowing—you Black parishioners will get us there." In the name of Jesus, Harris is selling abortions to Black women and marijuana to Black men, while others receive tax breaks and purchasing power.

The real lesson of the Good Samaritan isn’t about political parties or social programs; it’s about God’s love for humanity. In the parable, we should see ourselves in one of two roles: either we are the ones who pass by the beaten man on the road, indifferent to his suffering, or we are the man lying on the ground, broken and in need of healing. The Good Samaritan, in this case, is God Himself—He lifts us up, pays our debt, and sets us on the path to recovery. No politician or preacher has the power to do that.

The strength of the Black church has always been spiritual liberation and moral clarity. But we have drifted so far off course. Pastors justify gay marriage as if it will bring life, but it only sets up further moral and illicit behavior. When pastors like Jamal Bryant and politicians like Kamala Harris use the church as a stage to promote the killing of babies for votes, it betrays the true purpose of the faith. Those teachings oppose the Bible and even distort the story of the Good Samaritan. The Samaritan saved someone living in sin but cleansed him—meaning he was clean and repentant. At the end of the day, no earthly leader can save us—only Christ can.

There’s something deeply immoral about our nation, and it is manifesting itself in many ways. Evil and wickedness are spreading around the world, and we pretend not to see it. Yet we continuously use the Bible as a weapon for our own agendas. From the United Nations to little churches in America, we try to twist the Word to fit our cultural beliefs. Harris walks into the pulpit unafraid, as if God doesn’t see her heart and intentions, as if God has no right or reason to judge. It is indeed sickening.

I am not saying Donald Trump is blameless. Trump has used the Christian message and the Bible to solidify his evangelical base. Who could forget when he walked across the park outside the White House and stood in front of a church with a Bible in hand? Trump is no savior, and if you truly believe in God, you understand that. However, Trump has not dared to step into a church and pollute the pulpit. President Obama and Harris, on the other hand, have no such boundaries. They are willing to stand in the pulpit and declare the Dobbs decision unfortunate, calling for the reinstatement of Roe v. Wade, without a single thought for the countless unborn children who have never seen the light of day.

Harris proclaims herself to be the “Good” Samaritan—a woman who has never birthed a life—telling other women, “If you conceive and it interferes in any way with your ambitions, it’s okay to terminate the pregnancy.” It doesn’t matter to that Samaritan where you’ve been or what you’ve done. It is as if humanity has missed something when they speak about love and justice: God is the Judge—not Kamala, not Jamal, and not the Democratic Party. No Good Samaritan would ever tell a healthy woman to get rid of her child because she made an unfortunate mistake that may impact her success in this world. It is sick to believe otherwise.

In the end, the true message of Christianity has nothing to do with political parties or policies. It is about God’s unwavering love for us, His call for repentance, and His offer of salvation through Jesus Christ. No pastor, politician, or social program can provide the healing and redemption that only God can give. As a nation, we must return to these core truths. The church must once again stand as a beacon of moral clarity, pointing to Christ, not bending to the whims of culture. If we continue to blur the lines between sacred and secular, we risk losing not only the church but our very souls.

Breaking the Mirage: Obama, Kamala, and the ADOS Community

“the arrogance of Harris and Obama, who continue to play identity politics...” JA

President Barack Obama is hitting the trail in hopes of saving the Harris campaign from its seemingly impending demise. When I first heard he would be jumping back into the arena to rescue the Democratic Party, I thought maybe Donald Trump would be in trouble. Superman had flown onto the scene to save the day. Democrats were excited—the big dog was coming out. They saved the best for last: the October surprise, strategically placed to accelerate Harris straight to victory.

But as Obama steps back into the spotlight to support Harris, I can’t help but reflect on the earlier days of his own campaigns, when I, like many, had been swept up in the hope and inspiration he brought. Back in 2008 and 2012, when he was running for office, he was more than just a politician—he was a symbol of possibility for people like me. Each one of his campaign speeches was exactly the same, but it didn’t matter; I loved listening to him. Hearing a Black man speaking about something other than "bitches," "hoes," and "lean" was exhilarating. When Michelle joined him, there you had it—a complete American Black family. I was giddy with delight. I honestly believed back then that President Obama was like me—it took me a long time to realize the stark differences in how Obama had been raised compared to the way I had been raised.

Obama’s Return and the Reflection on His Legacy

The senseless murder of Trayvon Martin brought President Obama to the front lawn of the White House. I remember the sunny day and how the backdrop of the White House was pristine and white. President Obama stood on the lawn and proclaimed that Trayvon could have been his son. It made me feel proud, like one of our own was speaking on behalf of our sons and daughters. But it was all just rhetoric. Barry had no more allegiance to the Black community than he did to the Indonesian community that raised him.

Now, Obama wasn’t all bad. Of course, it was his leadership that got Osama Bin Laden. Additionally, there is something to be said about the free cell phones. Many people I knew couldn’t afford to keep a phone, but with Obama phones, even though their numbers changed every few months, they always seemed to have a phone. Even today, people still have those phones, and they’re starting to look more and more up to date.

However, despite these accomplishments, it wasn’t long after Obama’s second term began that I realized he was not truly an American Black man in the way I had originally thought. For Obama to gain political power, he had to step on the necks of ADOS (American Descendants of Slavery) Blacks to secure a seat in government. This realization shifted my entire perspective on him.

My views continued to change after I watched a documentary about his rise in politics. He went to Chicago, aligned himself with ADOS Blacks, pretended to be one of us, and flaunted his Black wife. He fit the script perfectly, and the Black community bought into the idea that Obama shared the struggles of an American Black person. But that wasn’t the case.

Unfortunately, once Obama took office, he served every group except the ADOS community. I had hoped he would at least open the discussion on reparations, but he remained silent. By the end of his term, it became clear to the ADOS community that Obama was just another Democrat focused on keeping the party in line, not a game changer like many had hoped.

What surprises me the most about Obama is his either complete lack of awareness or willful blindness to the reality that many in the ADOS community don’t consider him one of us. Perhaps he doesn’t realize this, or maybe he’s intentionally perpetuating the idea that he’s a savior to the Black community. Sadly, many of us have long understood that his involvement is primarily about mobilizing votes, not addressing the real issues we face. We’ve seen through the facade—the mask is off. Just because you call me ‘sister’ doesn’t mean I believe I am your sister.

This brings me to the arrogance of Harris and Obama, who continue to play identity politics and attempt to shame Black men into voting for them. But as Americans, we should vote according to our conscience, not based on racial appeals. I refuse to support a party that systematically uses my community while offering little in return.

There’s an assumption that Black people should vote for Kamala because she’s offering handouts and promoting abortion access. Seventy percent of Black women may support her, but she’s steadily losing ground with Black men. It’s clear that she recognizes this and is trying to regain their support, yet she has no substantial ideas to tackle the real challenges facing Black men in our community. Legalizing marijuana is an easy move, one already comparable to alcohol in its widespread acceptance. In my town, dispensaries have become common, but what else is she bringing to the table?

Kamala Harris and the Disconnect with Black Men

Kamala wants to legalize marijuana because she believes Black men are disproportionately impacted by its usage, but she has done nothing to bolster prison reform. She’s merely continued existing legislation, without attempting anything of her own. Donald Trump, on the other hand, signed the First Step Act into law, which saw 7,000 inmates released from prison. Can Kamala make the same claim?

Her $20,000 grants to Black entrepreneurs, and others, are camouflaged behind the reality that this initiative isn’t specific to Black men. Meanwhile, she avoids addressing critical issues like restoring the Black family, unemployment, and hunger.

Kamala claimed on a podcast that child hunger dropped by 50% during her first year in office, but she left out important context. One key point is that this reduction was due to the influx of COVID relief funds provided by Trump’s administration. Now, under Biden/Harris policies, hunger in America has risen again, standing around 12% higher than it had been during Trump’s term—reaching the highest levels since 1920. Last I checked, Black men want to go to work and feed their kids, not rely on temporary relief.

Kamala’s presidency could also confront the racial discrimination embedded in corporate practices that keep Black people out of the workforce, but she sidesteps these issues. Why are Black men incarcerated and working for corporations while in prison, only to be denied jobs at those same companies once released? Does Kamala think Black men don’t realize that having a criminal record severely limits their employment opportunities? What about expanding "Ban the Box" to the federal level?

Since she’s taken office, corporations continue to employ immigrants at lower wages, leaving Black men locked out of economic mobility in what is supposed to be a free-market society.

While corporations exploit immigrant labor for lower wages, systemic barriers such as racial discrimination, mass incarceration, and limited access to education and job training continue to block Black men from climbing the economic ladder. This cycle persists, trapping them in a system that claims to be free but operates very differently.

Despite all of Kamala’s promises, none of her policies directly impact Black men in America. Reparations for the ADOS community would make a tangible difference to Black men today and their future legacies tomorrow. American Blacks are tired of endless discussions. It’s time for implementation and action. Let’s be real—America owes a debt, and the only remaining question is how it will be paid. To this, Kamala offers nothing but empty promises.

My question is, why do the voices of immigrants seem to carry more weight than the voices of those with a longer, lived experience in America? The audacity of hope indeed—President Obama has the audacity to hope that the ADOS community is still the same one that supported him in 2008. Docile and unaware, they continue to offer our community nothing more than the illusion of hope, yet have the audacity to exploit our votes.

Challenging the Illusion of Blackness

Of all the things Barack Obama did while campaigning for Harris, the most troubling was the flat-out lie he managed to slip in during his criticism of Black men for not going to the polls and his condemnation of Black men who vote for Trump. He wanted to make the point that they would rather vote against their own interests than support a woman. I wish I could have asked him: What has Kamala specifically done for Black men in America? But what bothered me even more was when he repeatedly referred to Kamala as African American. He made this claim more than once while speaking at an impromptu meeting with her campaign staff.

The fact that people assert with such conviction that Kamala Harris is African American is truly troubling. If we are to believe Kamala is Black, it requires accepting the one-drop rule—a racist concept created to maintain segregation and reinforce the idea that any Black ancestry "taints" a person’s identity, forever categorizing them as Black. This assumption ties back to the deeply problematic one-drop rule: the idea that one drop of Black blood, even if diluted by generations of non-Black ancestry, makes someone Black. Harris’s claim to Blackness hinges on the notion that somewhere in her Jamaican lineage, one of her ancestors was African, though she conveniently leaves out key details about who this African ancestor was.

Kamala’s father, Donald Harris, admits to being of Irish descent, yet he never claims that his mother or grandmother was African. In fact, he has said he doesn’t know what his grandmother’s ancestry was. And now, we’re supposed to simply assume that there’s African lineage there, even though no clear evidence of African ancestry on that side of the family has been provided. Oh, and because her father is Jamaican—as if white folks have no lineage in Jamaica.

It’s not enough to vaguely trace one’s lineage back to Africa through Jamaica and then claim to represent the Black community in America. The cultural disconnect is too vast. Blackness is not just about lineage—it’s about culture, community, and lived experience. Kamala was primarily raised by her Indian mother, and her upbringing was shaped far more by her Indian heritage than by any connection to African American or ADOS culture.

To claim Kamala as "Black" in the ADOS sense—as someone with roots in the struggles of Black Americans descended from slavery—is to stretch the truth in ways that undermine the depth and meaning of Black identity. President Obama, acting as if he has the authority to speak on such matters, explicitly claimed that Harris is African American, intentionally conflating Blackness with ADOS. Together, they create a mirage of this truth. They blend in details of the Black struggle and attempt to capture Black culture. Lately, Kamala has been running around claiming to have grown up in the Black church, as if that alone would make her Black, or as if Black churches are 100% Black all the time.

Democrats have played this card before. This is an attempt to erase the distinct struggles of ADOS people, whose heritage is defined by the trauma of slavery, segregation, and ongoing systemic racism—experiences that neither Obama nor Kamala, despite their varied and complex backgrounds, have lived.

Obama continues to perpetuate this narrative, as if we are too naive to discern the difference. In 2008, we weren’t having these conversations, and we accepted the idea that every person with dark skin was "Black" like me because that was the lie we had been told for generations.

Growing up, my aunts and uncles had mixed-race children. They were raised in our neighborhoods, attended our schools, and ate collard greens and cornbread at Mama’s house. Though they may have white faces and their mothers came from different racial backgrounds, they share both the ADOS lineage and the cultural experiences of our community. Today, they may be more closely tied to their white families, but their identity as American Descendants of Slavery is undeniable. Neither Obama nor Harris can claim such ties, as their backgrounds are not rooted in the legacy of ADOS.

One moment, she’s sitting on a couch with Charlamagne tha God, and the next, she’s standing in the pulpit at the House of God. This week, Kamala stood on a stage in a Black church and quoted from Galatians. The devil is so slick, he can shape an individual whose strongest appeal to Americans is the promotion of abortions. What is becoming increasingly distressing is the way entertainers and political figures are using the pulpit to perpetuate their lies. How can you stand before God, knowing you’re telling women to "save your life," it’s okay to get rid of the unwanted lives you’ve created? Even more disturbing, some preachers agree with her.

Kamala and her allies are playing a dangerous game, exploiting both cultural identity and faith to push their agendas. But what they fail to realize is that many of us are no longer buying into their rhetoric. The ADOS community is waking up to the empty promises and hollow gestures. It’s time to hold our leaders accountable, not for their words but for their actions. The future of our community depends on us demanding more—more truth, more action, and more respect for the legacy of those who fought before us.

“...it took me a long time to realize the stark differences in how Obama had been raised compared to the way I had been raised.”

— Jacqueline Session Ausby

The System of Systematic Racism

On December 4, 1969, the FBI, with the assistance of the Chicago Police Department, entered the home of a 21-year-old Black man and shot him to death while he slept. That man was Fred Hampton, a Black Panther who dared to stand against violence and injustice in America. The officers who killed Hampton were acquitted of all charges, despite overwhelming evidence confirming that they entered his apartment and fired 99 shots without cause, executing the young man in cold blood.

The actions of the FBI and Chicago police were praised by Nixon and J. Edgar Hoover, who saw individuals like Black Panther members, Malcolm X, and even Martin Luther King Jr. as the greatest threats to democracy in America. Black men who rebelled against the system of racial injustice, violence, and hatred have always been met with violence and hate. Black people—stolen from their homeland, stripped of their identity, treated like cattle, and bought and sold for profit—had to be ‘checked’ with violence. They were the commodity necessary to build a nation, and today, they continue to be viewed as such, albeit in a different form.

The prison system has become the next iteration of slavery and sharecropping. The history of using Black people for labor has been replaced by mass incarceration. Whether by design or unconscious bias, Black Americans continue to be systemically abused by a nation that touts freedom. Masters and foremen have transformed into prison wardens and guards; police officers, once slave catchers, now pursue Black individuals, subjecting them to violence or killing those they see as ‘resistors’ in cold blood. What’s tragic is that nothing has ever been done to truly address the systemic racism that keeps Black people enslaved.

Some corporations have shamelessly invested in this system of mass incarceration for cheap labor. Companies like Starbucks, Verizon, and State Farm use prison labor, yet would never consider hiring these same individuals in the open market, using their criminal records as a barrier to employment once they are released. Other corporations quietly distance themselves once exposed, never investing a dime in restitution for exploiting prisoners.

To placate Black Americans, solutions to racial injustice are almost always reduced to promises of funding for housing, healthcare, and the gold standard: education. These promises have been made repeatedly for decades, yet they remain ineffective at bridging the gap of racism. In reality, government housing is often inadequate, and healthcare in urban communities is substandard. Education or STEM programs, though well-intentioned, are designed to handpick the brightest of our children while leaving others behind, perpetuating a system where Black individuals, unable to ‘assimilate’ because of the color of our skin, become obvious targets in corporate America.

After the deaths of George Floyd and Rayshard Brooks, corporations made promises for change, and some states even offered to defund the police or reallocate funds to mental health and social programs. Promises that will never be met. Yet, they continue to avoid addressing mass incarceration.

I believe that solving the problem of racism in America requires radical change, starting with the restoration of the American Black family. It must go beyond prison reform and address the deeper issues. Funds should be dedicated to real rehabilitation. Corporations that use prison labor should be required to pay prisoners fair wages and give them equal employment opportunities once they have paid their debt to society. Prisoners should be offered the chance to earn a diploma, pursue a college degree, or, for young offenders, join the military.

This is not the 1960s; we are no longer fighting segregation. Our fight now is even more essential: it is a fight to restore our families amid the destruction of our community by gun violence, drugs, and the police. I am tired of hearing apologies from white people—apologies that don’t lead to meaningful change. Instead of promising to fund or defund yet another program designed to help the sick and poor, or another education initiative that lifts up only a token few, how about making strategic investments to restore to a nation of Black people everything that has been stolen?

EVEN THIS WEEK

This week, I’m not sure where to begin—there’s just so much in the news. The biggest topic on my mind is Israel. The Middle East is in turmoil, with Israel defending itself amid rising tensions with surrounding Arab nations. This conflict runs deeper than politics; it is rooted in complex religious and historical divisions.

In his recent address to the United Nations, Benjamin Netanyahu invoked the Bible, framing Israel’s struggle as one of biblical proportions, referencing blessings and curses. Unfortunately, his words were met with rebuke from various world leaders, including Barbados’ Prime Minister Mia Mottley, who quoted, “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord.” It felt as if the very God Netanyahu called upon—the God of both the Old and New Testaments—was being made a mockery. The significance of Jesus as a Jew, bridging both the Old and New Testaments, was notably overlooked. Israel stands as a testament to the power of the Most High, a reality often ignored in these discussions.

It seems that Arab nations are intent on eradicating an ethno-religious state simply because of its Jewish identity, all while holding firmly to their own religious beliefs. This is not merely a battle over borders or land; it’s an ideological and spiritual conflict that has raged for generations.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m watching a movie as the world spins out of control. While the Middle East burns, our televisions, phones, and other digital gadgets keep us preoccupied with materialism. America’s consumerism is like a feign for crack—we’re all addicted.

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Exploitation and Hypocrisy

A recent example is Ta-Nehisi Coates, who, after spending just two weeks in Israel and Gaza, has been presenting himself as an expert while promoting his new book, The Message. I haven’t read the book yet; it’s in my Amazon cart, and I plan on purchasing it. However, from what I’ve gathered, it seems Coates conflates the struggle for reparations for Black Americans with the Palestinian plight, seemingly exploiting it for personal gain. He’s been making the media rounds, including appearances on CNN, pushing the narrative that Israel is an ethnocentric, racist, apartheid state that must be dismantled to make way for a new Arab nation called Palestine.

Coates should be ashamed of himself. He has abandoned his advocacy for reparations to capitalize on the plight of Palestinians—all in the name of selling another book. His claims of a deep-seated desire to dismantle Israel’s so-called apartheid state ring hollow, particularly when considering Israel’s minuscule land area compared to the vast expanse of the more than 20 Arab nations surrounding it. Coates’s portrayal of Israel as a giant oppressor obscures the reality: it is a small nation surrounded by far larger Arab states.

Despite being perceived as a credible voice, particularly because he is an elite Black man, Coates’s recent narrative is troubling. The most credible voices today are often those who can sell a story—even if it’s not their own. But what happens when a Black man supports a narrative defending Israel? Or endorses Donald Trump? Suddenly, he is marginalized for not aligning with the prevailing ideology in America.

Meanwhile, Israel has decided to respond decisively against Hezbollah and Hamas, who are backed by Iran and have been bombarding them with impunity. Israel is no longer holding back, and it stands firm against Iran’s provocations. While many in the U.S. acknowledge Israel’s right and responsibility to defend itself, there are those who feign concern for the so-called innocents caught in the crossfire, conveniently ignoring the complexities of cause and effect and portraying Israel as acting unprovoked.

As Coates takes advantage of the prevailing narrative to promote his book, our President and Vice President appear indecisive. One moment, they call for the release of hostages and a ceasefire; the next, their stance shifts to a ceasefire followed by the release of hostages. These shifting positions seem more like convenient talking points than genuine expressions of concern, all while the Middle East remains engulfed in turmoil.

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For The Love of the Game

Now for my sisters and brothers, we seem to have a myriad of distractions to divert our attention from such profound issues. From crazy Jaguar Write to YSL and contraband. But let’s focus on Black politics. The Breakfast Club, this week featured a debate in Black politics between Angela Rye and Byron Donalds. Once again, Angela attempted to wield her so-called “Black girl magic” to transform a Republican’s stance as she argued fervently for Kamala Harris. But the debate didn’t go too well for her.

I tend to agree with Byron on most issues, but both Donalds and Harris often come across as little more than talking heads. Angela Rye, however, is different—she’s sharp, undeniably beautiful, but tends to view the world through rose-colored glasses. She sees things in shades of pale pink and denim, as if she’s moving through fields of poppies. In that mindset, she wasn’t prepared to take on Byron. Despite her effort, her arguments were more like talking points, lacking real substance.

Still, I can’t help but think—and mark my words—if Kamala Harris makes it to the White House, Angela will likely be her Press Secretary. And I’ll watch her take on the media with glee, picturing the neck rolls and eye-popping moments. Of course, I’m speculating, but there’s a reason Angela goes so hard for Kamala. She’s aiming for a White House job, and honestly, I can’t knock her hustle—she plays the role well.

In that debate, Byron kept hitting Angela upside the head with facts until it became literally uncomfortable. Everything Angela said was disputed; all she could do was regurgitate the same Democratic talking points we’ve been hearing ever since Kamala was given the green light.

While I like Byron Donalds’ way of thinking, I completely disagree with him on the issue of reparations. He doesn’t support them, and as I listened to his reasoning, it clicked—he’s the son of immigrants. He has no real allegiance to the American Black community except when it suits his public image. That’s why he can sit on The Breakfast Club and switch between being a first-generation Jamaican immigrant and identifying as a ADOS man.

Byron’s argument is that since no one alive today was a slave, and no slave owners remain, reparations aren’t necessary. But he’s missing a key point—America was built on the backs of enslaved people. My ancestors fought, worked, and bled for the freedom he now enjoys. They were never compensated for their labor, nor were their descendants. Despite the laws of the land, they were given nothing. America owes a debt that still remains unpaid and immigrants that come to America have no right to tell us anything different. But here’s a greater fact: he has done nothing for America himself. He works in financing and has a bad record; he is currently under investigation because of his investments, and he is a representative for a state—meaning he gets paid by the American government. He fits a certain narrative of the shrewd and fast-talking Black man. Nevertheless, one fact is true regarding Byron Donalds: reparations are not owed to him or his legacy.

Donalds represents a certain pan-African mindset—one that seeks to utilize the ADOS community without addressing the debt remains unpaid. Honestly, he’s just as bad as Kamala Harris in that regard, but his policies align more with my own, so I give him some grace.

Meanwhile, Israel bombed Lebanon.

Another Debate

Despite concerns, Americans took its eyes off Israel last week for at least 90-minutes, to watch the Vice Presidential debate that demanded more than a modicum of our attention. Now, I will say the debate felt boring and redundant. Then again, I’m sick of text messages and emails asking for donations and I am ready to vote. Yet, there’s no denying that JD Vance stole the show. He’s sharp and clean-cut, complete with a beard that slightly defies the norms—a touch of ruggedness that works for him and a nice politeness that reads consultant all day.

Walz is just comedic. He was talking, but nothing he said made any sense. Perhaps he was sending a message to his blue-collar supporters that he is really not like Kamala Harris. There were times when Walz agreed with Vance so much that I thought he could have been Vance’s running mate. His usual loud-mouthed, middle-class American jargon he kept hid behind politeness. Instead, Walz was much more compromising.

All these things happened last week as the war in the Middle East escalated to the point where the word “nuclear” is being whispered under breath.

Conflict of compassion

But the thing I really want to focus on is what I witnessed this past weekend in America. It sort of culminated in me questioning American values. It reminded me of the story of the old poor widow who gave her last. Not because the woman gave her last, but because the woman was being exploited, and Jesus saw the exploitation and pointed it out. I witnessed something along that same line that reminded me of that story.

I volunteered for a nonprofit, giving out free food at a park filled with homeless people, and it felt like I’d stepped into another movie and I was suddenly one of the characters in the film. what was odd is, I felt as if I was on the wrong side. I handed out the lettuce and I can’t tell you the guilt I felt as some asked for two knowing the rule was one only—with the caveat they could get right back in the line.

I understand to maintain order there are rules that should be followed but there’s something in the eyes of each of the people that wanted me to give them as much as they wanted. Or more than that I could see how they wished they didn’t have to be in a line. They wished for their own resources to purchase their own fruit. As I handed out the lettuce I kept a smile on my face but inside my heart wrecked in agony. I couldn’t imagine being on the opposite side of that lettuce and yet none of us are really exempt.

I see homeless people all the time working in Center City, but I rarely engage with them. Sometime I may give out change to homeless people, but Handing out food forced me to confront homelessness, poverty, mental illness, drug addiction and immigration. What shocked me most was the sheer number of people who are homeless and hungry in this country. It transcended race, culture, and background. There were whites, ADOS Blacks, Blacks—from Africa and the Caribbean—Hispanics and Asians all waiting in line, hoping to get more than one or two green bananas. They’d come through once and looped back around to get more.

One little Asian lady stood out to me. She kept coming through the line, over and over, until finally, the leader of the group told her no more. She walked away but lingered, passing by me with her little wheeled cart, repeating softly, “I am hungry.” She tried to re-enter the line again, and eventually, the leader had to ask her to move along.

The nonprofit leader, a man who appeared to be of Asian descent, was firm—almost harsh—with an elderly woman who repeatedly asked for more food. Watching their interaction, I couldn’t help but notice how much he looked like he could have been her grandson. There was something unspoken in his demeanor, a conflict between duty and empathy, as though the weight of maintaining order restrained him from showing compassion. His sternness masked a deeper, conflicted emotion, as if he was holding back from giving more than the rules allowed.

At one point, the woman lifted her cart to show that it was empty, but the leader remained resolute in his belief that she had received enough. I was struck by the irony—he wouldn’t have been there if not for people like her, yet here he was, denying her. Nonprofits, while necessary, often feel like a double-edged sword. They thrive on donations, but the people they claim to serve remain stuck in a cycle of dependence. It’s as if their struggles have become a business model, with nonprofits built on the backs of the vulnerable.

The scene in the park was a grim reminder of this uncomfortable truth. We offer food, but the system allows those we serve to be perpetually dependent on handouts. As I watched the desperate faces, I couldn’t help but recall the story of the poor widow who gave her last coin. Jesus highlighted her sacrifice to show the exploitation of the rich, who focused on the gift rather than the individual. In that park, I saw something similar. Many were not just seeking food; they were seeking recognition of their humanity.

In that moment, as I watched him hold back food, I realized that the leader wasn’t just trying to ration supplies. He, like me, was caught in the tension between doing what seems fair and what feels right. Nonprofits walk that line every day—caught between helping people in need and maintaining order in a system that often falls short. It’s this contradiction that challenges both their mission and my view of what charity should be.

Jesus said, “The poor will always be with you.” He wasn’t telling us to accept their plight as inevitable but rather urging us to pay attention. As long as humanity exists, there will be exploitation of the weak. The homeless, hungry, displaced, addicted, and mentally ill are prime material for nonprofits. That’s why organizations like UNRWA thrive—they’re like bottom feeders in a broken system.

To be clear, I’m not suggesting that American nonprofits are as wicked as UNRWA, but without proper caution and oversight, there’s a danger they could become something similar—a new version of organizations that keep women and children trapped in camps for generation in places like Sudan and Jordan.

Volunteering that day reminded me that God’s command to love our neighbor goes deeper than just doing good. It’s about giving of ourselves fully, even to the point of sacrifice. And yet, as I reflect on my own actions, I realize how far I am from truly embodying that kind of love.

In truth, that nonprofit leader was a lot like me—caught between duty and compassion, balancing the need for order with the desire to help. He was doing what he believed was right, just as I was trying to do good in my own way. But in the end, both of us held something back, afraid to give more than what was asked. That tension is something we all face: knowing we could do more, yet unsure how far we’re willing to go.

Saturday, after volunteering, I went home to a house filled with my grandkids and their parents, rushing around getting ready for a football game. The house was warm and smelled of baked chicken that had been in the oven ready for dinner when they returned. I can’t express how this simple scene filled my heart with warmth—how easy it is to take such things for granted, yet how priceless they are. That sense of happiness and satisfaction grounded me, offering a momentary reprieve from the harsh realities that exists outside. As the world continues to turn—Israel under siege, the Middle East at war, people homeless and hungry, mentally ill and addicted—I’m reminded that, just like last week, God is still in control...

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KAMALA HARRIS: The Oprah Event That Fell Flat

Kamala Harris’ recent appearance at an event hosted by Oprah Winfrey in Michigan was intended to rally support ahead of the 2024 elections, but it turned out to be a complete mess. While the format of the event was modeled after Oprah’s iconic talk show, it felt more like a staged campaign effort that missed the mark. The event featured a mix of personal testimonies from activists and celebrities and was supposed to be a conversation between Oprah and Harris discussing major issues like abortion rights, gun control, and the economy.

Although Harris took the stage alongside Oprah, the conversation wasn’t a critical exploration of her policies. Instead, it was a controlled environment designed to polish her public image. Oprah acted more like a facilitator than an interviewer, allowing Harris to deliver her talking points without much pushback. The tone was emotional, meant to connect with the audience, and framed largely around personal stories shared by the activists present.

A few months ago, I watched a documentary about Richard Nixon’s presidential campaign. One of the things that helped lead to his victory, after several campaign losses, was his decision to bring cameras into the homes of middle-class Americans. His message about ending the Vietnam War was broadcast directly into people’s living rooms, helping him secure victory in 1968—the same year I was born.

Donald Trump seems to have borrowed from that playbook. Instead of appearing in homes via television, he’s now showing up on podcasts and collaborating with influential streamers. It’s a savvy move, especially in today’s media landscape, and one that Kamala Harris has tried to replicate. However, her attempt to engage the younger generation didn’t go as smoothly. When her team reached out to popular streamer Kai Cenat, he took to social media to express his frustration, making it clear he had no interest in working with her or her campaign.

While I wouldn’t be drawn to Cenat’s style—his content doesn’t resonate with me—millions of young people follow him. Kamala likely saw his platform as a way to connect with that demographic, but her approach backfired, with Cenat publicly rejecting her overtures. Meanwhile, Trump has been successfully breaking the mold, appearing on podcasts and even attending events like the National Association of Black Journalists convention in Chicago this past August.

It’s becoming increasingly evident that Kamala Harris is struggling to stay relevant. Her recent appearance with Oprah felt like a last-ditch effort to salvage her campaign, but it fell flat. Celebrities like Chris Rock and Ben Stiller have also struggled to shine in Oprah’s orbit, and Harris was no different. Oprah’s natural charisma overshadowed Kamala, who seemed small and unpresidential next to her. Oprah’s over-the-top excitement, especially when calling out celebrities, reminded me of Effie Trinket from The Hunger Games, and the event started to feel like a real-life Reaping ceremony.

The entire thing came across as overly staged—celebrities dialed in via Zoom, and virtual attendees filled the screens. Harris’ answers felt rehearsed and shallow, and even Oprah had to frown and follow up, searching for something more substantive.

The emotional highlight of the event revolved around two tragic abortion stories from Georgia, used to underscore arguments against restrictive abortion laws. These stories involved two Black women who took abortion pills, experienced complications, and tragically passed away. However, what was glaringly absent from the conversation was the accountability of the medical providers who prescribed these pills. They gave the women medication but failed to offer the necessary follow-up care. It’s like handing someone a loaded gun and hoping they won’t shoot—but if they do, you’re quick to raise your hands, claiming no responsibility.

The narrative implied that these women had taken the pills in dangerous or unsafe conditions, but that wasn’t the case. They took them in the safety of their own homes. The issue wasn’t where they took the pills—it was the failure of their medical providers to offer proper support when complications arose. Fear of legal repercussions due to abortion restrictions drove these women to the ER, leaving them without adequate care.

This lack of accountability raises ethical questions. If agencies are willing to provide medication for a procedure restricted or illegal in certain states, they should also ensure the safety and well-being of the women who take it. Without proper safeguards, these women are left vulnerable and unsupported.

The most unsettling part of this segment was when the mother of one of the women tearfully recounted the loss of her daughter, without mentioning the twins her daughter had aborted. This wasn’t just one life lost—there were three. The absence of any acknowledgment of the twins felt disturbing. Every decision carries consequences, and there must be accountability for our actions. I cried for those women and their families, and I pray for them. I believe those babies are in a better place, but the weight of these losses cannot be ignored.

Kamala’s only strong moment came when she answered a question from a young couple about the economy. They had recently bought a home and had a baby. Like many middle-class Americans, they asked, “What will you do to help us?” Kamala mentioned her $25,000 first-time homebuyer program and her childcare tax credit for the first year of a child’s life. However, this couple wouldn’t qualify for either—by the time she might take office, they would already own a home, and their child would be too old for the credit. Oprah quickly shifted the conversation to gun violence, but the awkwardness lingered.

Kamala then mentioned that she owns a gun, which only added to the unease. The conversation again shifted back to emotional appeals about children, which felt like political exploitation. It’s disturbing how often children are used as tools in these discussions.

On immigration, Kamala’s responses were similarly vague. Immigration is a significant issue in cities like Springfield, Ohio, and across the country, but often, the legitimate concerns of local communities are dismissed as racist or irrelevant. The complexity of the issue deserves more thoughtful engagement, but the current administration has yet to offer any real solutions.

By the end of the event, I left with one thought—America is in trouble if Kamala Harris is elected president.

MORE THAN A STEREOTYPE: Navigating Corporate America while Black

Over the last couple of years, our culture has begun to collide with our corporate and business experiences in ways more divisive than anyone could have imagined. I often wonder if things will improve or if we will remain stuck in these patterns. Speaking from my experience of over 30 years in the corporate arena, I’ve faced the assumption that little could be expected of my capabilities. Yet, I have consistently exceeded expectations, outperforming my peers through countless late nights and taking on more than required.

Interestingly, I have never felt held back because of my race. The real challenge has been learning to navigate a world where behavior is paramount. Growing up in a dysfunctional community marked by violence and poverty, the adults around me were often too preoccupied with survival to teach their children how to behave in an America they only knew from afar. I’ve had to defy the low expectations placed on me as a Black woman, mastering everything from formal dining etiquette to corporate appearance standards, like wearing straight hair or braids.

The biggest difference between the 20-year-old me and the 56-year-old me is that I now understand how to be authentically myself in a world designed to create copycats and imposters—images of what “they,” whoever they are, perceive to be real. It’s a fallacy to believe that perception is reality when, in fact, reality is what is truly real.

In corporate America, the term “authentic” is overused and often misunderstood by many leaders. Authenticity is typically presented as the image of a man in a blue suit with a sharp haircut or a woman in a tailored suit with the ‘right’ heels and perfect posture. To be successful, you’re expected to learn the language, dress the part, and adhere to arbitrary rules. In other words, you have to go along to get along.

I have come to realize that if you can play these parts well—dressing the part, speaking the right language, and following the unspoken rules—then you can achieve success without merit or hard work. We live in a world where imposters are programmed and encouraged. Unfortunately, in many cases, that success becomes how people define their authentic selves. Their image of authenticity is shaped by the corporate definition of success: adhering to rigid standards of appearance, behavior, and achievement.

This flawed idea of what it means to be “real” has far-reaching consequences. It spills over into our communities, where people feel pressure to conform to certain images of success imposed by corporations whose primary goal is profit. In schools, we teach our children they can be anything they want to be, knowing full well that this isn’t always true—especially when it comes to staying true to who they authentically are. In churches, faith in God is often measured by how much you give rather than the condition of your heart. Even in our justice system, bias against those who fit a certain mold affects how individuals are treated. Now, in corporate America, we are told we must conform to societal norms because this is the direction the world is moving toward.

As a result, many of us struggle to find and embrace our true selves because we’ve been conditioned to measure our worth against these artificial standards. True authenticity, then, requires breaking free from worldly molds and redefining what success and self-expression look like on our own terms. We must do this in our communities, our schools, and our churches, as well as in corporations.

I have learned that authenticity has nothing to do with my success in Corporate America. My authentic self is rooted in the innate qualities I was naturally born with. I am a strategic thinker; I know this because I always have a plan. I am a dreamer, always looking beyond the horizon. I am wise enough to recognize that I can’t go it alone; relationships matter, not because of what they give you, but because of the wisdom you can share.

This wisdom comes from my experiences in two very different worlds. I have sat at kitchen tables, playing spades with individuals who had fed some ungodly habit, in some sinister basement or who had just shot up or smoked crack in a dark alley. Having grown up in the urban city of New Brunswick and spending over twenty years in the Grays Ferry section of Philadelphia, I have frequented dark bars and witnessed drug deals. Yet, I understand that the reality of that life never belonged to me, even though I lived in that world.

The other world I’ve encountered isn’t necessarily anti-Black; it’s simply distinct. While the food, the people, and the ideas may vary, we are all fundamentally the same at our core. The same demons dwell in high-class restaurants and hotels as those that linger in back alleys and whorehouses. Although individuals in one world may speak eloquently and engage in deep conversations, the underlying struggles and aspirations often reflect a shared humanity that transcends class and culture.

Whether I’m on a business trip in New York, visiting a play with family and friends, or exploring a museum, or dining at a restaurant, the experience is markedly different. The restaurants and hotels reflect a different atmosphere and clientele. I have also sat in meetings with high-level executives and politicians, completely aware that I am in spaces that do not reflect the world where I live and love. I have learned to adjust in both worlds, not preferring one over the other.

To be honest, there was a time when I desperately tried to shape my executive presence to fit prescribed molds, but I realized I don’t fit those clothes. To be authentic and real means embracing who I am, how I dress, where I came from, and what seats I occupy. It all manifests in my commitment to continued faith, growth, and transformation—but I move forward knowing full well that my legacy is watching me.

With this in mind, I show up with braided hair, big glasses, and dark skin, consistently affirming that many more can take these same seats. I remain true to my moral standards while navigating arbitrary rules and succeeding. ADOS Black women are intellectually capable and able to articulate effectively, even in a community designed to hold us back.

To be authentic is to reject cultural norms established by government or corporate standards. As Martin Luther King Jr. once said, to be excellent means breaking molds and not conforming to stereotypes imposed by community, culture, and, more recently, corporate ideology regarding what is right and wrong. Be ye a nonconformist.

Let me ask you: how often have you felt the pressure to conform to someone else’s standards? I remember being told that a black dress I wore to the office, with a sheer top, was inappropriate. I was twenty and working for a major bank. While that may have been true, I was a struggling single parent at the time and didn’t have many clothes. I was insulted and angry but received the comment with a smile. I went home and threw that dress in the trash, never to wear it again. Yet, I performed well—even without a college degree, I competed so effectively against those with advanced education that they were forced to recognize my capabilities. I don’t regret that precarious situation; it prompted me at twenty-eight to pursue my degree. I often reflect on this experience when I consider how I show up in corporate America. People are quick to judge based on appearances, rarely considering the circumstances of others—often because they haven’t been taught to do so.

Many corporations pretend to be woke and tout their commitment to Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI). They make promises they have no intention of keeping—commitments that are often unmeasurable yet sound appealing. Have you noticed how often corporate agendas align with superficial ideals? They present images of what it means to be “real” while treating their employees like pawns who must conform to societal moral standards or face consequences. Meanwhile, in the office, racism persists as usual. While some can navigate through, there are bottlenecks in place that effectively hinder people like me, a Black woman. I literally have three strikes against me: I am not just a Black woman, but I also disagree with the prevailing ideology that Blacks are so oppressed that we are victims. I cannot support that narrative.

As a result, we find ourselves listening to the government when it shut down America, impacting the world with a single word, while corporations demanded their employees comply. It is imperative that we challenge this status quo and redefine success on our own terms. We must forge a path that values our authentic selves over imposed standards, creating spaces where everyone can thrive without sacrificing who they truly are.

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ICONS TO BOOGEYMAN: The Dark Side of Justice in Black America

Since Bill Cosby was exposed in 2014 for initially unsubstantiated sexual allegations made by more than 60 women, mostly white, he was finally convicted of sexual abuse by Andrea Constand. Cosby allegedly gave Constand Quaaludes, in 2004, which she admits to taking consensually at first, but later led to an accusation of rape after she claimed she had been drugged. Despite the incident, Constand maintained contact with Cosby for some time. The case was initially dismissed due to insufficient evidence but was revived by the #MeToo movement. In 2021, the Supreme Court overturned Cosby’s conviction, citing a prior agreement that had granted Cosby immunity based on a sworn deposition in which he admitted to giving Quaaludes to women—not Constand. The court ruled that this agreement had been violated, leading to the conviction being voided.

The Impact on Black Men

The American Black father of our community was taken down by the claims of white women, reminiscent of the white crowds that gathered around and watched as Black men were beaten, exposed, and hung from trees. Somehow, this was acceptable. After all, didn’t Cosby give Quaaludes to women twenty years ago? Wasn’t he unfaithful to his own Black wife? Didn’t he admit to having an inappropriate sexual relationship with Constand? Cosby suddenly became Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde to the world. His crime is one that I am sure has been committed by countless men ieho frequented seedy places like the Playboy Mansion.

Consequences of #MeToo

Following Bill Cosby, the spark of the #MeToo movement has given many women the courage to claim sexual assault by high-level men in America, which has become a disease for men in general. Now, decades later, some women have used their own bodies to climb the social ladder and are now seeking to take down the villains who unknowingly hoisted them to the top.

Women in the Spotlight

We live in a world where women like Cardi B, Megan Thee Stallion, and others exploit the underworld and sell sex as part of their image. However, when love creeps in, and the sting of abusive relationships takes its toll, women from this community often must confront their lives and take account of their actions. Yet, in these moments of reflection, they may not see the consequences of their choices that contributed to their circumstances. Instead, all they recognize is the hurt, pain, and agony—placing the blame solely on men without acknowledging their own role in the situation.

The Complexity of Consent

Is the man innocent—in most cases? I can think of a few that were probably innocent: Tupac accused of rape, Mike Tyson accused of rape, Michael Jackson, and others—all accused of sexual assault of minors. Parents have placed their children in harms way and many women old enough to know better, motivated by unspoken ambition or hopes of unrealistic gain, place themselves in wolves’ houses and pretend not to understand that a wolf will attack. The tears and perceptions of their circumstances are now warped. They willingly take pills, go to hotel rooms, or locker rooms, and sacrifice their own souls, only to jump on the #MeToo train years later.

Patterns of Repetition

How is it possible that these circumstances manifest repeatedly? Sean Combs’ most recent troubles are an example. But before I get there, I want to say that I believe some African Americans have committed heinous crimes so egregious they deserve to spend the rest of their lives in prison. R. Kelly is one. I believe Black parents put their children in harm’s way, and I believe Kelly exploited one young girl so badly that for that crime alone, he should have suffered the death penalty. R. Kelly is the type of victim that should pay for his crimes, but even in his case, there were women old enough to know better.

Complicity and Responsibility

Women like his wife pretend to know nothing about what Kelly had going on, yet she comes off as if she is some wise woman mentally abused by Kelly. Then there are those other women who lived in the house in Atlanta, who ignored what Kelly was doing to those young girls and said nothing. Some left without reporting what was happening inside that house to the police.

In the R. Kelly case, I believe not only was Kelly guilty, but his bodyguard and staff, along with many of those women in that house, were complicit in what happened to those young girls. Now they sit around as if they were victims, having had no responsibility or duty to go to the police, but they understood they would receive no reward. They were just other women in the maddening crowd, willing to sacrifice their bodies for a come-up.

Sean Combs and the Media Narrative

Now, regarding Sean Combs’ recent events, one of my favorite CDs back in the day resonates with me even now, is PressPlay. The soundtrack captured the emotional rollercoaster I had been on in my life. The language in those songs tapped into the struggles of my generation, we had to build families in a world designed to hold us back. But the pain of that struggle is captured in that soundtrack.

Now there is the reality of the lives of pop stars or stars in general that crosses racial lines. There is an underbelly of silence around what it takes to get there and what you are willing to sacrifice. In the rap world back in the nineties, what started off as a manifestation of urban life revolutionized into a world of violence and sexual abuse.

The Culture of Exploitation

Suddenly, ADOS women became whores and bitches, the kind that lived in project houses, receiving WIC and food stamps, and willing to sacrifice their souls for a gangster. Today, we teach our children the value of using their bodies to achieve goals. To be clear, if that is your game, I am not knocking your hustle. However, when you play that game, let’s not pretend that you have nothing to lose.

Case Study: Ayanna Jackson

Case in point: Ayanna Jackson, the woman who claimed she had been sexually assaulted by Tupac. When you hear her story, you reflect on the desperation of a woman. She admits she wanted to have sex with Tupac, and while in the middle, two other men came into the room and started taking her clothes off, yet she continued having sex with Tupac. After he finished, he got up and left, and she had sex with the two others. She accused Tupac of rape. She went to an apartment with five men, the only female, went into a bedroom, and never once thought to leave. She consented, even after being undressed by the two other men that entered. She made a sacrifice of her own self, and when confronted with the reality that she was a booty call, she couldn’t handle that fact, so she cried rape.

Shifting Perspectives

I would have placed Diddy in the category of Black brothers like Tupac back when I was listening to PressPlay, but the media has now shifted my opinion with the release of the hotel video showing Sean Combs beating Cassie in that hotel hallway. In the court of public opinion, he is guilty and all other allegations of sexual assault or manipulation and exploitation have led to the takedown of another boogeyman. Without question, we believe the narrative that Sean Combs is a monster.

The RICO Charges

Now he is indicted on RICO charges—the new term for the takedown of Black criminals. There is no responsibility placed on the backyard players—those who walked the streets, talked the talk, and created environments where strippers and groupie whores get to work. Sex sells; the secret is, who’s buying?

Men go to strip clubs every day. It’s big business in every way, and we act as if women are clothed in nun uniforms handing out candy. When we know these women are selling sex and men are buying. We act as if drugs and violence don’t go hand in hand with sex, knowing full well they do.

The Price of Fame

I will say this: I don’t believe rappers just die, use drugs, or go mentally insane on their own. I believe it’s a slow process inflicted by managers, handlers, and so-called friends. When Kanye rants about what has happened to him, he may sound mentally unhinged, but the streets don’t lie. People with greedy motives love to exploit American Black artists. Across the board, from movies to music, the entertainment industry direct souls straight to the gates of hell. Many Black artists, once on top find themselves falling fast. It’s not always about race, but the reality is that there are so few Black stars at the top that when one falls, it crashes onto our community.

There is a pattern of exploitation of stars, and unfortunately, many—particularly Black men—fall prey to a lifestyle that thrives in the underworld.

They live in a place where they feel untouchable. Without caution, or regard they expose themselves in videos, phone conversations, cameras, text messages, and on social media, all the while believing they won’t get caught.

The Role of Social Media

To be fair, both white men and Black men alike are being found out because of social media. It has become the beast used to expose every secret and reveals every lie. Money had been the tool used to hold back the masses but today one bad night captured on film or audio becomes your death sentence, hence Diddy and Cassie in that hallway.

Clearly, social media trumps money, as we see Diddy paying Cassie to keep her silence, but she relented, and the hotel tape was mysteriously released. Diddy should have remained silent, but his own response video, may be used in the RICO case against him.

The Bigger Picture

I wonder about this RICO situation, especially as it relates to the case against YSL. YSL is being prosecuted under RICO in Atlanta, drawing a frenzy of media coverage. The incidents in that case can only be described as enlightening, spectacular, and at times bizarre—providing a fascinating glimpse into the world of corruption. Yet, there’s something to be said about the way both the media and our judicial system are prosecuting men, often for simply being men.

I don’t believe the court has proven Young Thug is guilty of any crime, but all this will undoubtedly lead to movies, podcasts, and interviews. I can see the same happening to Diddy. He has been accused of so many things and exploited for so long—why not let the media take its course?

I can’t say whether Diddy is guilty of human trafficking, drug dealing, or any of the other allegations. In this country, every person is innocent until proven guilty. But what’s clear is that he’s a deeply insecure Black man, trapped in a world devoid of love. He has sought love in the faces of women with bright skin, and his one true love, dark-skinned, died under mysterious circumstances.

What this all means is that we will wait and see. This case, like many before it, will be covered by the media, dissected in podcasts, and eventually become the subject of movies and books—all focused on the creation and demise of yet another boogeyman.

THE NOT SO GREAT DEBATE

Like millions of Americans, last week I watched the 2024 Presidential debate, and like millions more, I watched it on CNN. I wasn’t surprised that the pundits on the CNN panel sided with all things Kamala, especially given the media rhetoric ever since she stepped up to the plate and hit Joe Biden in the head with a bat. What I didn’t expect was the blatant bias from the moderators, who claim to be objective journalists. The debate wasn’t just a clash of policies but a striking example of media manipulation, leaving many, including myself, questioning the integrity of both the candidates and the moderators.

I didn’t expect much from Kamala Harris’s fellow sorority sister, Linsey Davis. Her scowl during the introduction and that gray, untouchable pinstriped outfit suggested she was on a mission to take down Trump. After the debate, Davis admitted to reporters that she fact-checked Trump because the moderators had failed to do so during his debate with Biden. There goes journalistic integrity.

David Muir, the other moderator, is a respected journalist—Trump even praised him for his reporting on the Afghanistan withdrawal. Yet, he showed bias. Muir set aside his integrity and used debate tactics to make Trump stumble. Whenever Trump was on point and stating facts, Muir interrupted him constantly. In contrast, when Trump went off the rails, Muir allowed him to speak freely. This pattern was consistent throughout the debate, and Muir never applied the same tactic against Kamala Harris.

It’s clear that CNN is biased in favor of Kamala Harris. Meanwhile, Donald Trump had one primary task: to behave. He managed to stay composed and even delivered memorable lines, like reminding Harris, “I’m speaking now—remember that,” referencing her debate with Mike Pence. However, many of Trump’s one-liners were glossed over by the left-leaning media. When Trump confronted Harris with harsh truths, she often deflected with name-calling. Whenever Trump spoke directly, the media intervened to fact-check him and protect Harris.

The bias wasn’t limited to interruptions and selective fact-checking. It extended into sensitive policy discussions, particularly on abortion.

SPOTLIGHT

One of the most contentious topics discussed was abortion, where Kamala Harris delivered what could be seen as her standout moment—at least, for certain voters. Her key selling point to the American Black community. Harris had promised a $6,000 child tax credit for first-time parents, offered $25,000 to first-time and first-generation homebuyers, and providing $50,000 to first-time business owners. Yet, when it comes to the Black community, her focus seems to be on reproductive rights—specifically, abortion. The narrative is that no one should have to travel alone to terminate a pregnancy.

Linsey Davis fact-checked Trump on the topic of abortion, particularly late-term abortions. Trump stated he does not support late-term abortions, but Kamala Harris would. When Trump mentioned cases where babies survived attempted abortions and were then terminated, Kamala dismissed it with laughter, treating it as if it were a conspiracy theory. To be clear, there have been discussions about how to handle babies born alive after an attempted abortion. Virginia Governor Ralph Northam once suggested that such babies should be terminated, and Governor Tim Walz supports similar policies in his state. However, the left often dismisses these discussions as absurd, ignoring the reality that such cases can and do occur. Whether legally or illegally, what happens when a baby survives an attempted abortion?

A few years ago in Philadelphia, a doctor was convicted for terminating three babies who were born alive. So, when Linsey Davis fact-checked Trump and claimed, “there is no state in this country where it is legal to kill a baby after it’s born,” she was playing semantics and being misleading. While it may not be legally sanctioned, the reality is that such things happen.

Harris stated that people should let their own religious or moral convictions guide them, which gives me the right to speak according to mine. In any nation, under any sun, childbirth is the epitome of love. It’s one of the most spiritual experiences when two people unite and create another soul. However, sex and sexual desires have been exploited since the time of Eve. There’s a reality in all things: good and bad, and we are aware of this distinction. Life is good—God said so. Questioning how anything is created or determining its outcome is like playing God. Man is incapable of creating life—according to science, we can’t even figure out how to create a single cell that can produce life. All man can do is destroy life. Yet here the Democrats are, promoting the idea that it’s acceptable, under certain circumstances, to decide who lives and who dies.

The entire debate on when life begins reminds me of Satan asking, “Did God really say…?” People claim a fetus is not a life, but the Bible tells me that life is in the blood, and since a baby in the womb is connected to blood, that makes it a life. Life begins even before it is perceived. Any other conversation is a lie.

Name Calling

Kamala started the debate by stating Trump is going to lie, call names, and make false allegations. But everything she claimed Trump would do is exactly what she had to do to win this debate. Unable to stand on her own record and return facts, she resorted to name-calling. “You’re a disgrace.” Imagine if Trump had turned to Kamala and said, “You climbed the ladder on Willie Brown’s lap.” He would have been labeled a bigoted white supremacist and smeared across liberal media.

Kamala, on the other hand, was given permission to play the “angry Black woman” role and take Trump down. She started by referencing the 34 counts against him and mentioned that he was liable for sexual assault. From there, she brought military generals into her corner, even claiming an endorsement from Dick Cheney. Talk about bad name-dropping—nobody cares that Cheney endorsed Harris.

Trump, meanwhile, had no reason to go low. As Michelle Obama said, he went high. He focused on Harris’s policies instead: immigration, inflation, and the Biden-Harris economics now renamed the “Opportunity Economy.”

The Conflict

Harris knows her issue: America has two administrations to compare. We know Trump’s record—his four-year presidency, which in no way compares to the madness of the last three years. There were times when CNN cast Trump and Harris side by side, giving the world an opportunity to compare two sides of a coin.

During Trump’s presidency, he stood up for American values on the world stage, taking out enemies like Iran’s Soleimani. Under the Biden-Harris administration, groups like the Houthis have become emboldened to attack U.S. military bases and ships. Under Biden-Harris, three Black Americans were killed on a base in Jordan. Yet Harris claims no Americans are at war, failing to recognize that millions of Americans are in harm’s way. We understand our military officers remain vulnerable because of the weakness of this current administration.

Identity Politics—Again

Harris was so desperate to prove she is with American Blacks that she invoked the story of the Central Park Five and Trump’s op-ed. To be clear, that case is more about the failings of the justice system than about Trump himself. Many in Black America didn’t believe they were guilty, but then, to our disappointment, they pleaded guilty. This is a sad story for the ADOS community, and Harris has no shame in exploiting it to make herself look like she’s down for our cause and to condemn Trump. If Harris were wise, she’d stop reopening old wounds in the ADOS community to push her narratives.

Race

This brings me to my final point: Kamala Harris’s race. I’ve said this before—Kamala is not Black in the sense of having lineage to American Black descendants of slaves (ADOS). When she references the Civil Rights Movement, Jim Crow, segregation, or slavery, she is not speaking from her own legacy but is misappropriating the history of ADOS. However, she gets away with this because people with darker skin, who migrated here recently without ties to the legacy of slavery in America, label her as Black. They mean her skin is dark, but Kamala is not African American in the ADOS sense. She has no direct Black blood; her lineage traces to Irish and Indian ancestry, not Africa.

Whenever questioned about her race, Kamala avoids directly claiming to be African American or a descendant of slaves. I understand the parallel to how Trump repeatedly questioned Obama’s birthplace, prompting him to release his birth certificate. However, Obama is also not ADOS. Kamala now uses that story to divert attention from her background. She knows the ADOS community is aware of the difference, so she avoids making explicit claims. Instead, she laughs and conflates the issue, knowing that such a claim could create a massive divide. By not addressing this directly, she skirts around accusations of cultural appropriation for political gain.

Fact Checked

After the debate, CNN labeled Trump a liar. They claimed Trump lied 33 times and Kamala only once. Kamala’s first answer was a big fat lie. Throughout the debate, all she did was gaslight. It’s Trump’s fault the economy is in shambles, inflation is high, energy costs are skyrocketing, the border is out of control, the Afghanistan withdrawal was disastrous, and the wars in the Middle East are all Trump’s fault. All lies.

Daniel Dale fact-checked only one of Kamala Harris’s misleading statements during her appeal to the American people for a second chance with the economy, despite many middle-class Americans struggling due to her policies. However, Dale overlooked many more significant inconsistencies during her debate, like her stance on fracking, immigration, Medicare for all, and even her stance on race.

DAHTRUTH

Trump’s comments on abortion and other topics were met with severe media scrutiny, while Harris’s remarks, including those about immigration and crime, were presented uncritically. Harris’s attempts to distance herself from Biden’s record were undermined by her inability to defend against the realities of two different presidencies. Her failure to address her own background and her reliance on scripted responses further exposed her shortcomings.

Despite CNN’s attempts to highlight Harris’s strengths, Trump’s performance revealed a lack of substantive plans from Harris. Her criticisms of Trump’s handling of the economy and public health were countered by Trump’s own record and the current state of the country. Harris’s campaign, characterized by emotional appeals and a lack of concrete policy proposals, stands in contrast to Trump’s focus on economic achievements and criticisms of current administration policies.

As the nation watches and waits, we are left not with the clarity or truth we deserve, but with a charade masquerading as a debate. Yet, we remain hopeful and steadfast. Just as Samuel anointed Saul and Elisha wept knowing Hazael would be king, so too must we seek guidance and trust in the outcome. Our eyes are wide open, and in God we place our faith. Let His will be done.

https://www.ncregister.com/news/tim-walz-born-alive-abortion?amp

SEARCHING FOR REAL LOVE IN THE BLACK COMMUNITY

When I want to tune out from high-vibrational activities like reading the Bible, painting, or writing another blog no one else will probably ever read, I will turn to more visceral activities just to pass the time. Lately, I’ve been watching the YSL trial and podcasts like Shannon Sharpe’s, “Club Shay Shay” and Cam Newton’s, “Funky Friday.” There’s something to be said about Black men providing digital content for the American Black community that’s both engaging and entertaining. But the more American Black men show up in the media, the more I realize that something feels off, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until I watched Cam Newton’s recent podcast with the renowned Relationship expert, Dr. Cheyenne Bryant.

I like “Funky Friday,’ better than “Club Shay Shay,” because Cam is more introspective. Shannon’s podcast is strictly for entertainment purposes. The show is filled with gossip and big personalities who have the opportunity to lick their wounds and pour out their heart to settle scores on Shannon’s couch while sipping on his premium cognac. But Cam’s topics seem to resonate with people in the Black community who’ve maintained a certain level of success and now want to gloat about their success while telling you the journey they took to get there.

I’ve listened to guests like Charleston White, who strategically explained how to transition from the gangsta life to the life of a community activist, and Iyanla Vanzant, an American inspirational speaker who worships false gods and speaks with a sound of credibility. There is some depth to these discussions, but the conversations reveal some other hidden issues—many of these digital media platforms are rooted in bad behavior. There’s a rebelliousness that defies structural norms, and it manifests in the lives of these men—especially those American Black men from the South like Shay Shay and Cam.

Shay Shay is an unmarried Black man with three children, all the same age, by three different mothers. His sexual orientation has been questioned, but he still presents himself as an alpha male. The kind who hides his truth in the closet, unwilling to face it. Cam, on the other hand, is an unmarried man with eight kids by three different women. His sexual prowess is obvious essential to his identity.

During slavery, Black men were forced to watch as their families were torn apart, and it seems like that disregard for family persists today. It’s become normalized for Black men to father multiple children with different women, without any sense of responsibility toward building a stable family. Cam, a self-proclaimed Christian, has taken on this “alpha male” image to the extreme—he’s more committed to his image than to the lives of his own children. He embodies the persona of Legba, the Haitian loa, with his long trench coats, tall hats, cigars, and a bottle of brown liquor in hand.

In his most recent episode with Dr. Cheyenne Bryant, I found myself disheartened by the display. There were two successful Black people, both high achievers, still struggling with relationships and behavioral issues, as they pretended to be experts.

At first, I was vibing with Dr. Bryant as she introduced herself and reflected on her personal status. Her advice, to the women watching was a mix of Mary J. Blige’s, No More Drama and Lauryn Hill’s sophomore Album, wrapped in a Black boogie-down agony that defines black love. Dr. Bryant revealed she is still in search of love, just like Cam. She speaks about being a “high-value” woman, deserving of a “high-value ” man, because she has been successful, she has survived much, and grew up with disfunction in her family structure. She has achieved great and now she is in search of a “high-value” man to match her “level.” Though she uses fancy terminology to describe her wants it all boils down to she wants a man that can provide for her materially and emotionally—because that is what she has to offer to any man. In her mind love is that image in the picture frame of the happy family standing in front of a beautiful house with a white picket fence, a few children, marketing lies whitewashing love with money and status. Love isn’t about how fly you dress or how much money you have and is certainly not about meeting arbitrary standards.

Cam too, sees himself as “high-value” and this can’t be denied given his determination, success and wealth. It’s been displayed for the world to see through social media. His performance as a football hero, although tainted by a few missteps and his net worth is indeed respectable. He pretends to be a family man, as he boasts of his eight kids and three baby mamas—and he is ready to add more to his “collection.” His focus is not on loving one woman, according to him his fear of divorce is greater than his desire for marriage. Instead he spreads himself in pretend family structures one over here and another over there. He is searching for that next beauty-chick to spawn another seed and has little time to consider the impact his behavior has on his own children.

I think about a story I know—it is what I would described as being in a loving relationship. There’s this guy I know that is in love with his childhood sweetheart. His sweetheart is a crack addict. She was beautiful once, but years of addiction have taken their toll. She is tired, beat down, toothless and pimped out. Once I asked him why he still lovers her, he said, “I see her the same today as when we were kids.” That’s love. It’s not about appearances, status, or fitting into a certain mold. Love just is.

As I listened to Cam and Dr. Bryant debate back and forth, it struck me how immature they both were. They kept talking about “high-value” people as if love can be measured in dollars, looks, or status. But love is not so decisive or predictable. Individuals may have an idea of what love looks like, and you try to find it out there in this world—but there are countless disappointments. Finding a love is like searching for a needle in a haystack, especially when you have a fraudulent list of what that looks like.

Dr. Bryant mentioned she’s been in several relationships and has turned down marriage proposals, but still, she would consider dating a 27-year-old “high-value” man at 41. A serious red flag: warning, warning. She is so desperate for this image of love that she would step down to coddle a boy. The only caveat is he has to be “high-value,” as if that is something tangible.

Cam and Dr. Bryant are both caught up in this idea that being “high-value” is the key to building a successful relationship. They overlook all the work, love, laughter, fights, and sacrifices that establish the foundation for any relationship. But love doesn’t work like that. It’s not a respecter of status, and it’s not something you can buy or negotiate. Love is about sacrifice, and you don’t know that you’re in love until you are already in action—turning it on or off is not allowed when you fall in love. To present this on a podcast by two individuals who are clearly broken and searching is odd—but we live in a world where experience is no longer the best teacher and inexperience is valid if it comes with accolades and wealth. Many individuals from the Black community often seek definitions and advice from social media influencers who lack substance, resulting in guidance that is impractical.

The challenge narratives like Cam and Dr. Bryant presents is this idea that you will eventually find a “high-value” relationships that brings you a certain level of happiness—if you yourself have your morals and values together. As if opposites don’t attract. People will grasps onto this misleading narrative as they enter relationship after relationship with false expectations. If you want to find real love, I would suggest reading, James Baldwin’s, If Beale Street Could Talk—then you will discover what real love is about. In that story, Tish stands by Fonny, who is accused of a heinous crime, even though he has nothing to offer but his love. That’s real sacrifice. That’s real love.

Cam and Dr. Bryant, and others like them, are missing the point. They’re leaders in our community, but the example they’re setting is one based on superficiality. Their focus on finding “high-value” people misses the deeper truth: love isn’t about wealth, status, or image. Love just is.

THE HARRIS/WALZ INTERVIEW | Recycled Policies and Weak Leadership

Over the last three years, I have struggled to pay for gas, electricity, and groceries on my corporate salary. I believe I am what most would describe as middle-class. I work for a major corporation, own my home, have a moderate amount of savings, and drive a mid-level luxury vehicle. I am fortunate to share a home with my son, daughter-in-love, and my grandchildren. In this environment, we can support each other, and although I don’t like asking for help, as a widow, it’s good to know that I can get assistance if needed. That’s my situation, but it hasn’t been the same for many middle-class Black Americans in our community. I have heard story after story of high prices, soaring electric bills, and the fear of losing jobs. I know many who have taken second jobs just to survive and others who lost jobs and couldn’t find another in the same field with the same income. People are slipping from the middle class to the bottom in droves.

Listening to Kamala Harris in her first interview on CNN Thursday night, in a sit-down with Dana Bash, my initial impression was: stop it! She just can’t go big on big—she is no President, though she pretends to be presidential. This interview with Kamala came at a pivotal point in her run for the highest office In the land, as the nation grapples with various crises—from inflation and immigration to wars. The media, in the days leading up to the interview, speculated whether Harris would finally break free from the shadow of Biden and present herself as a strong, independent leader. The Democratic party’s expectations were high; many anticipated that this would be her opportunity to clarify her vision for the country and assert her leadership—but she failed.

That move to add Tim Walz to the interview was bad. It belied the strong, tough, prosecutor persona Democrats have tried to create over the last few months and attempted to solidify at the DNC. It was just a few weeks ago at her rallies that Harris called out Trump, saying, “Say it to my face,” yet she couldn’t even take on Dana Bash alone. If she intended to present herself as strong, she should have left the coach on the bench. Walz had no business on the field. He reminded me of a father in the principal’s office because his daughter was in trouble. It was disturbing to see him sitting there looking down over his shoulder, as Kamala, tried to explain away the failure of what has happened over the last three years.

According to Harris, everything from immigration to the failing economy is Donald Trump’s fault. She claims she’s going to move America forward and create the change America is craving and deserves—without acknowledging her current role and direct impact in the challenges facing our nation. She has nothing to offer except an array of liberation slogans. But everything she said was in step with Biden’s plan for America. Her policies—from climate to immigration to the economy to foreign affairs—will now be known as “Opportunity Economics,” but they represent the same failed Democratic policies that have nearly crippled our nation over the last three-plus years.

As far as the interview goes, it felt uncomfortable—they seemed crowded in the space. Also, Kamala looked a lot older, with bags beneath her eyes, which surprised me considering all the recent debates around age and stamina. She looked tired and small, sitting next to Santa in a blue suit.

Kamala answered no questions. From the start: “What is the first thing you will do if elected President?” her answer—or should I say non-answer—had something to do with hope, change, opportunity, and the middle class. The answer was all mixed together in a bowl and sprinkled with heavy verbiage. Left-leaning pundits, including Bill Maher, had to come to Kamala’s defense and confirmed Dana Bash’s question was stupid. So much for there are no stupid questions. The question may have been stupid and predictable, yet Kamala had no answer.

False Campaign Promises

Child tax credit

Having botched the first question, Harris went on to not explain her plan to extend the child tax care credit to $6,000 per taxpayer for the first year of a child’s life while extending the current tax credit of $3,600 per child tax credit. It’s interesting how her plan offers child tax credits while simultaneously promoting abortions. It’s akin to giving weapons to your ally to defend itself while at the same time feeding their enemy. Notably, JD Vance has said he would support a $5,000 per child tax credit, giving no special preference to the first year of a child’s life. All children matter.

First Time Buyer

Kamala Harris’s homeownership plan, which includes support for first-time and first-generation homebuyers, it reminds me of the Obama administration’s homebuyer tax credit. While Obama’s policy aimed to boost homeownership, it actually contributing to inflated housing prices and market distortions. Harris’s plan risks repeating these same issues. But just for shits and giggles let us consider.

A homebuyer knowing there’s a $25,000 cushion might be inclined to raise the price of their home, potentially inflating home values or creating another housing bubble. Additionally, her proposal doesn’t seem to prioritize the interests of the ADOS middle-class community. To start, in 2021, approximately 82% of first-time homebuyers were White, while only 7% were Black. Among those receiving federal rental assistance, according to HUD, approximately 27% are African American. When considering all housing programs (e.g., USDA, Section 8, Vouchers), 45% of those receiving rental assistance are African American. Many within this community have little hope of acquiring sufficient resources to consider homeownership, while landlords continue to build wealth in the form of equity. White Americans benefit from the credit, while Black Americans, especially Black women, continue to pay landlords. Once again, the Black lower-class community is left behind with little opportunity to break the cycle of poverty.

Instead of giving special benefits to first-time homebuyers or first-generation buyers, how about providing ADOS women who are receiving housing assistance with that $25,000 credit to purchase a home? Additionally, we could use the potential rental assistance the government would have spent over a ten-year span as proceeds to help them buy the same home. This approach would directly benefit those least served in the community—and could be part of a broader reparations solution.

Moreover, by focusing the $25,000 tax credit on first-generation homebuyers, Harris’ policy will effectively exclude my ADOS sons from benefiting. Having struggled to purchase and maintain my home, it now becomes a stumbling block for both my sons, as they won’t qualify for the benefit because I am a homeowner. Meanwhile, every immigrant who comes to America could potentially purchase a home as a first-time, first-generation homebuyer—just as Kamala’s mother benefited—while my mother, a descendant of slaves, former Mississippi sharecropper, lived in Section-8 housing and worked three jobs.

Harris’s plan would use American tax dollars contributed by citizens like myself who have lived here all our lives and have participated in this quest for the American dream.

Border crisis

Harris talks about moving forward without recognizing that sometimes you have to step back to move forward. Having failed to secure the border for the last 3 1/2 years and unable to develop any policy of her own, she has now promised to sign the Senate Republican-led bill, H.R. 29 - Border Safety and Security Act of 2023. The question many are pondering is why haven’t Biden and Harris done anything since January 20, 2021.

Since Biden/Harris stepped into office Immigrants have put a strain on our communities. Individuals are flown, trained, or bused into our neighborhoods use resources meant for our own communities, with no accountability and no contribution. Democrats argue that illegal immigrants are not violent, yet we see police beatdowns in NYC and Chicago, murders in our border cities, an influx of drugs, and child trafficking and a host of individuals that feel as if they can take from the bank having deposit absolutely nothing. Only in America could Palestinians claim to hate this country, while standing on our soil with green cards and begging us for embargo’s. We have watched as immigrants from Caribbean nations have come to this country, manipulated the system, and even took over vacant properties. In recent weeks, there have been numerous news stories about illegal immigrants taking over apartment complexes and school buses. All this is the result of Biden and Harris’s failed immigration policy. Now, Harris wants us to give her a second chance.

What is worse is knowing all these things, the ADOS community is one of her biggest supporters and has backed Democratic policies for decades, even though we have not benefited. The ignorance is surreal—for real.

Flip flop on fracking

If that’s not strange, consider she is for the Green New Deal and fracking—at the same time. I don’t know much about energy, except they don’t seem to go together. She was once against fracking and has been on video saying she doesn’t support it, but now she is all for it. In fact, she criticized Biden for supporting fracking during the 2020 debate in South Carolina, where she performed so poorly she dropped out of the 2020 Presidential race. But now, she claims to be in support of fracking without having increased her knowledge on the topic.

The Harris administration, as part of the broader Biden-Harris agenda, has significantly shifted U.S. energy policy towards clean energy, leading to cuts in support for fossil fuels. The Biden/Harris Administration reduced new oil and gas leasing on federal lands, cut subsidies for fossil fuel companies, enforced stricter regulations on coal plants, and redirected federal funding from traditional energy projects to renewable energy initiatives. All these changes have sparked debate over potential impacts on energy costs and independence.

Let’s be clear: my electric and gas bills have tripled, and this is a direct result of Biden/Harris policies. This year alone, I’ve spoken to countless people who have had their electricity turned off and, like me, struggle to pay the electric and gas bills. It’s a real issue, caused by Biden and Harris’s rush to embrace clean energy while China drills a hole in the earth’s crust. It’s maddening, and the people sitting at home in the dark, scrounging for groceries and rent money, or banding together to hold things down, are suffering the most—yet they are the main ones who will vote Democrats into office.

Plan for Inflation

Harris doubled down on her plan to go after corporations that practice price gouging in an attempt to reduce inflation. It’s an inflated hoax. She wants America to believe that her “Opportunity Economics” is different from Bidenomics by telling you nothing different. But every word salad she used included aspects of current Democratic policies. She merely rebranded the same Democratic policies with a corney name. What does “Opportunity Economics” even mean.

In an attempt to define her policy, she tossed together a mix of ideas that expand social safety nets, increase government intervention in the economy, and focus on climate change initiatives. While these are well-intentioned goals, the problem isn’t the need for opportunity but the failure to create a sustainable pathway for the middle class and poor communities to grow.

All the other talk about lowering prescription medications for seniors so they are paying only $2,000 a year. My thought is, how about not giving our resources to other countries and providing free prescriptions for American seniors? And her lie that their administration cut poverty by 50% while excluding 2021. What she doesn’t mention is poverty is now up 12% when it was only 9% under Trump.

LEFT OUT

She offered nothing to help middle-class Americans that already own their homes and have been around long enough to remember how we had to tighten the reins to save the housing crisis, and how we had to buckle down during COVID and the manufacturing crises, and how things seemed to be improving—we were headed in the right direction and then came Biden/Harris.

Absent from her conversation was any mention of the ADOS community. But when asked about her race, she refused to answer that question—who are you. She declined to speak on her lineage and pretended what Trump had done by questioning her race was outlandish—when the ADOS community have been asking that same question since she came on the scene. Her refusal to admit who she is speaks to her character—she would rather you believe a lie than reveal the truth that she is NOT Black, i.e., in the words of Glenn Loury, “she does not share the African American historical heritage.” She could have ended the conversation by admitting the truth—but instead, she just blamed Trump.

She has run around calling herself African American for decades. She went on the Breakfast Club during her previous run, and called herself an African American who smoked weed and listens to Snoop. But when asked before the entire nation, she refused to make that proclamation and speak her truth. Kamala is not a descendant of a slave—her family owned slaves.

This dissonance between her public persona and her personal background raises questions about her authenticity and her commitment to addressing the unique challenges faced by the ADOS community.

Coach

Now, I would be remiss if I left out the elephant in the room, Tim Walz. All I can say is, wow. Like Harris, he used the same strategy—redirecting every question back to Donald Trump and JD Vance. Walz has lied about his military record, point-blank. One would think that a man in line for Vice President, who has already been caught in one lie, wouldn’t tell another lie on stage at the DNC and get busted again. He claimed his child was conceived through IVF, but it turned out that wasn’t true. It was some other form of fertility treatment—though they never specified what form. Seeing a VP candidate cover up something he didn’t have to lie about speaks to his character. It aligns with his record as a leader, like sitting back and watching as Minnesota burned. His wife even boasted that, as the city burned, she opened the window to smell the scent of the tires.

This man had a DUI while he was a teacher, lied about his military service, and lied to the American people about reproductive rights to evoke emotions from the crowd. He’s like a fat, greasy preacher who pretends to do good while stealing your vote with a bright coach smile.

What became clear to me last week is, Kamala Harris and Tim Walz are weak, lying leaders trying to masquerade as strong leaders. They fail to address the real issues facing middle-class Americans, particularly American Blacks. Instead, they offer recycled policies, empty rhetoric, and a refusal to confront the truth about their own records. They speak of progress and moving forward, but all I see is a return to the same failed policies that have brought us to this point.

As a member of the middle class, I am not convinced. I’m tired of the lies, the avoidance, and the lack of accountability. We deserve leaders who will genuinely fight for our interests, not ones who merely pretend to understand our struggles while continuing to push the same old agenda. Perhaps that person is not Trump—maybe we get Trump and redirect in 2028. But the time for change is right now, and that means voting the current Democratic Party out of office.