CEO FOR PRESIDENT

Whenever I write, I start with where I grew up. Our stories are the foundation of who we become, shaping our perspectives, our decisions, and ultimately our legacy. Most people know that I enjoy Cam Newton’s podcast, Funky Friday, and last week’s episode was a breath of fresh air with John Hope Bryant as his guest. I couldn’t help but recognize the essence of a CEO running through every word John Hope spoke. Listening to their conversation, I was reminded of the CEO Labs at Deloitte, where I sat in rooms with executives, hearing their strategies, their story and their vision for leadership. These weren’t just business discussions; they were blueprints for success, built on ownership, calculated risks, and long-term vision.

John Hope Bryant is the epitome of a successful CEO. He is the rainbow we find after a storm—a reminder that despite setbacks, resilience and strategy can lead to something greater. As I listened to John Hope Bryant speak I realized the same framework used in executive transitions labs at use as he told us his CEO story.

John Hope Bryant started the conversation by talking about how his family built generational wealth, and that resonated with me instantly. In my late twenties, I realized the importance of owning my own home. After my grandmother passed away, I watched as her children allowed the family property to be lost. I saw firsthand the tragedy of not securing what previous generations had built. That experience shaped me more than anything. It made me determined to own my own home. By the time I was 32, I had accomplished that goal, understanding that true economic freedom starts with ownership.

But what I’ve come to realize is that, for most of my life, I never truly had economic freedom. That realization didn’t hit me until after my husband passed. And even now, to say I am “free” wouldn’t be entirely true. But as Bryant alluded to in his conversation, freedom isn’t just about having money. It’s about understanding that life isn’t meant to be lived passively. You have to be intentional every day, preparing for the future and ensuring your legacy isn’t left in financial ruin. Before my husband’s death, I never fully thought about these things. Now, I see that true freedom isn’t about accumulating wealth or chasing status. It’s about laying a foundation that will outlive you.

Listening to Cam Newton’s podcast with John Hope Bryant, I kept thinking about what makes a leader. Bryant’s words had the cadence of a CEO, and when I heard him speak, it gave me goosebumps. I appreciated the way he articulated his plan and how he weaves it all together with his story. As I reflected on the way executives shaped their stories into movements, I noticed without a doubt Bryant was doing the same thing. The question is—how far will he take it?

Bryant was introspective as he reflected on his upbringing, speaking about the language of his community and the struggles of being an American Descendant of Slavery (ADOS). He acknowledged that wealth in America has historically been out of reach for Black people, yet his grandparents and ancestors still found ways to build businesses against all odds. His mother owned seven properties. Now, he owns 700. That is generational wealth in action, proof that economic power is built over time, not overnight.

After reflecting on his past, he shifted to his strengths and the opportunities that shaped his journey. He spoke about the risks of capitalism, the fear of failure, and the courage it takes to build wealth. He emphasized the importance of time, how Americans, especially in the Black community, often waste time instead of using it as a tool for growth. He framed wealth-building as a strategic use of time and resources, something many people fail to recognize.

Then he moved into priorities, not just for himself but for the Black community as a whole. He introduced his “Silver Plan,” which focuses on building Black wealth, supporting Black businesses, and creating economic opportunities within the community. He acknowledged how the illegal economy, particularly drug dealing, is a form of capitalism, but one that ultimately traps Black men in a system designed to break them. He challenged us to think about how to redirect that entrepreneurial talent toward legitimate business success.

He also spoke about racism, not as an obstacle, but as a reality that must be navigated. Racism exists, but it cannot be the excuse that stops us from building. Success comes from recognizing the system, finding ways around it, and capitalizing on opportunities despite it.

As I listened to him, I was struck by his clarity, his confidence, and his vision. He spoke about leadership, the relationships he’s built, and his commitment to changing the financial trajectory of Black America. And then I started to wonder. Was this man positioning himself to run for President? If he is, and if he runs, he has my vote.

Then I saw his interview with Roland Martin, and there he gave the same speech. That gave me even more hope because it means he is making the rounds. The same story with the same framework, but it was reshaped to fit Roland's liberal audience. While Cam’s audience is probably more mature and aware, able to digest some hard truths, namely, “You want to kill DEI, kill it. It has been made political and is dead. I love diversity and math. They don’t have opinions, and now, for the first time, the U.S. can't succeed without all of us.” Meaning, minorities nearly outnumber whites.

And isn’t that exactly what great leaders do? CEOs, politicians, and movement builders craft a message and take it on the road, ensuring it resonates with different audiences. And here you have John Hope Bryant delivering his stump speech, refining his vision with each appearance. If that’s the case, then what’s next? Is he laying the foundation for something bigger?

I thought about what leadership truly means. We don’t need entertainers or sports commentators making empty political promises. We need someone who understands business, strategy, and the American economy, someone who genuinely believes in elevating the Black community. John Hope Bryant articulated a vision that felt real, that felt possible. His words reignited something in me, a sense of urgency, a sense of purpose.

But then I questioned myself. Was this just a podcast moment? Was he selling a story, or was he making a proclamation? Because if he’s serious, he needs to say it loud and clear. Democrats have two years until the next election, and a potential strong presidential candidate in four years is critical before the midterms. There is no time to waste. If he’s ready to lead, he needs to declare it. Speak your truth, stand on your record, and make your intentions known.

Right now, we need leadership that understands business, legacy, and economic power. Leaders who are unafraid to challenge the status quo and create real, lasting change. Bryant speaks the language of wealth and opportunity, and his message is timely. But leadership isn’t just about having the right words. It’s about action, risk, and unwavering commitment to a cause greater than yourself.

The question isn’t whether he can lead. It’s whether he will. And if we are waiting for leadership, maybe it’s time we demand it.

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© 2025 Jacqueline Session. All Rights Reserved.

This article and its contents are the intellectual property of Jacqueline Session. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or modification is prohibited without explicit permission from the author. For inquiries regarding usage, please contact jmbeausby@aol.com

AMERICA AT THE CROSSROADS

Last week was symbolic for the Black community on many levels. It began with Kendrick Lamar’s powerful Super Bowl halftime performance and ended with JD Vance addressing the European Union in Munich on the dangers of multiculturalism. The reality is that when migrants invade any land and attempt to dismantle its traditions, culture, and foundational beliefs, they can tear the fabric of society apart. That is exactly what is happening in Europe, and to a lesser extent, it is occurring right here in America as well.

All one needs to do is listen to podcasts like IlmFeed to understand that Europe has been overrun with Islamic ideology—it has embedded itself and is attempting to change the culture to align with Muslim beliefs. It has festered and now deeply influences the UK in negative ways. The worst part is that those who believe in freedom of expression, the right to vote, and democracy itself are being overshadowed by Islamic interpretations of these very concepts. In Islam, followers adhere to Allah’s traditions, which include the oppression of women and children and the belief that those who do not subscribe to their religion are outsiders, if not enemies.

the Fragile State of WESTERN VALUES

When JD Vance stepped up to the podium in Munich, few expected much beyond typical political rhetoric. Instead, he made a bold move, declaring, “There’s a new sheriff in town,” making it clear that America’s priorities under the Trump administration’s influence would shift dramatically. His speech was a warning to Western nations, particularly those struggling with the consequences of mass immigration and cultural shifts. It resonated because it addressed a reality too many refuse to acknowledge: unchecked immigration and cultural shifts are reshaping nations at an alarming rate.

Europe, in particular, has become a cautionary tale. Migrants from various regions have arrived not to assimilate but to dismantle and reshape foundational traditions. While America maintains a constitutional separation of church and state, its foundations rest on Christian values. That’s what America was built on—Christian tradition. And now, the very fabric of that foundation is being disrupted by individuals coming from other nations to take advantage of the American system or bringing ideologies that threaten our way of life.

Yet, Democrats continue to ignore these warnings. They dismiss Vance’s speech as fearmongering while failing to recognize that cultural erosion leads to societal collapse. America was built on slavery, yet the nation has continually failed to acknowledge the full weight of Black contributions. Now, with new demographic shifts, the same government that refuses to honor its debt to ADOS is bending over backward to accommodate others.

the ADOS Legacy AS TOLD BY KENDRICK LAMAR

In contrast to Vance’s speech, Kendrick Lamar’s Super Bowl performance was a cultural event that centered on the Black experience. His set was filled with symbolism that resonated deeply with the ADOS community, highlighting our legacy of struggle, resilience, and cultural impact.

From music to sports to literature, American Black culture has been a global commodity since 1619. We have gone from being called animals and sold on butcher blocks to now gaining momentum on the topic of reparations for American Blacks—the descendants of slaves. We have always managed to overcome degradation and struggle. American Blacks have set the trends in music, art, literature, and sports. Recently, I read "The Message" by Ta-Nehisi Coates, and in his essay, he discusses a woman he met in Senegal—an ocean away from America—who had been studying his work. This indicates that American Black culture and intellect are global.

Music and rap are just a few of the industries where American Blacks have established trends that have gained global recognition. No other industry has evolved as extensively through pure, organic influence as the Black music industry. The same can be said for Black contributions to sports, fashion, and education. Black Americans have shaped this country in undeniable ways, yet we are still overlooked and treated as if we don’t matter. Just when Lamar made that message clear, Democrats swooped in, attempting to capitalize on the moment.

Ayanna Pressley and Summer Lee, both left-leaning Democrats, held a press conference the following day to push the same tired, useless reparations bill that was tossed to Pressley from Sheryl Lee Jackson after her death. H.R. 40 was officially introduced in 1989. The bill, titled the Commission to Study and Develop Reparation Proposals for African Americans Act, is the same legislation that has baited ADOS communities for nearly 30 years.

With tears flowing from her eyes, Pressley discussed her heartfelt commitment to pushing forward the same tired bill—to study reparations. Knowing how badly the Democrats lost in the last election, they took this moment to gaslight the Black community: We can’t promise much, but we promise you, African Americans—which is not specific to ADOS—that we will continue to push forward the bill to study reparations.

As if there is anything left to study when it comes to slavery, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Movement, prison reform, or any other government policy that has held the ADOS community back. The oppression of American Blacks is well-documented. America never paid what was owed to the descendants of slavery. We don’t need a study—we need action.

Matt Walsh & the Whitewashing of History

Last week also saw the voices of individuals like, Matt Walsh who took to his Podcast podium to make the claim that America was not built on slavery, but was built solely by white men, conveniently erasing the labor, ingenuity, and suffering of Black Americans. This type of revisionist history is not just misleading—it’s dangerous. It allows those in power to justify denying reparations, refusing economic redress, and dismissing the centuries of forced labor that made America the global superpower it is today.

In 1860, just five years before the Civil War ended, there were 4 million enslaved Africans in America, contributing directly to the nation's agricultural and industrial wealth. Their labor created generational wealth for white families while Black Americans were left with nothing. Even after slavery, policies like Jim Crow laws, redlining, and mass incarceration ensured that Black Americans remained systematically disenfranchised.

Yet, people like Walsh continue to push a sanitized version of history, where Black labor, Black pain, and Black contributions are mere footnotes. His refusal to acknowledge this reality isn’t just ignorance—it’s an intentional effort to maintain racial and economic inequality. Meanwhile, as ADOS calls for reparations, the same government that built its wealth on Black labor is now prioritizing new groups, offering resources, opportunities, and protections that were never extended to the descendants of slavery.

The Absence of an ADOS Champion

The biggest issue facing the Black community isn’t just systemic racism—it’s the lack of authentic leadership. The so-called Black leaders propped up by the Democratic Party—Jamal Bryant, Al Sharpton, Ayanna Pressley, Hakeem Jeffries—have repeatedly failed ADOS.

Jamal Bryant preaches a prosperity gospel while using his pulpit to push leftist politics, often aligning with movements that do not prioritize the specific needs of ADOS. Instead of fostering genuine progress, he operates his ministry as a business, profiting off his congregation while failing to deliver meaningful change. Bryant frequently uses out-of-context scripture to support his political stances, whether on the Harris campaign, abortion rights, or his attempts to apologize to the LGBTQ+ community for the Black church’s past positions. However, his actions often appear performative rather than rooted in genuine conviction, casting doubt on his authenticity as a leader.

Al Sharpton has built an entire career on performative activism, accepting political donations and backroom deals while delivering nothing tangible for the Black community. His recent failed attempt to promote a 'buy-in' at Costco in response to a diversity scandal proved how out of touch he really is. The $25 gift cards, promised to those who participated in a 'buy-in' rather than a boycott, weren’t enough—Black customers left without buying anything. And when they refused to return and make purchases, Sharpton and his team tried to guilt them into going back, revealing how little real influence he has over Black consumer power.

Sharpton also seems to believe that the Black community has forgotten about Tawana Brawley and the controversy that exposed his willingness to exploit racial tensions for personal gain. The truth is, many in the Black community do not trust him. He is no leader to our community, yet he continuously inserts himself into every cultural event that impacts us, as though he still holds the moral authority to speak on our behalf.

Then there’s Hakeem Jeffries, the supposed “head” of the Democratic Party. Once a Pan-Africanist, he now prioritizes his allegiance to AIPAC over the Black voters who put him in office. Rather than advocating for reparations or pushing meaningful economic policies that could empower ADOS, he aligns himself with mainstream Democratic talking points, sidestepping the pressing need for Black economic advancement.

He, along with others, has mastered the art of political theater—showing up for photo ops, making empty promises, and delivering little in return. Jeffries wants the Black community to believe he is their advocate, but his actions suggest otherwise. His loyalty lies with corporate donors and political elites, not the ADOS community. He is quick to lecture on democracy and equity but slow to act when it comes to meaningful policies that would close the racial wealth gap.

Jeffries' record reflects a pattern of appeasement and political convenience rather than bold leadership, proving that his political survival outweighs the interests of those who elected him. Circling back to what happened in Munich, JD Vance delivered a message to majority-white nations—one that resonated deeply with the Republican base. Meanwhile, Kendrick Lamar took the stage at the Super Bowl, amplifying a message that spoke directly to the American Black community, highlighting the struggle, resilience, and impact of ADOS. The difference? One side has leaders willing to act. The other relies on symbolism and empty gestures.

While Vance and Trump continue to solidify their support, the Democratic Party remains leaderless, unable to craft a message or policy that aligns with ADOS interests. The problem isn’t just poor messaging—it’s the absence of leadership with the will to act. Without a true advocate for ADOS, Black voters are left questioning their political home. If Democrats do not step up and deliver for the Black community, they will lose more than just an election—they will lose the very people who built this nation.

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© 2025 Jacqueline Session. All Rights Reserved.

This article and its contents are the intellectual property of Jacqueline Session. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or modification is prohibited without explicit permission from the author. For inquiries regarding usage, please contact jmbeausby@aol.com

China: The Electric City on the Hill

I want to start by saying you don't need to know what is happening in the world to understand that it's happening. One clear indication of this is when Drake rapped about blue text messages. There was a clear understanding that there was a difference between iPhone and Samsung.

Years ago, I had an interview, and the hiring manager asked me what kind of phone I had. I thought it was an odd question, but when I answered, “Apple,” his expression told me everything I needed to know—I wasn’t getting the job. As I left the hospital where the interview was held, a thought swept through my mind: what other phone truly compared to the iPhone? Not Samsung, not Mortola, there wasn’t even one to compare with a phone that held all my music—that was certain.

Over the last year, I’ve been listening to podcasts about China and President Xi Jinping. In my opinion, he carries himself as if he has everything under control—he’s a cool breeze seriously. This reminds me of an incident during the BRICS Summit in 2023. As President Xi Jinping entered the venue, one of his bodyguards was momentarily blocked by security. Xi didn't miss a beat; he continued walking without hesitation. It was a small moment, but it spoke volumes about China's relentless forward march, undeterred by obstacles, no matter how personal or immediate.

There is that quiet cool. But, I wonder is there something beneath the surface. Is China really the powerhouse they purport to be. Cracks are forming—bad construction projects, economic slowdowns, and a growing sense that China’s progress isn’t as seamless as it appears. And yet, the country continues to push forward with a singular vision, one built entirely on electric power and absolute control.

China is constructing an empire where everything runs on electricity. It controls the railways, the cars on the road, the delivery trucks, and even the way people live their lives. There’s something about this shiny, electric city on a hill that seems impressive at first glance. But the more I think about it, the more uneasy I become. A city like that dependent entirely on the grid, feels oppressive. And what happens when that grid is turned off?

There’s something unsettling about a future where everything is controlled by a single switch. No gas-powered cars to escape, no independence from the system, just a world where those in power can dictate what stays on and what goes dark. China’s rise isn’t just about technology—it’s about controlling the global supply chains that make this vision possible. The cobalt mines in Congo fuel this electric dream, but at what cost? Men, women, and children are digging in the dirt, trapped in a cycle of exploitation to power devices they will never own. And while the United States has its own history of resource exploitation, there’s been a growing effort to step back, reassess, and find a better way.

As an American citizen, it’s easy to push these things to the back of our minds. We can ignore the world around us as we scroll, post, and swipe left. But then there’s reality. And sometimes, I wonder if a woman in the Congo feels the same way—her son is in the mines, working like a slave, but at least they get to eat another day.

I know that sounds shallow, but the truth is, until we find another way, Congolese men will still be in the mines. Why can’t these places be managed like any other business? Why is there so much corruption? I don’t have the answer.

But that’s the difference. China seems content to keep relying on the Congolese, keeping them in the dirt while reaping the benefits of the EV revolution. The U.S., for all its flaws, at least acknowledges the issue. While we are still reliant on cobalt from the DRC, there is an effort to step back and look for alternatives—whether through domestic mining, battery recycling, or partnerships that ensure workers in the Congo are treated with dignity.

Maybe stepping back isn’t about losing. Maybe it’s about realizing that not all progress is good progress. There is something liberating about rejecting a world where everything is connected to a single grid. While China is digging deep into the earth, America is reaching for the stars. It was incredible to watch SpaceX catch a rocket in midair, a moment that captured the pioneering spirit America was built on. Meanwhile, China is drilling toward the center of the earth, chasing fire.

For all the challenges we face, I still believe America leads in the areas that matter most—AI, space exploration, and technological innovation. But there is a sense of scrambling. Trump calling for aid, the frantic push to dominate AI, the tension between freedom and government intervention. Sometimes it feels as if we are no longer leading, as if we are playing defense, reacting to China’s moves. I believe we still have the same pioneering spirit, but we are trying to break out of the box in a way that China isn’t.

I am a believer in Jesus Christ, and I see so much vanity in the world. We chase progress but forget the greater promise—the coming of a new heaven and a new earth. But in this life, one truth remains: mankind will always pioneer. We will always find ways to invent and reinvent. And if I have to choose, I would much rather be in the United States.

America has its flaws. We’ve made mistakes, taken missteps, and sometimes the pendulum swings too far in one direction. But at least it swings. At least there is room for change, for pushback, for the possibility of something better. China, by contrast, moves in one direction—forward, but only on its own terms. There is no room to challenge, no room to question, just a carefully controlled march toward a future where everything is connected but nothing is truly free.

China’s vision of progress is built on control—control of resources, control of labor, control of digital spaces. But what happens when the lights go out? What happens when the switch is flipped? That is the bigger question.

Is China’s model the future—a world where everything is connected but every connection is monitored, regulated, and controlled? Or does America’s messy, unpredictable, often frustrating system still hold an edge? Because for all our flaws, we still have the ability to resist, to push back, to fight for something different.

And that, is what separates freedom from control.

America, stop gazing at that shiny city on the hill!!

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Resources:

Europe's difficult path on China's EVs is a lesson for North America

China in the Democratic Republic of the Congo: A New Dynamic in Critical Mineral Procurement > 75th U.S. Army Reserve Innovation Command > Article View

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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.

DEI: THE ILLUSION OF EQUALITY

Last week, DEI was the buzzword of the moment, dominating left-leaning media outlets and podcasts. Now that Trump is issuing executive orders, the term has become a key talking point for the Democraticy Party to highlight supposed progress while avoiding discussions of real structural failures, including corporate policies that have failed to uplift ADOS.

But the conversation took an unexpected turn when Donald Trump made a bold distinction between American Descendants of Slavery (ADOS) and Black immigrants. His statement forced an uncomfortable but necessary question:

Who actually benefits from diversity initiatives?

As we witness the dismantling of programs that supposedly cater to ADOS, the reality remains unchanged: these policies have historically offered ADOS the least benefits (Brookings, 2023).

Mainstream media figures like CNN’s Abby Phillip framed DEI discussions in ways that obscure the real impact of DEI policies. In a recent discussion, Phillip posed the question:

What if Trump supporters are scapegoating the Black community?

This framing diverts attention from a critical truth: ADOS (American Descendants of Slavery) have historically received the least benefits from DEI initiatives. Rather than acknowledging these structural failures, Phillip’s approach shifts the conversation away from the corporations that implement these policies and their ineffectiveness.

DEI’s Corporate Illusion

Where ADOS excel? In arts, entertainment, sports, and fashion—we do so through talent and resilience, not corporate handouts.

Yet, Phillip’s framing reinforces a misleading narrative, stoking fears instead of addressing the fundamental shortcomings of DEI itself. The real issue isn’t whether Black communities are being scapegoated—it’s that these policies have failed to create the opportunities they claim to provide.

A 2023 report by Revelio Labs found that DEI positions have been cut at a rate faster than any other sector, with major firms like Meta, Amazon, and Twitter slashing entire DEI teams (Revelio Labs, 2023).

It is also important to recognize that many organizations that promote DEI have a track record of being on the wrong side of history—whether in their response to Black Lives Matter after George Floyd, their stance on abortion, or their implementation of DEI itself.

When corporations claim to champion diversity while pushing policies that contradict the needs of the very communities they claim to serve, it raises serious concerns about their true intentions.

The Reality of Corporate Climbing

At seventeen, I took my first job at First Fidelity Bank, working in the basement counting checks after school. My manager, a Black woman with a firm but loving spirit, ran the department with excellence. Many of my colleagues in that basement were Black women, but there were white women as well—some of whom I got along with.

I was even invited once to a white co-worker’s house party, an experience that opened my eyes to cultural differences and racial realities between blacks and whites.

That night, I heard the word crank for the first time. Drugs were a big part of my upbringing—I knew many who used them—but I had never seen them, nor used them and they were certainly not allowed in our apartment. The experience of going into a home for a party and seeing people openly using drugs was jarring.

But more than anything, it opened my eyes. Drugs were no respecter of person. White or Black, the reality was the same. That night, I realized two things:

✔ That co-worker was not my friend.
✔ I didn’t want to work in a basement at the bank forever.

I left that job for a better one, pursued my college degree, and steadily climbed the corporate ladder. Affirmative Action was never my safety net. I had skills, worked hard, and sought out opportunities. I saw countless Black professionals like me doing the same—pushing forward despite systemic barriers. We weren’t looking for handouts. We were simply working harder, overcoming challenges, and finding our way.

Yet, there was always a quiet stigma attached to Black professionals who attended elite universities like Harvard or Columbia. The assumption was that their success came from Affirmative Action, not their hard work. While everyone believed all whites were in the positions they deserved. For whites merit meant everything.

The higher I climbed, the fewer Black faces I saw. As I gained more experience, honed my skills, and expanded my knowledge, the pattern became clear—there was a bottleneck at the top. Plenty of Black employees were stuck in entry-level or mid-level roles, but leadership remained overwhelmingly white.

I worked at First Fidelity Bank, where I learned hard lessons, and later transitioned to major corporations. Over the years, as I moved through roles in banking and corporate settings, I saw how limited the opportunities were for ADOS professionals—especially in leadership positions.

For years, we were led to believe that Affirmative Action was opening doors for Black professionals, but in reality, it wasn’t lifting ADOS up. Instead, DEI programs expanded beyond Black Americans to include other minorities—many of whom had not faced the same generational barriers in this country.

The idea of “helping Black people” became so broad that it diluted any specific focus on the unique struggles of ADOS.

Misinformation on Reparations

Meanwhile, conservative figures like Charlie Kirk push the falsehood that ADOS have already received reparations through social programs like housing assistance, food stamps, and Section 8.

This claim is deliberately misleading. Social programs provide temporary assistance but do not build generational wealth. Also, there is something he leaves out: social programs benefit poor whites and farmers just as much as they benefit poor Blacks. Reparations must involve direct economic compensation for stolen labor, not short-term aid that ultimately benefits white landlords, financial institutions, and corporations more than the Black community

The real beneficiaries of public assistance programs are often white developers, social service agencies, and government institutions—not Black families. These programs have allowed corporations and white property owners to profit, while ADOS remain at the bottom of every economic index.

Where Do We Go From Here?

If Affirmative Action didn’t significantly improve economic outcomes for ADOS, and DEI has been more symbolic than transformative, what should our next move be?

Corporate America isn’t going to hand us a seat at the table. Instead, we must take control of our own economic destiny.

✔ Invest in ADOS-owned businesses—direct funding and mentorship for Black entrepreneurs.

✔ Push for policy changes—enforce economic protections and demand transparency in DEI spending.

✔ Expand reparations advocacy—support national efforts to demand federal recognition of past injustices.

ADOS do not need handouts. We need access, ownership, and economic control.

The dismantling of DEI could be a setback, or it could be a wake-up call.

The choice is ours.

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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