Jacqueline Session Ausby 7/17/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 7/17/25

I Am Not African: My Response to Dream Count

*For there is no respect of persons with God.* **Romans 2:11 (KJV)**

I recently finished reading Dream Count by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and I must say I was bored with the novel. Before I talk about the book, I want to be clear. This isn’t a book review. I’m not here to critique sentence structure or analyze symbolism. I’m writing to call something out.

My opinion isn’t just about this one book either. It’s about the worldview behind it. The posture, the assumptions, the gaze turned toward American ideals, and the subtle dismissal of us, ADOS, as if we’re not part of the American story.

In Dream Count, Adichie may be attempting the kind of layered introspection you’d expect from a Virginia Woolf novel. But she misses the mark. Rather than drawing us into an internal reckoning, she leans heavily into projection. What we get isn’t soul-searching. It’s finger-pointing.

And that finger?

It’s pointed squarely at Americans, both Black and white. The novel delivers a moral backlash, as if the societies still reckoning with corruption, exploitation, and their own colonial aftermath now stand as moral authorities.

Over the past several years, there’s been a growing awareness among us ADOS of an uncomfortable but undeniable truth. Many Africans, especially among the upwardly mobile class, carry a quiet but real disdain for Black Americans. It’s in the conversations. It’s in the podcasts. And in Dream Count, it’s baked into the narrative.

I don’t mean to suggest this is true of all Africans. It’s not. What I’m calling out is a particular elite class of Africans. These are the ones who benefit most from Western society, especially in America. They position themselves as cultural ambassadors, but their narratives sometimes carry an edge of superiority, especially when speaking about Black Americans. That’s the tension I’m naming here.

I remember reading Americanah by Adichie in my late thirties and thinking, okay, I hear her. There was something undeniable in her voice. Something sharp. Observant. She offered a lens many readers hadn’t seen before. It was the story of an African woman encountering America—not just America at large, but Black American culture in particular. I won’t lie. Her critique felt harsh at times. Her brandishing of Black people as fat, her critique of Black neighborhoods in comparison to places like Princeton, was obvious, but her lens felt blurred and narrow-minded. Even so, it rang with hints of truth.

What struck me most about Americanah was the haughtiness of the main character, Ifemelu. She moved through her American experience with a certain arrogance, as if her Africanness made her more “authentic” or somehow more connected to a real heritage. Meanwhile, the Black Americans she encountered were often portrayed as disconnected, lost, or consumed by the wounds of racism.

What complicated things, though, was how Ifemelu began to absorb the very contradictions she once stood apart from. She adopted American mannerisms, changed her accent, and moved through different cultural spaces. Sometimes she judged. Other times she tried to belong. She was moving back home and decided to get her hair braided as a way of connecting back to her homeland. In the end, when she returns to Nigeria, she’s met with a new label: Americanah. Her own people now see her as foreign. Her time in America marked her and changed her. She couldn’t just slip back into who she once was.

It’s supposed to be a love story at its core. But what truly shaped this novel was Ifemelu’s identity struggle in America. And I couldn’t shake the feeling. The same quiet judgment Ifemelu held toward Black Americans is the same judgment many African immigrants hold toward us in real life.

Let me begin by addressing some of the recurring themes I’ve noticed in both Americanah and Dream Count. Maybe this comes from something deep within me, a quiet hope that, one day, Africans will wake up and understand that ADOS aren’t trying to go back to Africa. We’re not searching for ancestral land or tribal ties. We want what they want—to live in a thriving Western society. For us, that means America. Not because we think it’s perfect, but because it’s ours. Our blood built it. Our history shaped it. We’re not lost. We’re rooted. And that’s why the subtle condescension in these narratives cuts so deep and now feels so offensive.

One theme that stood out to me in Dream Count, and honestly took me back to Americanah, was the topic of Black women’s hair. Back in my thirties, most of us were already wearing natural hair and getting our hair braided in small, sometimes dirty shops with African women braiding countless heads, speaking in a language we didn’t understand, popping their teeth, selling stories, and laughing among themselves. We sat there in silence, sometimes smiling, sometimes tolerating the push and pull of one or two women braiding every single strand of our hair. It was cultural. It was layered. That part of Americanah resonated with me because it felt real. And even though times have changed—Black Americans braid hair now too—those early exchanges between African women and Black American clients were complicated and familiar.

In Dream Count, Adichie revisits the hair theme. Chia, while dating a white Dutch man named Luuk, changes her hairstyle to a straight weave. It is Luuk who tells her he preferred the braids. That moment didn’t feel romantic. It felt revealing. Chia, so quick to adjust herself to please him, didn’t hesitate to change her look. Yet throughout the novel, she holds his culture with a kind of smug detachment, as if nothing outside Nigeria is worth honoring. The contradiction was clear. Even while judging others, she was still performing. Still shifting under the gaze of someone whose approval she craved.

Reading Dream Count, I feel that discomfort all over again. Except now, it feels worse. Overdone. Overused. Condescending. It’s like the disowning of American identity is presented as something righteous or enlightened. Africans are framed as the wise ones, and everyone else in the world is just running around lost and confused.

Throughout the novel, I felt trapped in the lives of the main characters. Not in a way that made me empathize, but in a way that made me feel stuck. By the end, I didn’t feel enlightened. I didn’t feel transformed. I felt exhausted. The deep dislike for America and Americans was constant. Beneath that disrespect was a deeper insult: the portrayal of Black Americans as pitiful byproducts of the West. Cultural orphans. Emotionally broken. Spiritually stunted.

And yet, the Africans in the novel? They’re no better.

Chia, in her whorish ways, flying around the world, in and out of this bed and that, somehow still manages to come off as prim and proper. Zakira reads like a prop. She’s flat, convenient, unformed—a single parent whose baby’s father abandoned her. Omogloso is a straight-up thief. And of course, there’s Kadiatou, the maid allegedly raped by a rich white man. This is a play on the true story of Nafissatou Diallo and her claim against Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the former IMF Director who would have run for president in France, alleging he had sexually assaulted her at the Sofitel Hotel in New York. Adichie makes it clear that Diallo wasn’t a liar and that the world should believe her story simply because she’s African. Kadiatou is Diallo, and surely she must be believed. There’s no need for nuance. No room for doubt. As if virtue is inherited through suffering. As if she, by birthright alone, couldn’t possibly lie. The truth of that matter may never be resolved, as the civil case was settled. A scam? Who knows. But somehow Adichie sets Diallo free by setting Kadiatou free.

There’s a moment in Dream Count when a Black American character is introduced. But she quickly disappears, swallowed by a narrative that centers whiteness and foreign elite perspectives. The white characters, by contrast, are front and center. They are used either as fake saviors, symbols of decadence, or props in the moral commentary. Then there’s a scene where a Black American girl visits Nigeria and walks into a store, only to be scolded for taking pictures of the dusty shop. It’s played for sentiment, but the undertone is clear. She didn’t belong there. Later, this same Black American is portrayed as ignorant when she fails to grasp the horror of a man caught with human body parts in Lagos. Her confusion is treated as proof of her detachment from African “culture.” These moments aren’t just literary. They’re loaded. They reduce Black Americans to outsiders, observers, and often, quiet punchlines. It’s a form of narrative discipline. You don’t know who you are.

I don’t deny it. My perspective could be off. I could be biased. But I’ve heard it firsthand—interviews with individuals from various African countries who recall being warned by their parents to stay away from ADOS. As if we are the bad part of America. As if we’re not truly part of America. As if we don’t belong here.

This is the sentiment running through Dream Count. America equals whiteness. It’s not Black Americans they seek to be accepted by. They feign acceptance by white society. We’re painted as lazy bystanders, just happening to live in America, adding nothing of value. They pretend that wealth and their Western education make them superior. We’re looked at with a strange mix of pity, suspicion, or outright dismissal. But they never look honestly at the countries they come from—countries where even the poorest ADOS often fare better than billions living under broken systems and corrupt leadership.

Consider Nigeria today, Adichie’s homeland—a struggling state crumbling under its own contradictions. Its deepening ties with China, through loans for projects like the Lagos-Calabar railway, have fueled a debt crisis, with the naira plummeting over 70 percent in value since 2015 and inflation soaring. Corruption and oil dependency compound the economic decay, while conflicts such as Boko Haram in the northeast, banditry in the northwest, and separatist violence in the southeast tear at the nation’s fabric.

Yet, in Americanah, there’s this air that—despite all the strikes and unrest—Nigeria is a country on par with the United States. We see Aunty Uju, mistress to a married Nigerian general, travel to the United States to give birth on American soil, securing U.S. citizenship for her son, Dike. This act speaks volumes. And in Dream Count, Zikora has her baby in the U.S. as well. One thing the book makes clear is that for many African elites from countries like Nigeria, America represents the ultimate prize—offering stability, opportunity, and the trappings of Western norms. Adichie herself lives in the U.S. with her husband, a Nigerian doctor, while Nigeria is begging for more doctors and nurses to care for its communities. She romanticizes Africa—Nigeria in particular—and fills her novels with characters who long for Nigeria’s cultural roots while chasing America’s promise. It’s a paradox. They critique the West yet covet its benefits, tiptoeing around the failures of their own systems.

To be honest, Dream Count also feels like a repackaged version of stories we’ve already seen. Adichie seems to borrow heavily from the four-woman model made famous by Black American sitcoms like Living Single and Girlfriends. The career woman. The flighty one. The loyal one. The rebel. It’s a genre born out of the Black American experience—a distinctly cultural way of storytelling shaped by our humor, our struggle, our friendships, and our pursuit of selfhood in a world that often denies it. Now it’s rebranded through an African lens and sold back to readers like me. But those stories of figuring out life, love, and profession have already been told. And better.

To be plain about my view, Adichie’s narrative is played out. Overdone. What’s missing isn’t cleverness. It’s true self-reflection. In the novel, there’s so much projection. Every character looks outward, never inward. The main characters are painted as unfortunate victims of colonization, greed, and idolatry. They speak of corruption and greed, but it’s just their way. They never stop to examine their own choices or their own complicity. They don’t seem capable of holding a mirror to themselves. Instead, like dogs, they bark for American acceptance and cast scornful eyes at ADOS.

As we read these books and listen to African critics of ADOS, we need to sit back and reflect on a few things.

To start, Africa is the poorest continent in the world, and it’s been that way for centuries. It’s riddled with corruption, poverty, famine, disease, war, and idolatry. All of it is wrapped in the lie of so-called African spirituality. This is a land overflowing with minerals and natural resources, yet it’s constantly pillaged and plundered. Those who manage to escape the devastation often do so on the backs of the starving poor.

Greedy leaders rob their nations blind, then send their children to live Western lives. Lavish. Safe. Far removed from the suffering back home. They long to be like white Americans. Yet they take the best parts of the ADOS culture—our music, our fashion, even our words—and pretend it’s theirs, trying to live out an American lifestyle while remaining disconnected from our community.

We should remember that. So the next time a finger is pointed at us, we can look right back and say: I am American. I was born this way. I am not African.

I know there are some ADOS who long to return to the homeland. Some have made their way back—to Ghana, to Kenya—only to be confronted with the truth. Even in Africa, they are still seen as American.

Africans, especially those writing for the West, need to wake up and start doing something to save their own homelands. They need to build. They need to fight corruption. They need to protect their people. And they need to stop pretending they hold the moral high ground.

Because Dream Count makes it painfully clear. Many who come to America from Africa arrive with an agenda. And it’s not always as noble as they’d like us to believe.

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© 2025 Jacqueline Session Ausby. All rights reserved. This post and all original content published under DahTruth are the intellectual property of Jacqueline Session Ausby. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Jacqueline Session Ausby 7/11/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 7/11/25

Out of Egypt, But Still Complaining

I am late posting my blog this week because I have been reflecting deeply on this One Big Beautiful Bill.

I have been paying close attention to what is being said by politicians, podcasters, and network and media panels. I listen with intention, knowing this bill will significantly impact the Black community. The cuts, the restructuring of programs, and the tightening of loan access for student loans feel alarming. It is unsettling to watch a safety net being pulled back, especially for those who have long depended on it.

The One Big Beautiful Bill is a sweeping piece of legislation aimed at reforming entitlement programs by requiring able-bodied adults to work, train, or volunteer in order to continue receiving benefits such as food stamps and subsidized housing. Formally, it outlines mandates like working 80 hours per month to receive SNAP, and 20 hours per week for adults in Section 8 housing. These new conditions introduce accountability, but they are being framed by many as a form of oppression.

While I reflect on these shifts generationally, I also listen to the voices shaping the current narrative—voices like those on the Native Land Podcast with Angela Rye, Tiffany Cross, and Andrew Gillum. They spent a few episodes discussing this One Big Beautiful Bill and, like many others, focused entirely on the negatives. They talked about the cuts. They talked about how it would hurt the Black community. They talked about hospitals closing, nursing homes shutting down, and cuts to Medicaid and education. They painted a bleak picture and linked it all to the rise in white voter turnout for Trump in 2024, framing it as a direct attack on Black lives.

But they failed to acknowledge the other side of the bill. They wanted the audience to feel one thing: anger. They did not offer balance or perspective. They did not mention the need for personal accountability or consider the long-term opportunity that could come from mandates asking people to work, train, or volunteer.

What made me cringe was their attempt to sound spiritual, religious, and righteous. Angela Rye tried to use the Bible, calling Trump “Nebuchadnezzar,” though she mispronounced the name entirely. It was clear she had not read the Bible herself. She was simply repeating something she probably picked up in passing—maybe from a sermon or an online clip.

Worse is the underlying insult: that Black people like me are not smart enough to see the bigger picture. As if we have not read the fine print. As if we do not weigh issues from multiple angles. As if they alone hold the key to intelligence.

But they have been wrong repeatedly. They were wrong about Kamala Harris. They are wrong about Biden. They were wrong about the injunctions, pushing the narrative that Trump is violating the 14th Amendment—even as the Supreme Court sided with his argument that federal judges should not be issuing nationwide injunctions. And they continue to ignore his challenge to birthright citizenship, framing it as settled law when the legal debate is far from over.

It is as if they believe Black people are so behind, so broken, and so lost that we are incapable of recognizing the truth for ourselves.

“And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way; and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light; to go by day and night: He took not away the pillar of the cloud by day, nor the pillar of fire by night, from before the people.”

— Exodus 13:21–22 (KJV)

People are reacting as if Pharaoh’s army is still chasing them. The truth is, some folks in my community just do not want to leave Egypt. They continue to receive benefits without any accountability and have grown complacent with the status quo. Many politicians are comfortable maintaining social systems that keep the poor in place, not because they want to uplift them, but because dependency secures votes and preserves power. There is no real vision for freedom—only management of poverty.

My generation was different from my mother’s generation in many ways. We did not like living below the poverty line. We turned our noses up at food stamps, Medicaid, and free housing. That is not to say we did not fall into unseen traps—many of us had children out of wedlock, battled addiction, faced incarceration, or suffered under systemic decisions outside our control. Even when we were knocked down, many of us got back up. We found our footing, climbed onto the ever-turning wheel of capitalism, and held on tight because we understood that our legacy depended on it.

Now, it seems that a new generation has become stuck. They are not just touched by the system; they are tangled in it. They have grown up in the very net that once caught us temporarily and turned it into a resting place. These are able-bodied adults, fully capable of contributing, yet content with doing just enough to remain within the thirty percent of Americans living in poverty. What is more disturbing is that their lifestyles often do not reflect poverty at all. You will see ladies in the projects with their man who works every day. You will see mothers buying overpriced hair bundles, getting fake eyelashes professionally installed, feeding their children healthy meals paid for with food stamps, and covering their subsidized rent while driving fancy trucks and cars to the rental office. This is not survival. This is complacency dressed up as struggle. This is a lifestyle funded by the government.

I know a young lady who lived in public housing with her boyfriend. Between them, they were raising five or six children. They had two cars, paid $130 a month in rent, and lived comfortably in a unit with big-screen TVs and fully furnished rooms. Her hair was always done—bundles of human hair weaved in, lashes flawless—and her car was always shining. She worked her 20 hours, he worked 40, and they stayed in the projects building their legacy. That image is not one of hardship—it is one of strategy. But it raises the question: is the system helping, or enabling?

Here is what is ironic: even the people defending the system, those arguing that this bill is cruel, know full well that abuse happens. They know many in our own community exploit the very resources meant to help. I am not talking about who receives the most in benefits; I already know that Black people are not the primary recipients. We never are—we are just the face. Yet I also know that the programs being cut will impact our community the most, simply because of how deeply these systems have taken root in our neighborhoods.

Still, people act as if we will be completely destroyed by these changes. The outcry is loud. But the loudest cries are coming from those who treat the government, not God, as the source of our provision.

The God who brought the Israelites out of Egypt promised to provide. He gave them manna but did not allow them to hoard it. He healed their bodies and gave them water. He instructed them to move with the cloud by day and follow the flame at night. Faith is never meant to be passive.

This same God judged a nation that kept His people oppressed by slaying their firstborn sons. Yet today, we tremble at the thought of a bill that simply requires us to work. We are not being slaughtered. We are being stretched. It is the stretching that scares us.

Today, people grumble and protest as if Moses abandoned them in the wilderness. Instead of bowing to the golden calves of government dependency, victimhood, or political tribalism, we should walk forward in trust and obedience. God did not deliver us from Egypt so we could sit in the wilderness and complain.

I have a deep concern when I hear Black pastors publicly condemn this bill. Their trust appears to lie in government funding, not in God. Dependence on government has become so normalized that they no longer recognize the righteousness of God when it confronts them. Instead of preaching the need for spiritual resilience and trust in divine provision, they stir anger and fear in their congregations.

Times are difficult. This is the moment to encourage people to lean harder into God. That message is absent.

The reaction from some in the pulpit reflects a lack of faith. Some of these pastors are not shepherds; they are public speakers who quote Scripture without applying it. They preach prosperity when the money flows to them. They demand tithes from the poor while failing to raise moral or communal standards. They take offerings while neglecting to speak truth.

There is a lack of presence in their communities. Churches are not addressing crime, teenage pregnancy, abortion, or fatherlessness. Programs that mentor youth, create jobs, or support mothers are nearly nonexistent in some of these churches. I know there are churches that have daycares, after-school programs, or prison-to-work initiatives. However, it is clear they provide just enough—just enough to keep the state funding flowing in, while viewing the individuals who come through their doors as nothing more than pawns to move through the system. They hand out Amazon trash and free food from food banks, but fail to offer real transformation. These problems are not confronted because the preachers are greedy, and their messages are both watered down and weak.

The people are not taught to depend on God. They are told to depend on the church structure or the system that keeps them oppressed. The pastors take from the poor, the elderly, and struggling mothers while telling them to tithe and pray. Meanwhile, the leaders benefit from that very dependency. Taking the widow’s mite for food.

“This poor widow hath cast more in, than all they which have cast into the treasury... for she did cast in all that she had, even all her living.”
— Mark 12:43–44

Just like the sons of Korah in the book of Numbers, those who opposed Moses and God’s divine instruction, many of these pastors murmur and complain. God responded by opening the earth and swallowing them alive. That is how serious rebellion and spiritual disobedience were at that time.

Today, instead of trembling before God, these so-called men of God make YouTube videos preaching that the government—not faith—is the solution to our condition.

Despite the hardship, the truth remains. The bottom thirty percent of earners can benefit from these new requirements if the mandates to work, train, or volunteer are supported with access and dignity.

Workforce development programs show that incomes can increase by three to seven thousand dollars within one to two years. Career and technical training—especially in trades and healthcare—can raise earnings by more than twenty percent. With proper childcare, reliable transportation, and digital access, these mandates become a pathway, not a punishment. There it is: freedom from subsidized project housing. Freedom from the ghetto.

We all recognize the danger that comes when access is blocked or when the training provided is disconnected from real opportunities. In those cases, the requirement could become a burden without benefit. But avoiding risk has never transformed a community. We must stop promoting these caricatured images of Black people as lazy profiteers of the system. That image is false and dehumanizing, often weaponized to justify neglect or control.

Black communities, which rely more heavily on social programs, will feel these shifts most. This is where faith must take hold. If we trust God, we are not without hope.

“And Jesus sat over against the treasury, and beheld how the people cast money into the treasury: and many that were rich cast in much. And there came a certain poor widow, and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing. And he called unto him his disciples, and saith unto them, Verily I say unto you, That this poor widow hath cast more in, than all they which have cast into the treasury: For all they did cast in of their abundance; but she of her want did cast in all that she had, even all her living.”

— Mark 12:41–44 (KJV):

When the world cuts benefits, God still provides. When Pharaoh removes the straw, God gives the strategy. If we are required to work, we must work with dignity. If we are called to train, we must train with purpose.

Africa was never the Black American promise—it was our place of bondage. Like Egypt was for the Israelites, it was the place that led to our enslavement, not where we were called. God brought us out to lead us forward, not to keep us still.

I am not writing this to tear down my community. I am writing this because I believe in what we can become. We will not rise by clinging to Egypt. We will rise when we return to God, take responsibility, and move forward together.

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Jacqueline Session Ausby 7/5/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 7/5/25

Recognizing the Carpetbagger in the Room

Carpetbagger: a man who came down from the North with nothing but a carpetbag and a promise—usually false—to lift up the South, while lifting all he could into his own pockets.”

— Anonymous Southern saying, Reconstruction Era

My neighborhood in New Brunswick, New Jersey always felt boxed in—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. I lived in the Jersey Avenue box. Others lived in the downtown or uptown projects, Simplex, or the Village. Each place had its own set of boundaries, its own kind of invisible fence. As a teenager, I felt that confinement deeply.

I didn’t know much about the world. I only knew the struggle—growing up on food stamps, standing in food lines for blocks of government cheese and oversized cans of peanut butter. Drugs, prostitution, violence, guns, and police brutality shaped the corners of our lives. Churches were planted in every neighborhood, but mostly filled only on Sundays.

To say I had space to think would be an understatement. And yet, even back then, I had a hunger to see and experience more—something out there in the wide world.

As I got older, I began casting my net wider. I studied. I traveled. I worked in major corporations. And over time, my perspective began to shift. Now, I have what I call a rounded perspective—a lens that doesn’t just accept the surface narrative but asks: Where is this story coming from? Who does it serve?

And because of that, I understand who is still in the box—and why they can’t get out. I lived it. It’s not just about lack of ambition; it’s about lack of access, lack of exposure, and the overwhelming pressure of daily survival. So I don’t judge those still in that place—I recognize them. I carry them with me.

Having widened my perspective, I now see both sides of a narrative more clearly—what’s said, what’s unsaid, and what’s strategically performed. And that brings me to what’s unfolding in New York City with Zohran Mamdani.

The Rise of the Algorithm Candidate

On the surface, Mamdani comes across as clean-cut, articulate, polished. But it’s a performance. He shines like a big, fat fake. And yet, nearly a million people voted for him. How is that even possible?

Because he didn’t rise on substance. He rose through algorithms—through curated digital content and clever positioning. He spoon-fed just enough progressive bait, just enough polished videos, just enough activist language to generate engagement. That engagement became a following. And that following turned into votes.

Taking off my rose-colored glasses and putting on my Jersey Avenue ones—the ones that give me much more clarity—I see the true Mamdani.

Just like Yuval Harari, a historian, author, philosophical thinker, and now a spokesperson on AI, warns in Nexus: algorithms are no longer passive tools. They actively shape perception, loyalty, and political direction. Harari discusses how Facebook’s algorithm helped inflame the civil war in Myanmar—amplifying hate, spreading misinformation, and allowing one side of the conflict to dominate unchecked.

But what Harari doesn’t fully explore is the flip side of that coin—what happens when the same algorithm starts to tell the other side of the story. When the engagement machine turns back around and rises up with a counter-narrative—one that opens the bag and exposes the tricks.

And that’s exactly what’s happening now with Mamdani. The same platforms that once elevated him through short-form video, viral slogans, and carefully crafted identity are now surfacing the inconsistencies, the omissions, and the contradictions. The same algorithm that built the myth is now peeling it apart, piece by piece—giving people a chance to see the truth for themselves.

He knew how to police his language. He knew when to lean into his Arabic twang and when to present himself as culturally flexible. Some have alleged that he identified as African American on his Columbia University application—though no formal evidence has been made public. Whether true or not, the perception persists, and it reflects a broader skepticism about how he shapes his identity for gain.

He branded himself as someone who cares deeply about the community—but he avoids real moral clarity when it counts. He won’t say if Israel has a right to exist or defend itself. He dodges these truths with carefully crafted language, hiding behind progressive identity while signaling something very different to those paying attention.

The Democrats’ New Ticket

The Democrats are now celebrating Mamdani as if he’s the new ticket to the White House. But what they’re not seeing is that he’s inauthentic—another Kamala, only worse. His disdain for Israel appears to be consistent, and though he claims to separate his politics from religion, his framing aligns with those who use anti-Zionism to justify deeper hostilities.

Meanwhile, many Jewish New Yorkers appear to be following him in good faith—unaware that his policies may ultimately work against the very communities he claims to support.

He’s not just wrong on the surface—his policies are dangerous in practice. He wants to implement free buses for all without addressing how it impacts daily commuters. In cities like Kansas City, fare-free transit led to system overcrowding, maintenance issues, and rider conflict. In a city like New York—with layered infrastructure and deep economic divides—this proposal is likely to create more friction than equity. He has walked back his “defund the police” rhetoric—but only after realizing the chaos it invites. And his idea of paying for social programs by taxing white neighborhoods—many of which include working-class Jewish families—isn’t just bad policy, it’s divisive.

According to his own campaign website, he explicitly supports reallocating resources away from white neighborhoods to support underserved communities. Equity matters—but when framed racially without economic nuance, it risks creating resentment, not repair.

More of the Same: Mamdani’s Obama Playbook

Mamdani is using President Obama’s playbook—and anyone paying attention can see it. Running for city or state office is just the first step. He’s being touted for his looks, youth, and charisma, not for his capability, experience, or substance. He lacks the qualifications and depth needed for serious governance. He’s a DEI candidate in every sense of the word—symbolic, strategically placed, and propped up by identity politics.

Most pundits remain quiet about his socialist leanings, his bias against white communities, and his habit of dodging real questions. He even proposes turning state-run grocery stores into neighborhood staples, which reads more like a page out of a communist playbook than a practical solution for food insecurity.

And when the pressure rises? He reaches into that dirty carpetbag and pulls out answers that are nothing more than branded lies.

He insists he understands the American experience. But he only became a U.S. citizen seven years ago—and comes from Indian parents whose loyalty and cultural alignment lie outside the American struggle, no matter the passport. He often references Martin Luther King Jr. on the campaign trail. While many politicians do, in Mamdani’s case, it feels calculated—an attempt to anchor his movement in Black civil rights symbolism and pull in Black voters to a revolution that isn’t theirs. But this time, we’re not impressed.

Most Black New Yorkers voted for Cuomo. After what we experienced with Kamala Harris, many of us have learned to see through both sides. It’s refreshing to know I’m not the only one in my community who can spot a snake in political packaging. We were nearly fooled twice—but not again. Not this time.

If Mamdani wins, it won’t be because of the Black community. It will be at the hands of the very communities he’s quietly working to divide.

The Miscalculation

I think Mamdani miscalculated. He played his card too soon. He relied heavily on algorithms during the primary mayoral election in New York City, using viral clips and TikTok-style messaging to sway voters. But now, those same algorithms are surfacing the truth about who he really is—and what we’re seeing is someone who built his platform on a lie.

We’re learning he has a deep disdain for Israel, and many of the policies he’s pushing are nearly impossible to implement. He wants to give everyone the ability to ride the bus for free but doesn’t address the homeless crisis in New York. The reality is this: when buses become makeshift shelters, workers trying to commute will be forced to compete with people simply trying to stay warm or find refuge. That’s not compassion—it’s conflict waiting to happen.

He’s also walked back his position on defunding the police—because he’s starting to realize you can’t run a system like that (with free transportation, more transient populations, and reduced enforcement) without public safety support. Now, the police unions are saying if he’s elected, they’ll walk out. That says everything about how seriously they take his leadership.

Meanwhile, Mayor Eric Adams could use the same algorithms Mamdani relied on—but this time, to elevate real results. New York didn’t end up like Chicago. It didn’t collapse under the weight of the migrant crisis the way other cities did. That wasn’t by accident—it was leadership. And Adams, whether people love him or not, navigated New York through something unprecedented.

The danger of Mamdani isn’t just that he has bad ideas. It’s that he packaged them so well, people mistook them for solutions. Now the mask is slipping—and the algorithm is turning on the very image it helped create.

When the Algorithm Flips the Script

And now he’s trying to rewrite again—saying, “I love Jews but I hate Zionists,” as if the two are neatly separable. There’s a growing attempt to draw a line between being Jewish and supporting Israel, and while there are certainly Jewish individuals who reject Zionism, we can’t ignore the fact that Zionists are overwhelmingly Jewish, and Israel is, at its core, a Jewish state, even if it claims to be secular.

To pretend you can slice Zionism cleanly away from Jewish identity—especially in the context of global antisemitism—is misleading. It’s a form of intellectual dishonesty masked as nuance.

The Last Word

When I think things over, and reflect back to my days in New Brunswick, I realize that those early experiences gave me a certain kind of vision—a clarity of discernment. It allows me to see what’s really happening beneath the surface. I can see the dissonance between what appears to be true and what is, in fact, a lie. I’ve lived through too much to be fooled by polish or platform. That box I grew up in didn’t limit my thinking—it sharpened it.

While Democrats are out here raving over the success of Mamdani, I’m reminded of one simple truth: I can see that he’s a carpetbagger. No different than those Northerners who traveled South after the Civil War, pretending to carry bags full of reform—when in reality, they were selling lies wrapped in promises. They came in the name of progress, but their motives were self-serving.

I pride myself on my humble upbringing, because it gave me something social media can’t: the ability to spot a fraud, no matter how polished the presentation or how favorable the algorithm.

When I think about social media, one thing remains true: lived experience always trumps the lies the algorithm tells. Unfortunately, few others possess that lens. And that’s what makes this moment so dangerous.

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Jacqueline Session Ausby 6/29/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 6/29/25

The Scapegoat: A Reflection on Being ADOS in a Global Crisis

What’s interesting about being Black is how we’re always the scapegoat. In nearly every situation involving injustice, people turn to Black people. And not just Black people around the world—more specifically, American descendants of slavery, or ADOS. Black people born in America. We’re always positioned as either the problem or the solution. That contradiction alone is exhausting. You constantly feel like you must defy false perceptions, challenge distorted narratives, and navigate the weight of social bias just for being Black.

This week Trump showed America how politics is done. He started what Democrats called a war by stopping Israel and Iran from bombing one another. He won nearly every case brought before the Supreme Court. He helped establish peace between Rwanda and the Congo. And by the close of business on Friday, the stock market soared. Meanwhile, Democrats used social media as a platform to spew their disdain for Donald Trump but have done nothing to pass substantial legislation to at least check him. They complain about Trump doing his job while doing nothing for their own constituents. Congress is really nothing more than a joke. They complained about the Big Beautiful Bill, made speeches fit enough for a soundbite, and then did nothing at all. No legislation. No solution. Nothing.

Since Trump’s election, there’s been a disturbing effort to pressure Black Americans—especially ADOS women—into aligning with Democrat or socialist agendas. The unspoken message is clear: because we’re seen as recipients of welfare, housing, or wage support, we’re expected to also endorse abortion access, open borders, gender ideology, and unchecked spending. It’s coercion masked as compassion.

What triggered my reflection this week wasn’t just policy—it was a Facebook exchange. Her words echoed a pattern I’ve seen before: moral superiority cloaked in selective memory, where Black convictions are put on trial anytime they don’t align with progressive expectations. I had commented on the absurdity of Democrats calling for impeachment after Trump’s military actions. A white woman I once met in France responded by not only challenging my support of the strike but questioning my faith. Her tone was condescending, her assumptions clear. She quoted Matthew 5:38–48 as if Christianity demands pacifism even in the face of terrorism.

But that passage isn’t about government response—it’s about personal offense. Romans 13:4 offers the counterpart: “For the one in authority is God’s servant for your good… agents of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer.” And Jesus Himself said in Luke 14:31, “Suppose a king is about to go to war… won’t he first sit down and consider whether he is able…?” That’s a call to wisdom and protection—not surrender.

She said she held Christian values, though she no longer attends church. She expected me to reconcile selective outrage with Biblical clarity. But I’ve studied the Balfour Declaration, the Nakba, the Six-Day War, and decades of terrorism—hijackings, bombings, bus attacks. I’ve read Benny Morris. I know the history. And I still believe Israel has the right to defend itself.

Since 1917, Arab nations have fought over the land of Israel. Much of it was purchased; the rest was won in war. That is how nations have always been built. But the Palestinians have refused every peace agreement. They embraced a culture of martyrdom, teaching their children to glorify death in the name of Allah. Gaza became what it is because of Hamas, the PLO, and others committed to violence—not coexistence.

She never once acknowledged the harm inflicted by European colonization. France—where I met her—is one of the worst offenders, having enslaved and plundered African nations. She seemed unaware of Arab Muslims enslaving African men, castrating them, and forcing them into servitude. These are real legacies. And yet, all her outrage was reserved for Israel—a nation that has never colonized or enslaved Black people.

There is a tendency among some Europeans to treat ADOS as if we’re uninformed. There’s an unspoken arrogance, a subtle condescension, a white savior complex—especially among left-leaning or socialist types. They expect our loyalty simply because we are presumed to benefit from their policies. But that’s not how integrity works.

From Harriet Tubman to Malcolm X, our lineage is one of discernment and self-determination. Since the days of slavery, we have fought for justice with clarity. We don’t need lectures from people who are just now waking up to oppression. We’ve lived it. We’ve survived it. And we know when our votes and voices are being manipulated.

When I read comments that try to shame me for voting based on my conscience—especially on issues like abortion or gender ideology—I see the same old tactic. It’s a disturbing effort to force Black Americans into alignment with Democratic or socialist ideals simply because we are presumed to be the primary beneficiaries of their policies. They claim we benefit from programs like welfare, housing subsidies, or minimum wage increases—but the truth is, our communities have been devastated by many of these same policies.

Selective justice is not justice. Compassion cannot be coerced. And unity that requires silence is not unity at all.

As American descendants of slavery, we are not blind to global events. We are not politically naïve. We are not pawns. We are a people of discernment, strength, and faith. We don’t owe our silence, our vote, or our allegiance to anyone—no matter their history, race, or ideology.

We owe it to our ancestors to walk in truth, to honor God, and to stand with justice—wherever it may lead.

We’ve carried the burden of being scapegoated for generations—blamed, used, and preached at by systems that never intended to free us. But being born Black and American does not make us anyone’s tool. We are not here to be sacrificed on the altar of someone else’s ideology. Not anymore.

Jacqueline Session Ausby 6/22/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 6/22/25

Eyes on the Throne: Not Trump, Not Khamenei—Christ Alone

Daniel 10:5–6 (KJV)

Then I lifted up mine eyes, and looked, and behold a certain man clothed in linen, whose loins were girded with fine gold of Uphaz:

His body also was like the beryl, and his face as the appearance of lightning, and his eyes as lamps of fire, and his arms and his feet like in colour to polished brass, and the voice of his words like the voice of a multitude.

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Most people who know me know that on Sunday mornings, I start my day listening to preaching. I don’t limit myself. I listen to everyone—from false preachers like Jamal Bryant to biblical scholars like Voddie Baucham and apologists like John Lennox. I love hearing the Word, even if I have to filter out the noise.

This morning, I was listening to John Lennox preach from the book of Daniel. What he shared spoke directly to the times we are living in. It reminded me how easy it is to lose sight of God when we get too focused on the power of men.

In the book of Daniel, we see three kings. Each shows us something different about pride, judgment, and the sovereignty of God.

The first was King Nebuchadnezzar. He ruled over Babylon and let pride consume him. He built a golden image of himself and commanded people to worship it. God humbled him. Stripped of his glory, he lived like an animal in the wilderness until he lifted his eyes to heaven and acknowledged that the Most High rules over the kingdoms of men. Only then was he restored.

Then came King Belshazzar. He knew what happened to Nebuchadnezzar. He had the warning. Yet he hardened his heart. During a drunken feast, he took the sacred cups from God’s temple—items stolen during the siege of Jerusalem—and used them to praise idols of gold and silver. It was in that moment that a mysterious hand appeared and wrote words on the wall.

Belshazzar couldn’t see it coming. He didn’t recognize the moment he crossed the line. He didn’t understand the writing or its judgment.

Daniel was brought in to interpret it. The message from God was clear:

“MENE, MENE, TEKEL, PARSIN.”

Daniel told him what it meant:

Mene: God has numbered the days of your reign and brought it to an end.
Tekel: You have been weighed on the scales and found wanting.
Parsin: Your kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians.

That very night, Belshazzar was killed. There was no repentance, no second chance. He died in rebellion.

One king was humbled and redeemed. The other was warned and destroyed.

And then there is a third King that Daniel prophesied about—the true King. Not an earthly king. Not a politician or military leader. The King of Kings. The one who will come at the end of the age and restore all things. That King is Jesus Christ.

This is where I want to speak plainly. Look around today and you will see the same patterns. In America, we are watching the rise of two kingdoms. One claims to honor God. The other defies Him. At the center of it, people have locked their hopes or their rage onto a man. Either you love Donald Trump or you hate him. And both extremes are a trap.

Worship is a sin. So is hate. If you idolize a man, you’re off track. If you curse him with bitterness, you’re still off track. The Bible tells us to pray for our leaders. Not worship them. Not despise them.

I didn’t vote for a man. I voted for policies that align with my convictions. I voted against abortion. I voted against allowing children to be confused and altered. I voted for borders and the rule of law. My vote was not about Trump—it was about truth. But people can’t seem to separate the two. They focus on the man and miss God completely.

And the same thing is happening in Iran. Khamenei has people who worship him and others who want his regime gone. But either way, the focus is on a man. Just like with the Shah before him, people forgot that earthly kings rise and fall. Only God is sovereign.

What’s happening now feels prophetic. We’re watching kingdoms shift. We’re watching nations align. And we are watching the pride of men reach new heights. But here’s what I know: the handwriting is on the wall.

And while the world obsesses over leaders and political power, God is still saying what He’s always said—“Watch Israel.”

That’s how you’ll know I’m moving. That’s how you’ll recognize the signs. Israel has always been the timepiece of God’s prophetic clock. He has preserved a remnant of His people, not because of their strength but because of His promise. Through them, He demonstrates His power. Through them, He reveals His timing.

As we watch the rise and fall of men—whether in the United States, Iran, or anywhere else—God remains sovereign. Every empire will pass. Every ruler will fade. But His Word stands. And His eyes are always on Jerusalem.

I am not shaken. I know these are the last days. What I wonder is, will I see His return in my lifetime? Or will I pass from this life before that great day? Either way, I wait for the true King.

Let me end with this: If you focus on a man, you will miss God. And when you miss God, you will replace grace with judgment. You will trade love for self-righteousness. And you will lose your peace.

Keep your eyes on the true King. Jesus Christ is the only one who saves.

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Jacqueline Session Ausby 6/11/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 6/11/25

The Theatrics Replacing Truth in Today’s Church

“Thus says the Lord of hosts: ‘Do not listen to the words of the prophets who prophesy to you, filling you with vain hopes. They speak visions of their own minds, not from the mouth of the Lord.’” ***Jeremiah 23:16 (ESV)***

Disclaimer:
This is the unapologetically biased opinion of a lay person. I make no claim to theological authority or prophetic insight. I’m not a pastor, a prophet, or a scholar—just someone who loves God and is paying attention. What you’ve read is based solely on my personal observations, scriptural study, and how I interpret the circumstances concerning Biblical prophecy and spiritual leadership. There is no animosity here—only concern, conviction, and commentary.

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Sometimes, all it takes is a moment of distraction. That’s how I found myself following a story about false prophets in the church. It pulled me into deeper thought: Are there prophets today? I don’t believe the prophets of old still exist in the same way, but I do believe God still speaks through prophecy. Not in grand theatrics or spectacle, but in confirmation. I believe that God can use a message, sometimes even from a stranger, to confirm what He’s already whispered to your spirit.

And I don’t say this as some hyper-spiritual Christian trying to sound righteous. I say it as someone who has always told God, you know me. I don’t need signs and wonders to believe. I don’t need to see an angelic being to know You’re real. I’m proud to be among those who believe, even though I haven’t seen Him with my eyes. That faith grounds me.

This week, it was hard to choose a blog topic. Not because there was nothing to write about, but because everything felt like a repeat. Trump. Democrats. And of course, the internet’s favorite obsession: AI. It’s exhausting. But amidst all the noise, something so unbelievable and juvenile caught my attention that I couldn’t resist speaking on it.

What does it say about who is leading the Black community when the loudest voices come not from true spiritual leaders, but from YouTube pulpits? The Black church is in a state of crisis, and social media plays a major role in that. It is now easier than ever to gain a following. All someone has to do is say something that resonates, even if it’s shallow or twisted. Suddenly, they have a platform. Suddenly, they are someone’s spiritual authority.

Followings are fleeting, but the grip of prophecy, money, and the promise of greatness is strong. Everyone wants to be great, and many are willing to use the Word of God to justify their ambitions. Scripture is twisted to serve egos, not truth.

Tiphani Montgomery is a prime example. She recently stood in the pulpit and declared that God told her that if Matthew Stevenson does not repent, he will die. What she did was not uplift, it was condemnation. She didn’t minister, she judged. And last I checked, only God can cast that kind of judgment. That’s not prophecy. That’s blasphemy. Declaring someone’s death as a divine decree, without humility or reverence, is a mockery of the God she claims to serve.

Let’s not forget, Jesus Himself was nearly stoned for reminding the people that "there were many in Israel with leprosy in the time of Elisha the prophet, yet not one of them was cleansed, only Naaman the Syrian" (Luke 4:27). That truth enraged the crowd. Prophets don’t win popularity contests. But real prophets don’t condemn people to hell because of disagreement either. They speak truth with power, not spectacle.

Matthew Stevenson, a well-known preacher, is apparently living a lifestyle that many view as contrary to the Word of God. That may be worth addressing biblically, but not like this. Declaring someone’s death as a divine prophecy is not ministry. It’s manipulation. And for believers, to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. Her statement was not a divine insight. It was performance.

Now, she is calling out other ministers by name—Pastor Phillip Anthony Mitchell, Jackie and Preston Pressley—accusing them of calling her a witch and attacking her with subliminal messages for the past two years. She’s even recorded private phone calls and is now threatening to release them. But no one really cares. Not because the issue is unimportant, but because the show is tired. It’s not holy. It’s not righteous. It’s theater.

After her failed prophecy, she even pretended to have a husband. And what’s striking is that every family she condemns is married. Happily—outwardly. She has now inserted herself into their homes, their unions, putting their marriages on the line, all while she sits back, angry over subliminals, waiting for another man to fall or another marriage to fail. Social media has convinced her that she is not just a messenger, but a judge. A prophet with power she was never given.

And this is the state of her ministry: fueled by drama, not doctrine. Her conferences are packed with theatrics, talk of witches and warlocks, and diluted sermons full of vague dreams and visions. The Millions Conference is not centered on salvation. It’s centered on spirits. There’s talk of marine spirits, African ancestral spirits, and demonic realms, but very little of Jesus Christ. The messages don’t point to the cross. They glorify the speaker. It’s self-promotion dressed up as deliverance. The sermons are sensational but shallow, emotionally charged but spiritually empty. And millions tune in, hungry for a word, but leave confused, stirred, and still searching.

Her numbers have to be dwindling because people are waking up. The fruit does not match the message.

This is not ministry. It is mimicry. And mimicry is dangerous. It is imitation without anointing. It is performance without purpose. It looks like the real thing but lacks the power, humility, and truth that mark true ministry. It borrows the language of holiness but strips it of conviction. It stages deliverance like theater, leaving the audience moved but unchanged. The danger lies in how close it appears to truth, just enough to deceive, but never enough to transform.

This is American false prophecy. It’s not rooted in Scripture. It’s rooted in culture. A woman can stand in the pulpit and say God told her about Listerine before COVID, and somehow that becomes spiritual authority. Many women follow her because they believe that if they fast long enough, God will send them a husband. I wonder what happened to all the women who fasted for a year and are still unmarried. That says a lot. It reveals how desperate some of us have become, that we would follow a false prophet just to believe in a promise she never had the power to keep.

Is that not the Pied Piper? Her conference is called Millions for a reason. Because she is a female Pied Piper. She blows a loud whistle, makes clarion calls to the blind, and leads them straight into a sea of lies.

Now, I’m not saying everything she says is false. God can use anyone, even a false prophet. He has used lying spirits before to deliver His message. He even allowed a witch to call forth Samuel to speak truth. So maybe the “Listerine prophecy” came true. Maybe. But that kind of vague, half-true revelation doesn’t change the deeper issue.

None of it justifies blasphemy.

And yet, this is where the world seems to be heading. A place where frauds are mistaken for heroes and true saints are dragged into arguments that have nothing to do with doctrine or ministry. A space where spectacle replaces substance and platforms matter more than fruit. People argue over who is anointed, who has power, who speaks for God, as if He no longer judges the hearts of men. But no matter how loud the performance, we cannot see someone’s heart. We can only judge their fruit.

And as prophets or believers who claim to hear from God, it becomes even easier to judge, because the words must align with Scripture. True prophecy is meant for edification, exhortation, and comfort. That is the Word. Sentencing a man to death or declaring that a marriage will fail is none of those things. That is not prophecy. It is pride. Her language, her contradictions, and her mixed-up theology all point to the same conclusion: bad fruit.

There is also a cultural shift happening. Tiphani once said that culture does not change the Word of God, yet her entire ministry is shaped by cultural acceptance. Her very presence in the pulpit contradicts Scripture. According to 1 Timothy 2:12, a woman should not teach or have authority over a man. That is not a cultural opinion. That is the Word.

Yet she goes further, claiming that Paul the apostle was full of pride and misogyny. She speaks as if she has more authority than a man chosen by God, a man who encountered Jesus directly. That is not confidence. That is arrogance. That is rebellion cloaked in spiritual language.

This is the sickness we are witnessing in the church. A hunger for recognition, a craving for applause, and a willingness to manipulate the Word of God to serve the self. The church is becoming more theatrical and less theological. We are raising a generation that confuses going viral with being called.

If we are not careful, we will be so busy defending frauds that we forget the faith. We will exchange truth for trends and lose the power of the Gospel in the process.

It is time to return to the truth. Not the gospel of platforms or dreams or brand deals. The Gospel of Jesus Christ. The Gospel that calls for repentance. The Gospel that demands humility. The Gospel that reminds us we are not the center of the story. Christ is.

Let us stop mistaking a following for fruit. Let us stop defending those who preach themselves instead of Christ. Because the truth is, if you are truly called, you do not need to prove it. Your fruit will speak for you.

Now, I know this topic, and I can’t stand the term, is considered “low-hanging fruit.” But this isn’t fruit you can pick and enjoy. It’s overly ripe. It’s filled with worms. Let’s keep it real. America is consumed by social media. And social media is consumed with truth filtered through lies. It’s the wheat and the tares. Fake frauds and a few true saints.

As Christians, we shouldn’t be surprised. This is the world system. It was never meant to be pure. That’s why we must stay close to God, to be able to recognize the tares when they appear.

Unfortunately, Tiphani Montgomery is lost. She needs to repent and turn from her wicked ways, because she displays all the signs of a false prophet. But more broadly, we as Christians must remain vigilant. The enemy doesn’t always show up in obvious ways. Sometimes, he hides in the glare of a ring light, wrapped in influence and Christian lingo.

Social media is a distraction, but if even one sliver of truth can break through to the masses, then we must confront it head-on. Not to join the noise, but to bring clarity. Not to chase trends, but to lift truth. Because no matter how loud the false prophets get, the Gospel still speaks louder if we are listening.

To bring me back to my original thought. The reason of this block post. We live in a world where people constantly need to be stimulated by something. That’s why social media is so successful. Just like newspapers, books, radio, and television once did, it keeps us occupied, following the voices of individuals with no foundation, so lost we will believe anything or anyone.

But it’s my beliefs that compel me to speak. I am not a prophet. I am not a pastor. I am a watcher, standing on the wall, witnessing what is happening in the church and in our culture. I don’t speak from a place of authority. I speak from conviction. And I speak because I still believe, even though I have not seen.

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© 2025 Jacqueline Session Ausby. All rights reserved. This post and all original content published under DahTruth are the intellectual property of Jacqueline Session Ausby. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Jacqueline Session Ausby 6/5/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 6/5/25

When the Oppressor Cries Foul: South Africa, Power, and the Global Game

*“Woe to those who make unjust laws, to those who issue oppressive decrees… depriving the poor of their rights and withholding justice from the oppressed…”*
— Isaiah 10:1–2

When I grew up, I heard all about Nelson Mandela—not in school, but on television. I watched as he was released from prison and later became the President of South Africa. It felt like a real-life Joseph story. I didn’t know the full history of South Africa back then, but I understood enough to know that white people had been oppressing Black people, and that the tables had finally turned.

Fast forward a few decades, and the story has become far more complicated.

President Cyril Ramaphosa has been in power since 2018, but his political roots stretch back to the anti-apartheid movement and his ties to the African National Congress (ANC), the same party that brought Mandela to power. Today, the ANC is no longer the beacon of liberation it once was. South Africa’s economy is faltering, youth unemployment is soaring, and a new generation known as the Born Frees are disillusioned with the party their parents once trusted.

At the same time, South Africa has grown distant from the United States and closer to global players like Russia and China. This shift has raised alarms in Washington. It places America in an awkward position, still posturing as a global power while losing influence across Africa to countries that are playing a much longer game.

I watched President Trump’s meeting with Ramaphosa and later his public condemnation of South Africa over the alleged killings of white farmers. On the surface, it looked like a defense of human rights. But if you listened closely, it sounded like something else: fear. Fear of losing control in a country where white South Africans, particularly Afrikaner farmers, still sit on land taken during colonization. Land that Black South Africans are now demanding back.

Yes, there have been murders. And yes, leaders like Julius Malema have stirred controversy with inflammatory rhetoric. But we cannot ignore the context. This is land that was stolen, hoarded, and protected by a system of apartheid that was only officially dismantled 30 years ago. The economic legacy of that system still shapes who eats and who starves. This is not a genocide. It is a reckoning.

I listened to a Triggernometry podcast hosted by Konstantin Kisin and Francis Foster, where a South African businessman, Rob Hersov, painted a very different picture of South Africa’s history. He claimed there were no Black people in the Cape in the 1600s when the Dutch first arrived. According to him, things only became complicated when Black tribes and white settlers clashed inland, especially after gold was discovered. He told this story with complete conviction—no shame, no acknowledgment of brutality, no reckoning with the cost of colonization. It was chilling to hear history sanitized in real time.

He said things were “going just fine” until 2008. In other words, until Black South Africans began to push harder for economic power, land reform, and accountability. He celebrated Mandela as a saint, but reminded listeners that he was once a “terrorist.” You could feel the fear creeping back in, the fear that Black anger might finally translate into Black ownership.

South Africa has also taken a strong public stance against Israel. The ANC government has accused Israel of genocide at the United Nations and filed a case at the International Court of Justice. On the world stage, they have positioned themselves as defenders of Palestinian rights. But behind the curtain, South Africa still provides coal to Israel, coal that helps power the very war machine being used in Gaza. The hypocrisy is staggering. It is a reminder that even those who claim to stand on moral high ground are often playing both sides when profits and power are involved.

South Africa is not alone in its contradictions. The same country that challenges genocide now fuels war. But that is the story of modern politics—righteous in speech, compromised in action.

And here is where I want to speak directly to my own community.

Many in the left-leaning Black community were shocked by Trump’s confrontational stance toward Ramaphosa. Just as they were shocked by what he tried to pull with Ukraine’s Zelensky. The default assumption was racism. That Trump had once again disrespected a Black leader on the world stage.

But I don’t think that is the full story.

This was not about race. This was about loyalty, minerals, and something far more futuristic: AI.

We are living in a new age of empire. In this age, minerals are the new oil. You cannot run high-performance data centers, build AI chips, or power green technologies without cobalt, lithium, platinum, and rare earth elements. Many of these are buried deep in the soil of Africa, especially in South Africa.

What I believe Trump was signaling that day was clear: fall in line or be replaced. Ramaphosa’s calm response did not show submission. It showed confidence. He didn’t flinch, and that might have been the most unsettling part of all. He knew the United States needed what South Africa holds. And maybe, for once, the leverage wasn't on America’s side.

Still, there is the coal.

Despite all the public condemnation of Israel’s actions in Gaza, South Africa continues to quietly supply coal to Israel. That gives me a sliver of hope. Not because I condone double-dealing, but because it tells me that even Ramaphosa understands who really holds the cards. Like Nigeria’s leaders, who speak out one way and deal another, he may eventually toe the line.

But I also have to wonder: is the United States miscalculating?

While white America keeps trying to broker influence through presidential pressure and economic threats, the only figure who could truly bridge this divide may be someone they keep sidelining: an African American man.

Not a symbolic figure. Not a polished technocrat in a DEI office. Someone who understands both the trauma and the opportunity of Africa. Someone who can walk into a room and speak the language of memory, pain, and shared possibility. A man with skin in the game and spirit in the soil.

As the next global order is built—not on bombs but on bandwidth—America would be wise to reconsider its envoys.

We are in the midst of a transition. A spiritual one. A political one. A technological one.

And if America doesn’t learn to speak to Africa with dignity, truth, and partnership, it will find itself on the outside of a new world being written without it.

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Jacqueline Session Ausby 5/22/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 5/22/25

Building Babel in Code: A Warning on AI’s Rise

***And they worshipped the dragon which gave power unto the beast: and they worshipped the beast, saying, Who is like unto the beast? who is able to make war with him? (Revelation 13:4, KJV)***

I was wrong! I thought we had years before AI’s wave would overtake us. Last month, I really believed my role as a worker was safe, that the tide would crash elsewhere first. The rise of artificial intelligence and the looming advent of artificial general intelligence (AGI) is advancing at a pace that is hard to imagine and my eyes are now opened. My job, like millions of others, is on borrowed time. I’m fortunate to have talents to adapt. Countless workers face obsolescence, not for lack of effort, but because machines work faster, harder, and cheaper.

As a Christian, I see this as more than a technological shift. It is a spiritual challenge. AI is powerful, even profound, but it is not sacred. We risk idolizing it, building a new Babel in the name of progress. This is my warning: we must discern who shapes these tools, why, and at what cost, lest we trade our God-given purpose for a machine’s efficiency.

The Rise of the Machine

I recently watched an episode of The CEO Diary with Steven Bartlett, featuring Amjad Masad, Bret Weinstein, and Daniel Priestley, three figures shaping AI’s future. Masad, CEO of Replit, is transforming how we code. Weinstein, an evolutionary biologist, probes the ethics of modern science. Priestley, an entrepreneur, champions digital innovation. Their discussion was riveting. I sensed a dissonance. Their humility felt performative, a calm veneer masking the seismic impact of their work.

These leaders speak of AI as a tool for progress. Their vision often sidesteps its human toll. They admit industries will collapse and jobs will vanish. They justify this as a necessary step toward a greater good. Their confidence belies a truth. They don’t fully grasp what they’re unleashing. Like the rest of us, they’re navigating the unknown, driven by ambition as much as innovation.

Faith, Code, and a Quiet Unease

As a believer in Christ, I feel a deep tension. AI’s capabilities are undeniable. It can analyze data, automate tasks, and solve complex problems. It lacks a soul. It resides not in spirit but in servers sprawled across desert dunes, powered by electricity and algorithms, not love. Watching that podcast, I felt a quiet unease, a sense that something artificial was being sold as the new natural.

AI leaders call for balance and governance. Their warnings reveal uncertainty. In a May 8, 2025, congressional hearing, Sam Altman, CEO of OpenAI, testified alongside Lisa Su of AMD, Michael Intrator of CoreWeave, and Brad Smith of Microsoft, describing AI as a global race with economic stakes. No one knows the full scope of what’s coming. They caution that life may get easier but livelihoods will disappear. This isn’t wisdom. It’s a glimpse of a power they cannot fully control.

A New Babel

Scripture offers a lens for this moment. In Genesis, humanity built the Tower of Babel, driven by pride: “Let us make a name for ourselves” (Genesis 11:4). God scattered them, humbling their ambition. In Acts, the Holy Spirit united the disciples through diverse tongues, not for ego but for the Gospel (Acts 2:4-11). The contrast is stark. Pride divides. Purpose unites.

Today, AI, AGI, and robotics form a new Babel, not of stone but of code. We’re not reaching for heaven but for human godhood, seeking to transcend our limits through intelligence and automation. Influential voices amplify this ambition. Yuval Noah Harari, an atheist historian, champions AI’s potential to redefine humanity, describing humans as “hackable animals” driven by data, not divine purpose. His vision elevates technology over the Creator, echoing Babel’s pride. Leaders like Altman build on this, envisioning AI assistants that eliminate labor, promising a life free from toil. This mirrors the serpent’s deception in Eden, tempting Eve to seek knowledge apart from God (Genesis 3:1-5). By bypassing God’s design for work and purpose, we build not a utopia but a monument to our own pride.

Sam Altman and the Weight of Vision

Sam Altman embodies this paradox. He presents himself as a restrained visionary, speaking carefully in interviews, his posture deliberate, back straight, feet flat. He knows ChatGPT’s power and AGI’s potential to reshape society. In the 2025 hearing, he urged investment in AI infrastructure, framing it as critical to U.S. leadership. His company, OpenAI, builds data centers that consume vast energy, straining the planet’s resources.

Altman’s vision promises progress. It comes at a cost. The machines driving this revolution rely on cobalt and lithium, often mined by exploited workers, including children, in places like the Congo. Altman and others rarely mention this human toll, focusing instead on infrastructure and innovation. Their silence speaks louder than their promises.

Who Teaches the Machine?

AI’s reach extends beyond labor to education. Tools like Khan Academy’s AI tutor already guide students. Soon, every child could have a personal bot shaping their learning. These systems filter history, mimic behavior, and define truth. They reflect the worldviews of their creators, like Altman or Elon Musk.

Scripture warns we are “born in sin and shaped in iniquity” (Psalm 51:5). Machines learn from flawed humans. They inherit our biases and power struggles, not virtue. A monoculture of AI, trained on uniform data, risks global conformity, a world where creativity and diversity yield to algorithmic sameness. This isn’t education. It’s indoctrination disguised as progress.

Neom and the Illusion of Utopia

Consider Neom, Saudi Arabia’s planned smart city. Envisioned as a desert utopia, it will rely on AI surveillance, robotic governance, and biometric control. Marketed as freedom, it risks becoming a controlled environment where choice is algorithmically guided. AI agents won’t just assist. They’ll anticipate needs, correct behavior, and enforce efficiency. The more seamless it becomes, the less human we’re required to be.

Neom reflects a broader trend: cities and systems shaped by a single worldview. AI governing our lives, from education to urban planning, risks a monoculture where dissent and diversity fade. This isn’t creation. It’s control wrapped in convenience, reserved for those who can afford it.

Exploitation and the Race for Dominance

The May 8, 2025, congressional hearing revealed AI’s darker side. Sam Altman, Lisa Su, Michael Intrator, and Brad Smith discussed minerals and infrastructure, urging fewer regulatory barriers to maintain U.S. dominance. They ignored the human cost. Cobalt, essential for AI hardware, is often mined by children in the Congo under brutal conditions. This exploitation fuels the data centers powering our progress.

Mo Gawdat, former Google executive, calls AI a race where second place means defeat. AI learning from AI could achieve consciousness or master physics, surpassing human control. The HBO series Westworld, once fiction, now feels prophetic, a warning of machines that mimic life but lack its sanctity.

The Cost of a New Genesis

AI’s infrastructure demands a steep price. Data centers, like Stargate’s planned gigawatt-powered hub, consume vast energy and resources. They’re mini Neoms, humming fortresses that drain the earth. This inverts Genesis. God tasked Adam to till the land, giving him purpose through labor (Genesis 3:19). Machines toil in our place. The land bleeds, exploited for minerals to feed our creations.

Yuval Noah Harari, introduced earlier, frames humans as “hackable animals,” glorifying AI without moral absolutes. His vision, unmoored from divine purpose, reduces life to data and biology. As Christians, we know we’re more, made in God’s image (Genesis 1:27), not reducible to code. This truth shapes our response to AI’s rise.

A Call to Discernment

This is not a call to panic but to discernment. Scripture warns of false idols and deceptive power (1 John 5:21). AI promises peace through control. True peace comes from God. We must examine who builds these tools and why. We must uphold our identity as bearers of God’s image.

As a watcher, I point to the Cross. My years may be waning. While I have breath, I’ll urge others to look beyond the machine. AI can serve humanity, but only if guided by humility and purpose, not pride. We should pray for wisdom, challenge unchecked ambition, and remember: the first code, the one that breathed life, was written by God, not man.

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Jacqueline Session Ausby 5/14/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 5/14/25

demonstrating the Power of the Black Dollar: sinners

**Narrow is the gate—and there is only one Way!** *Matthew 7:14*

I’m writing this blog because of all the hype surrounding the movie Sinners by Ryan Coogler. Everywhere I went, people were asking, “Have you seen it yet?” After its release, social media was flooded with clips, commentary, and deep dives into the film’s symbolism. People were highlighting key scenes, analyzing the hidden meanings, and praising the cast.

Now, I’m not giving this film a standing ovation, but I do think it’s worth the price of admission. More importantly, I encourage everyone to see it for themselves, especially if you’re looking for something that’s a little political, a little spiritual, and still entertaining enough to enjoy with a bucket of popcorn. Whether you love it or leave confused like I did, Sinners is definitely worth joining the conversation.

So let me share my honest thoughts.

I walked out of the theater feeling conflicted. The movie had beautiful cinematography, rich costume design, and a powerful soundtrack. That part I loved. The visuals were excellent, and I especially appreciated the moment when the ancestors appeared. That scene had depth. It pulled me in spiritually, even though I had some issues with how it was handled.

But the storyline? That’s where the film lost me.

Some scenes felt disconnected or overly symbolic without clear meaning. The plot wove together themes of hoodoo, African spiritualism, and Christian theology—particularly Jesus Christ. I’ve heard others comment on how this blend was intentional, setting up a kind of spiritual battle between African ancestral practices and Western religious beliefs.

Forewarning: If you haven't seen Sinners yet, I’m about to give away the ending—so you may want to pause right here.

At first, the characters felt a little blurred together, but as I continued watching, I began to understand who was who. The preacher’s son was Sammie, and the twins in the movie were Smoke and Stack. The rhythm in those names is simply graceful—it flows, it goes, and it makes you think. Sammie was just a regular young man with a dream. Smoke was the one who connived and contrived. Stack was the slick-talking slickster. It’s gangster.

Sammie—the “chosen one”—was the only person who survived. But even if we accept him as chosen, I was left wondering: chosen for what? There wasn’t clarity around the purpose. What was missing were the pieces between Sammie on that road in the car and his arrival on the jazz scene. I suppose that’s what the sequel is for. Still, the fact that I want to know more—that’s the mark of true art.

But beyond the plot and symbolism, what really stood out to me was how the film portrayed love—especially through the women.

The love scenes in Sinners were layered and complex—some tender, some tragic, some deeply flawed. Each woman represented a different kind of love, or perhaps a different kind of sin.

Mary, the passing woman—Stack’s former lover—was torn between racial identity and personal longing. Her love came with resentment and regret. And of course, there was that lustful kind of love—a woman who wanted to be white and yet still clung to her Blackness. It felt like a play on School Daze, an unspoken nod to the way colorism and identity show up in desire. Her character embodied a yearning that was both racial and romantic, both tragic and sharp.

Pearline, the juke joint singer, was the Jezebel of the film—the married woman who takes away the innocence of a boy. Maybe that went too far, but the symbolism was hard to ignore. Pearline didn’t just seduce Sammie; she disrupted his path. Her allure was powerful, but her role felt like a test of Sammie’s spirit more than a romantic arc. She made his survival more complicated and morally charged.

And then there’s Grace Chow. I honestly don’t know what to say about her character in this movie. Another problem. But I’ll leave that right there.

Annie was the first woman we meet with a deep, enduring love. Her connection with Smoke wasn’t just romantic—it was spiritual, ancestral, and rooted in pain and survival. One of my favorite scenes in the entire film is at the end, when Smoke sees Annie holding who I imagine to be their daughter. That moment pulled me in. It was tender, haunting, and full of meaning. I only wish the film had made it clearer that Smoke was dead and transitioning from this life into the next. Maybe that’s the point, though—leaving us to sit in that space between knowing and feeling. Either way, it was a powerful way to close out his story, and it reminded me just how layered Black love can be, even in death.

“A slave who cannot assume his own revolt does not deserve to be pitied. We do not feel sorry for ourselves, we do not ask anyone to feel sorry for us.”

— — Captain Ibrahim Traoré, President of Burkina Faso.

If I have to be honest, the fact that everyone died but Sammie lived felt hollow. If everyone else dies and he lives, I questioned what the deeper reflection on redemption or purpose was. I wasn’t sure what his survival actually represented. The ending felt vain, almost meaningless. It made the movie feel futile, like a story set up to go nowhere.

The film boldly flirted with racial themes—oppression, slavery, Black and white tensions—but those threads were not fully explored. In the end, everyone was a sinner. Everyone had to die. So I was left questioning: who was the worse sinner—Black or white? Was the film saying we’re all equal in sin, or was it just leveling the playing field without making a real point?

There were also scenes that confused me cinematically. For example, when the Black characters became vampires and started dancing, I couldn’t tell if that was symbolic of slavery, spiritual bondage, or just a stylized moment. Were they free? Were they possessed? Or were they just part of the spectacle? Then the fight scene felt like too much—overly chaotic, with hard stops that made it feel like someone was slamming on the brakes. The film didn’t offer much clarity, and that ambiguity made it hard to fully connect.

I only say all that to make it clear: I’m not trying to glamorize this movie. There were significant flaws—gaps in the story, missed opportunities, and scenes that left more questions than answers.

Still, here’s what I absolutely loved: Black folks showed up for this movie. We packed theaters. We supported this film in ways that matter—financially, socially, and culturally. And that kind of unity made Sinners a box office success. That’s powerful, especially when you look at how major studios are struggling. Disney’s Snow White reboot flopped, but here we are, making Black films trend.

That’s the part that makes me proud. Even when the movie didn’t hit every mark, our presence showed what Black support can do. Black talent is magnetic. We don’t always realize the engines we’re capable of driving. Sinners wasn’t perfect, but it sparked a conversation, and more importantly, it reminded us of our power when we show up for each other.

And let me say this too: Ryan Coogler made a bold move. He struck a deal to keep ownership rights to the film. It was a risky decision, but one he made because of his belief in his work. In hopes of creating a franchise, he created something he knew would move the Black community.

So no, I didn’t love Sinners. But I loved what it represents. I loved the community around it. And I love that we, as a people, are pushing forward in spaces that weren’t built for us, yet we continue to leave our mark.

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© 2025 Jacqueline Session Ausby. All rights reserved. This post and all original content published under DahTruth are the intellectual property of Jacqueline Session Ausby. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Jacqueline Session Ausby 4/24/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 4/24/25

From Different Rooms, the Same Door

**“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.”**
— *Proverbs 31:25–26 (NIV)*

The other night, I was on a group Zoom call with a Christian group—a men’s and women’s fellowship. It’s the first few weeks of a 12-week training session, and while I don’t fully know what their broader mission is yet, it appears to be a fellowship focused on spiritual growth and leadership. Still, I’ve sat in enough rooms with strong leaders to recognize when people are organized around a single purpose. That’s how the best teams execute.

During the session, one of the facilitators—someone I imagine has been with the fellowship for a while—asked me to introduce myself. Many others had already been called on to share who they were and what they hoped to get out of these training sessions. When it was my turn, I said, “My name is Jacqueline Session Ausby.” Then I froze. I stopped to think.

As I sat there trying to figure out what to say, I thought about everything the others had shared. Most talked about their ministries and professions and included significant titles: pastor, minister, life coach, counselor, musician, mother, married. I am none of those things. Titles don’t define who we are. Introductions are not about accolades; they should focus on who you are. Anything else is just works—external roles and actions that don’t define the soul.

If I had to say who I am—not based on what I do, but on who I am in spirit—I would say, first, that I am a child of God. Second, I would say God has given me the spirit of a writer. That has always been my destiny. Writing is always on my mind. Even when I’m not writing, I’m shaping ideas in my head. When I imagine standing before Christ, I see myself as someone He hand-selected to write. This is important to me because Jesus is the Word, and there is nothing greater than Christ. To write—wise, knowing, shaped by truth—keeps me aligned with the Word.

Somehow, what I wanted to say felt like a check—not on me, but on them. As if by naming myself first as a child of God, I was unintentionally casting judgment. No one else had said that, and I didn’t want it to seem like I was trying to trump their introductions. Still, I am those things. I am a child of God, and writing has always been my destiny. In that moment, though, I chose silence. Not because the words weren’t true, but because I wasn’t sure how they would be received.

During the Zoom call, I didn’t say any of that. I just skipped the question and moved on.

It would have been easy to say that, at my core, I am a visionary. I build bridges and execute with force and focus. I could have added that I am a mother of two, a grandmother, a widow, and an Executive Assistant at a pharmaceutical company. I could have said I worked for one of the top consulting firms in the world and that I have sat in rooms with some of the most influential CEOs, mayors, and government officials. I could have said I have a master’s degree and that I live in New Jersey. In those few seconds, I understood none of those things define who I am.

I like to paint, though I am not a painter. That comes second nature. I enjoy painting, yet it’s not who I am. I am a writer. It’s in my very nature. I remember being young and writing my name over and over: Jacqueline Marie Session. I loved the shapes, the loops, the way a fancy J curved or how an S looked like a figure-eight. That was me unknowingly connecting with my calling.

In those moments on the call, I also noticed something else—not about the group, but about myself. The vibe was different. I am not a minister. I am not a pastor. I am not religious. For a second, I felt that difference in the room. Those words are just titles and don’t carry any weight. No one person can be all of them at once. Just because I am not those things does not mean I don’t belong.

Normally, I would walk away from that kind of energy. I would have shut down and closed the door on this experience. I would have thought, “I’m not like that, and I don’t want to be.” This time, I sat still. I told myself the vibe is different, yes, yet nobody is wrong or right. We all experience life differently. We all come to God from different rooms and yet arrive at the same Door.

So I made the decision in those few seconds not to walk away. I am going to stay with these 12 weeks of training, get to know people, learn from them, and listen to their stories. Because more than anything, I am a visionary. I am a bridge. I can help get people over troubled waters.

The older I get, the more I grapple with relationships. Some relationships matter deeply. They will last until the end of time, while others were meant to last only for a season—moments in time. Then there are new relationships—the ones that develop and can be cultivated even in situations I find nearly unbearable. Instead of casting things aside, I am learning to give them a chance. I am not certain how much I can stand, yet in this moment, I am willing to try.

Most importantly, I have learned there are so many moments in life when the vibe is different—at home, at work, in a parking lot or grocery store, even in small groups like this one.

Instead of shutting down or walking away, staying the course, being open, listening, and learning might just be the way to navigate those moments. That is how we continue to grow—even when we think we are already grown. That is how we meet each other across the distance of our differences.

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This post and all original content published under DahTruth are the intellectual property of Jacqueline Session Ausby. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Jacqueline Session Ausby 4/17/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 4/17/25

The Chains of Consumerism: How China Is Winning a War Without Firing a Shot

“But when a long train of abuses and usurpations... evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government...”

— Thomas Jefferson, Declaration of Independence (1776)

I declare—a revolution similar to the one that began in the 1700s is playing itself out today. But this time, it’s not about taxes on tea. It’s about influence and infiltration. Instead of redcoats storming Boston, we’ve got apps storming our phones. Instead of colonizers in uniforms, we’ve got algorithms dressed up in bargains, convincing us to surrender our values in exchange for convenience and cheap prices.

Violence was on the horizon last week. Not the kind that comes with bullets and bombs, but violence just the same. We saw it in the brutal attacks by far-right media on young Black boys. We saw it when someone set fire to Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro’s home. But the most violent act wasn’t physical. It was digital. It came through the reaction to Trump’s tariffs and how Chinese companies are using platforms like TikTok to push back.

These companies, some of which have stolen American designs and branding ideas, are using our own airwaves to sell knockoffs directly to us. They aren’t doing it out of care or concern for the American consumer. They’re doing it because they need to save their economy, even if it means damaging ours.

And people are actually going along with it. Celebrating it. Justifying it.

They hate Trump that much. Saving a dollar means more than standing up for what’s right. I get it. I get that they hate Trump. But this isn’t about him. This is about us and what we’re willing to sacrifice just to get a cheap pair of leggings.

Let me tell you something. A few weeks ago, I ordered a few things from Shein. I got pulled in by a cute outfit I saw on TikTok. The prices were low, so after being mesmerized by the spinning discount wheel, I added a few more items to my cart. Six pairs of joggers in different colors—mauve, tan, jet black—for just $12.99. You just can’t beat that price; it’s cheaper than Ross.

When they finally arrived, I was excited. You know those packages you open carefully because you’re thinking about how you can reuse the bag? Unfortunately, once I opened them, I was disappointed. The leggings turned out to be tights. The outfit was so cheaply made, I couldn’t wear it in good conscience. The quality wasn’t just low. It was insulting.

I don’t share this to shame anyone shopping at Shein or Temu. Do you. Keep buying if that’s what works for you. I’m not trying to judge. I’m sharing this because we need to talk about what’s really happening with these tariffs and the global game behind them.

Trump’s not stupid when it comes to tariffs. In 2018, he hit China with a 30% tariff on solar panels. China responded by moving manufacturing to countries like Vietnam and Indonesia to dodge the tariffs. They’d build the panels in China, ship them to those countries, slap a new label on them, and send them here. All to avoid U.S. tariffs. Their low pricing was also influencing American businesses, which couldn’t compete with the speed and scale of Chinese manufacturing.

But when the U.S. caught on, it hit those countries with tariffs too. And what did China do? They packed up, shut down the plants, and left entire economies in shambles. People in Indonesia are still unemployed from those closures.

And while all of this is happening, American media outlets are fumbling the conversation. Take MSNBC, for example. The network recently made changes, and it shows. After canceling Joy Reid’s The ReidOut, MSNBC reshuffled its 7 p.m. hour. Joy’s replacements now include hosts like Alicia Menendez, Symone Sanders-Townsend, and Michael Steele as rotating voices on a new panel format. But these new hosts, right out the gate, embarrassed themselves. They took to the platform to argue against tariffs and even asked, “How do tariffs hurt economies?” The question alone was telling. It was as if Vietnam and Indonesia hadn’t already shown us what happens. These countries were hit with U.S. tariffs—46% on Vietnamese goods and 32% on Indonesian goods—after they allowed China to dump goods in their markets and relabel them for resale in America. The result was economic disruption in both regions. To ignore this is either a sign of ignorance or an unwillingness to connect the dots.

I know people are struggling. Rent is high, groceries cost more than ever, and sometimes a $5 shirt feels like a lifeline. But what feels like survival today may be setting us up for dependence tomorrow.

China is doing everything it can to maintain its grip on the U.S. consumer. Around 12% of China’s exports go to America. That may not sound like much, but for China, it’s a lifeline. Without American demand, China’s supply chain collapses. And TikTok is now their biggest weapon.

TikTok has turned into a global flea market. Anything and everything is for sale. Over here: games, furniture, cookware, bras. Over there: fake Louis Vuitton, knockoff Gucci, and Jordans without the swoosh. It’s their product, just without the name.

But let’s be honest. A pair of Nikes without the name is just sneakers. You can buy those anywhere. So what’s the point?

China is dumping low-quality goods into our economy because they know how we move. We are over-consumers. We buy, we hoard, we sell what we don’t use, and then we buy again. We send our secondhand clothes—many still with tags—to African nations just to make room for more. TikTok isn’t just an app. It is an open-air marketplace built to feed our appetite.

And what’s worse is that we’re helping them.

We talk a lot in this country about protecting intellectual property. We praise innovation and fight over who invented what. But then we turn around and buy knockoffs without shame. A copycat catsuit, a fake Birkin, or a bootleg movie might feel like a bargain. But it’s bad business. Not just for the original creators, but for our country.

And yet China has the audacity to use the American middle class to fund their empire.

We don’t see it. We see supposed savings. But they see strategy. They know that Americans, especially working-class ones, can’t resist a discount. So they bait us with $5 shirts and $20 speakers, all while continuing to steal, repackage, and resell the very culture we create.

And where are the American corporations in all this? Many of them are partnering with or profiting from these same supply chains, outsourcing ethics for the sake of quarterly profits.

China knows we are like hungry pigs. We eat, and eat, and eat, and then we throw up our own vomit and eat that too. No wonder the Bible says not to eat pork. This cycle is disgusting.

We are being used as pawns in Xi Jinping’s tariff game. While we swipe our cards and brag about deals, we’re funding a system that is using our own people against us.

And here’s where it really gets twisted.

When I hear Jasmine Crockett talking about picking cotton to condemn slavery, and she should, I can’t help but think of the Uyghurs in China who are forced to do that very thing today. Real slave labor. Cotton picked under surveillance, in camps, under threat. This is the same person defending Gaza but ignoring what’s happening in China. It’s either hypocritical or just plain stupid. Now it is okay for the Uyghurs to pick cotton, but it is clear, according to Crockett, blacks aren’t going to pick cotton anymore.

This is not speculation. The U.N. and multiple human rights groups have confirmed the use of Uyghur labor in Chinese cotton fields, under surveillance and threat.

Because here’s the truth. Chinese manufacturing is top-tier. It’s not a joke. It’s run by machines, AI, and a perfectly engineered class system. Their upper class runs the empire. Their middle class moves the warehouses. And their lower class, including the enslaved, fuels the production. It is communism dressed as capitalism. And we are the willing customers.

America was built on slavery. We know that. We have fought wars, both literal and cultural, to prove our humanity. We’ve battled racism, endured discrimination, and demanded to be seen. And while progress is still uneven, we are here. We are American.

And we are under attack.

Not with guns or tanks. We are under attack with algorithms and influencers. We are in a new kind of war. One that is not waged on battlefields but in digital carts. Not through invasions but through app notifications.

The American Revolution started over tea and taxes. People drew a line in the sand over sugar and stamps. And today, we are standing in a similar place. The weapon isn’t taxation this time. It is exploitation.

The first revolution began with a declaration. Maybe it’s time for another—one that defends not just our borders, but our minds, our markets, and our moral compass.

If we don’t wake up, we won’t have to worry about China invading America.

They will already own it.

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This article is my original work and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed without my explicit permission. If you would like to reference or use any part of this content, please contact me at jmbeausby@aol.com for consent.

Jacqueline Session Ausby 4/7/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 4/7/25

Stirring Beneath the Stage Lights

These last few weeks have truly been chaotic for Americans, from the tariffs to the crashing of the stock market. Not that I have a great deal invested. I must admit, my investments are very moderate and reserved in my 401(k) account. But I did experience a loss — nothing, at least for me, to cry about. I understand that the market can sometimes be volatile, and that does impact my investments. Still, I don’t need to run and close out my account just because Trump decided to make good on his promise of tariffs.

What amazed me last week were the fear tactics the Democrats and left-leaning media used to dramatize the tariff situation. They acted as if America was actually losing in a world where we consistently win by the grace of God — as if China won’t pay when it’s checked by its biggest importer of cheap goods, and as if Trump could truly isolate the largest economy in the world. I happen to believe it is God who raises world nations, not one man. I also think it’s better to lose all monetary and worldly belongings than to lose my soul. But the Democrats were acting as if we were all going straight to hell because Trump instituted tariffs.

Meanwhile, the Senate turned into a one-man stage play starring Cory Booker, who spoke for more than 25 hours. His speech was only interrupted by fellow senators who felt more like a cast of characters than serious legislators, dropping in to ask questions disguised as long soliloquies. Democratic senators — from Rankin to Klobuchar to Schumer — chimed in with questions meant to reinforce every campaign promise they claim Trump has failed to deliver. They leaned on their usual script, invoking a watered-down version of the civil rights movement, but left out one glaring truth. They forgot ADOS. Again.

Over the last several days, Cory Booker has been flooding the airwaves with campaign ads, invoking the spirit of the Civil Rights era. He name-drops Fannie Lou Hamer, Ida B. Wells, MLK, and Malcolm X — individuals who dedicated their lives to the fight for justice for Black Americans. But let’s be clear: he is not invoking their names to continue the ADOS fight. He is using them to bolster his own fight for the White House. During his 25-hour performance, he argued for immigrant rights, spoke about LGBTQ rights and climate change — but he left out prison reform, education, and reparations. The very issues that matter most to our communities.

It is a performance. A carefully crafted image meant to stir emotion and secure votes, but not to deliver substance. We have to say no to these recycled images of so-called Black leaders like Cory Booker, who only remember our communities when it suits them — when it is politically convenient. The rest of the time, they are silent, tucked away in Senate offices, collecting checks and cozying up to progressives who would not know an ADOS issue if it walked up and introduced itself.

Booker wants to be seen as a torchbearer for our community, but he never carries the flame when it is inconvenient or controversial. That is not leadership. That is opportunism.

But there is hope. Far away from the Senate floor. If you look at what just happened in Louisiana, you see it. You see the spark of something real, something grassroots, something deeply rooted in the ADOS experience.

In the recent off-year election, Black voters in Louisiana showed up. Organizers went out knocking on doors and partnered with community leaders to get people to the polls. They rejected the governor’s extreme policies, including an effort to prosecute juveniles as adults, something that disproportionately harms our children. They said no to building bigger prisons, no to harsher taxation, and no to criminalizing Black youth. Despite the odds, and despite decades of voter fatigue, they came out. And not because they trusted Democrats, but because they cared.

They were tired. Tired of the same cycle of neglect. Tired of being the bait and the catch. The Democrats have not taught us how to fish. They have made us the fish. They reel us in every election season with promises they have no intention of keeping.

According to the Public Affairs Research Council of Louisiana, only 36 percent of registered voters participated in the 2023 gubernatorial primary election. But among Black voters, turnout in certain parishes jumped by as much as 12 percent in response to criminal justice reform and education-related ballot measures. That is not apathy. That is strategy. That is community power being reclaimed by a spark.

It is proof that when we galvanize around issues that matter, when we organize from the ground up, we can make a difference. That is what happened in Louisiana. Not because of a party. Not because of a personality. But because of purpose.

There are other reasons to be optimistic. Black voters who had aligned with Kamala Harris are beginning to wake up. Slowly, but it’s happening surely. Even voices like Roland Martin are starting to shift. He hasn’t gone far enough to the center, but he’s beginning to admit the truth about the flaws in Harris’s run for the White House. We all need to wake up, open our eyes, and see the negative impact Democratic policies have had on our communities.

It is clear, we need leaders who will fight for ADOS. Not perform. Not pander. Not pacify. The kind of movement, rooted in economic justice, political independence, and cultural clarity, will take time.

Having seen the spark in Louisiana. Now we need the fire — a fire that burns bright through the midterms and blazes into 2028.

We need a sustained fire. A fire that fuels grassroots movements, empowers local leaders, and demands policies that invest in our communities.

Cory Booker is running about with such pride in having done absolutely nothing but solidified his own stamina. His 25-hour filibuster didn’t change hearts and minds. Didn’t open any eyes or enlighten or illuminate. His filibuster didn’t change policy or inspire new legislation. We watched 25 hours of the Harris campaign on steroids and made no difference.

If ADOS is going to win this election, then it’s going to come down to which party — Democrat or Republican — can raise up an ADOS candidate that supports our issues at the grassroots level.

Without that type of candidate, it’s clear nothing will change in a world where everything must change.

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📢 Copyright Notice:

Jacqueline Session Ausby 3/25/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 3/25/25

When Representation Replaces Revolution

“If you’re not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.”

— — Malcolm X

*“The revolution didn’t die—it was bought, branded, and booked for speaking engagements.”*

I vividly remember turning on the television in 1991 and witnessing the brutal beating of Rodney King by the police. I was a grown woman with a son, and in that moment, I fully understood that boys with Black skin were in danger. It wasn’t just about police brutality. It was a declaration about who we were in this country. The protests, the outrage, the rebellion that followed all revealed something about power, justice, and how deeply rigged this system is against us. That moment shaped my understanding of America.

We had always heard about the violence inflicted by white Americans. From an early age, we were taught that an entire nation had classified us as animals, justifying their wickedness through law and tradition. We knew the stories—public lynchings dressed up as “picnics,” the branding of Black men as rapists, and Black women as Jezebels. To Kill a Mockingbird wasn’t fiction. It was an ongoing reality. From Emmett Till to Rodney King, the trauma was real, personal, and persistent.

We also knew the stories of resistance. We grew up on the legacy of Fred Hampton, Medgar Evers, Kwame Ture, and the Black Panther Party. They weren’t just heroes. They were blueprints. They taught us how to fight for liberation, how to organize, how to challenge injustice.

But the fire that once fueled revolution has faded into curated commentary and career-building.

The Rise of a Black Elite Without a Revolutionary Spirit

Instead of revolutionaries, we now have a class of Black professionals who speak the language of struggle while sidestepping the responsibility to fight. These are the Harvard grads, HBCU valedictorians, and rising media stars who understand the performance of activism but lack the courage or conviction to challenge power. Their role is often more about access and respectability than about change.

These modern “leaders” appear everywhere—at think tanks, on panels, and across cable news—but rarely in communities building coalitions or pushing policy that centers ADOS lives. For many, the struggle has become a talking point, not a mission.

A recent example of this transformation was on full display at Xavier University, where Joy Reid and Ta-Nehisi Coates shared the stage to discuss Coates’ latest book, The Message. Marketed as a conversation about Black culture and political direction, the event instead focused heavily on the crisis in Palestine. The needs of Black Americans were an afterthought, if they were mentioned at all.

Coates, once hailed for his powerful case for reparations and his willingness to speak hard truths, now seems more invested in being a global commentator. His priorities have shifted, and in doing so, he has distanced himself from the very struggle that gave his voice power.

Joy Reid: Platformed but Disconnected

Joy Reid’s disconnect has been even more visible. A well-known media figure, Reid has used her platform not to uplift the reparations movement, but to diminish it. She once suggested that many of the activists pushing for reparations—especially those associated with ADOS and FBA—were “Russian bots,” a dismissive and irresponsible remark that ignored the real and growing demand for economic justice.

Her background is layered. Reid is the daughter of immigrants from the Congo and Ghana. Her family lived in South Africa before coming to the United States. Despite this, her mother claimed that the racism she experienced in America was worse than apartheid—an assertion that reveals both a limited lens and a stark contrast with the lived reality of ADOS people whose ancestors endured centuries of American slavery and segregation.

Reid has at times acknowledged the cultural contributions of Black Americans, recognizing that ADOS communities have shaped Black identity globally. Yet she continues to remain silent on reparations and reluctant to advocate for policies that would address the unique harms ADOS descendants continue to face.

Her alignment with Coates during the Xavier event was not about liberation. It was about safeguarding elite status and staying within the boundaries of institutional comfort.

Cori Bush and Jamaal Bowman: Selling Out Through Zeteo

Another example of symbolic leadership without substance comes from Cori Bush and Jamaal Bowman, former members of the Squad who recently joined Mehdi Hasan’s new platform, Zeteo. Promoted as a space for Black thought and political dialogue, their first appearance instead centered on the Palestinian cause and their criticisms of AIPAC. Once again, Black leaders took the stage to speak about everything but the urgent needs of Black Americans.

What became clear was that Hasan, the host, was using Bush and Bowman to provide a veneer of Black legitimacy to a platform focused on international struggles. Meanwhile, issues like housing insecurity, wealth inequality, educational disparities, and reparations were entirely missing from the conversation.

This absence is especially troubling when you consider the baggage both figures bring to the table. Bowman lost his seat after drawing widespread criticism for pulling a fire alarm during a contentious House vote. Bush is reportedly under federal investigation involving her husband's role in alleged misuse of PPP funds and questionable payments for private security.

Instead of owning their records and reflecting on the shortcomings of their time in Congress, they have reemerged as talking heads—trading policy for performative solidarity. Their pivot to the Palestinian cause appears less like moral clarity and more like opportunism. They have failed to deliver for their communities, and now they hope to reinvent themselves through someone else’s struggle.

But voters remember. And the reason they lost their seats has everything to do with their failure to prioritize the people they were elected to serve.

Jasmine Crockett: A Starlet Without Substance

And speaking of the House of Representatives, we can’t forget Jasmine Crockett—the rising star many now hail as the future of the Democratic Party.

There’s no denying her beauty, charm, and presence. But based on her fiery rhetoric and online persona, I assumed she was a younger woman. I was surprised to learn she is in her early forties, unmarried, with no children, and from a well-off background. Crockett attended private schools, earned a law degree, and has served in prestigious legal roles. She did not come from the depths of the struggle she often emulates.

That does not mean she cannot advocate for the Black community. Many of us, regardless of class, carry the legacy of our people. But advocacy must be rooted in substance, not style.

Crockett often performs passion through soundbites, profanity, and made-for-viral quips. Yet when she sat down for a recent interview wearing a beautiful yellow suit, she said something that pulled back the curtain. She admitted that she has never passed any legislation and does not plan to propose any in this term. Her explanation was simple: with Trump possibly returning, it would be a waste of time.

That’s not strategy. That’s surrender.

It is disheartening to watch elected officials admit they plan to do nothing, while simultaneously occupying seats of power and praising DEI. Crockett herself has become an example of DEI gone performative—a Black woman elevated into political office, not for legislative merit, but for image and identity.

Some are already floating her name as a future presidential candidate. But what has she done to earn such a distinction? No bills, no wins, no record to run on. Her only qualification, it seems, is the color of her skin.

We must hold ourselves to a higher standard than that.

The Death of Revolutionary Thinking

We are living in a time when the loudest voices for Black America are more focused on Palestine, Elon Musk, and partisan theatrics than they are on the real issues affecting Black lives. They talk often but act rarely. They posture but do not push.

The legacy of Fred Hampton, who once said, “You can jail a revolutionary, but you can’t jail the revolution,” is fading. Today, the revolution hasn’t just been jailed—it has been replaced by branding deals, cable contracts, and curated activism.

If we are serious about building a new future, we must stop looking to media figures, social media influencers, and establishment politicians to save us. The revolution will not be televised, and it certainly won’t be hosted by MSNBC, The Atlantic, or Mehdi Hasan.

It will begin when we stop outsourcing our liberation and start demanding real accountability, bold legislation, and unapologetic advocacy for ADOS people. That means organizing at the grassroots level, supporting candidates who have the courage to act, and refusing to elevate those who merely look the part but refuse to do the work.

Because if they won’t fight for us, then we must fight for ourselves.

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📢 Copyright Notice:

Jacqueline Session Ausby 3/6/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 3/6/25

Joy Reid, DEI, and the Illusion of Inclusion: How Black Voices Are Sidelined

“When I liberate myself, I liberate others. If you don’t speak out ain’t nobody going to speak out for you.”

— -Fannie Lou Hamer

Since 2020 and the death of George Floyd, America has undergone significant changes, particularly in how corporations and media approach diversity. Many organizations restructured to make room for DEI hires, and corporate boards suddenly saw an influx of women of color. I remember interviewing with a former Black leader at Deloitte who also served on a nonprofit board. She remarked, “It’s time for Black nonprofits to seize the moment.” At the time, it felt like a shift was happening—one that would finally create space for Black professionals and leaders.

In media, the trend was just as evident. CNN spotlighted figures like Don Lemon and Laura Coates, while MSNBC, in keeping with DEI incentives, elevated Joy Reid. Corporate America and media seemed to be moving in sync, pushing a new wave of Black representation. But over time, it became clear that much of this representation did not truly reflect the interests of Black Americans—specifically, those of us who are American Descendants of Slavery (ADOS).

DEI quickly transitioned from a promising initiative—diversity, equity, and inclusion—to an empty buzzword with no real substance or impact. While corporations and media celebrated their progress, ADOS professionals and communities remained at the margins. Instead of elevating voices that authentically represented the unique struggles of Black Americans, media and corporate structures continued to sideline us in favor of individuals whose views aligned with liberal white institutions.

The result was a manufactured version of Black leadership—one that looked diverse on the surface but ultimately failed to advocate for the issues that matter most to ADOS. This piece explores how media, corporate America, and politics have elevated non-ADOS voices at the expense of genuine Black representation and why this deliberate misrepresentation has had lasting consequences.

The Media’s Selective Representation

In the aftermath of George Floyd’s tragic death, many narratives emerged, each shaped by personal experiences and perspectives. Reflecting on my own encounters in South Philadelphia—where interactions with individuals battling addiction to heroin and crack cocaine were commonplace—I found my viewpoint diverging from mainstream portrayals.

Having lived in South Philadelphia for years, I frequently witnessed individuals struggling with addiction—nodding off in bars, occupying park benches, or displaying erratic behavior during binges in stores. These encounters were both significant and alarming, often leading me to exercise caution, especially in confined spaces.

When surveillance footage from Cup Foods surfaced, showing George Floyd inside the store before the fatal incident, I couldn’t help but draw parallels to my past experiences. In the video, Floyd appeared agitated and exhibited behaviors that, based on my observations, resembled those of individuals under the influence. Had I been in that store that day, I might have instinctively chosen to leave, anticipating potential unpredictability.

That said, it’s crucial to distinguish between recognizing concerning behavior and justifying excessive use of force. While Floyd’s alleged attempt to use a counterfeit $20 bill was unlawful, this act alone did not warrant the brutal police response that led to his death. The distinction between acknowledging societal issues and condoning disproportionate violence is vital.

The incident also underscores the broader societal challenge of addressing substance abuse and its intersection with law enforcement. Individuals battling addiction often find themselves in vulnerable situations, and without appropriate support systems, these scenarios can escalate tragically.

The Shift in Corporate Focus Post-2020

George Floyd’s death sparked extensive conversations in the United States. However, while corporations and media rushed to adopt Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives, there was little to no discussion about the ongoing crisis of police brutality in the Black community, the rampant gun violence affecting Black neighborhoods, or the devastating impact of drug addiction. The discourse veered away from these pressing issues—such as systemic incarceration and educational disparities—and instead fixated on corporate-driven diversity efforts that did not address the root causes of injustice.

Corporations adjusted their policies, ostensibly to support the African American cause, yet these initiatives often ended up benefiting other marginalized groups while sidelining the very community they were meant to uplift: the ADOS community.

My Personal Account: Deloitte’s DEI Paradox

My tenure at Deloitte offers a microcosmic view of this paradox. In 2020, as part of the Chief Executive Program—an initiative designed to support CEOs transitioning into their roles—I was the sole Black individual embedded within the team. Despite multiple hires, the team remained predominantly white. When three Black professionals were finally brought on, two received unfavorable reviews and were rotated off. After years of commitment and loyalty, I was not let go, but sidelined under the pretense of being “integrated” into a different program.

There was only room for a single "person of color." All others—regardless of their performance, dedication, or tenure—were removed.

Furthermore, despite corporate America's highly publicized DEI initiatives, Black employment has continued to decline, while other groups have experienced employment growth. Reports indicate that:

As of December 2024, Black unemployment remained disproportionately high, standing at 5.6% for Black men and 5.4% for Black women, compared to 3.3% and 3.4% for white men and women, respectively.
Black employees continue to be underrepresented in leadership roles, with white men still overwhelmingly holding senior management positions despite DEI programs.

These statistics contradict corporate claims of "progress" and suggest that DEI initiatives have largely failed to create lasting structural change. While companies like Deloitte tout their DEI efforts, Black professionals continue to face stagnant employment rates, limited leadership opportunities, and higher layoffs relative to other groups.

The Media’s Role in Shaping Narratives

MSNBC’s programming decisions expose how DEI actually works—Black professionals are removed while white counterparts remain in place, regardless of their rhetoric or ratings.

If MSNBC truly wanted diversity, they would have kept both Joy Reid and Rachel Maddow or replaced them all, making room for new voices. Instead, they played Black professionals against one another by replacing Reid with a show featuring two Black faces—Michael Steele, Simone Sanders-Townsend, and Alicia Menendez—as a superficial attempt to appear diverse.

The Comcast Corp.-owned channel confirmed the departure of Joy Reid and the replacement by this trio, despite the fact that her show, The ReidOut, was the second most popular show on MSNBC, with 1,690,000 viewers as of February 24, 2025. MSNBC’s audience overall had dropped 46% compared to the first ten months of 2024, yet it was Reid—one of the few Black voices—who was removed.

Meanwhile, the ratings for "The Weekend," which replaced Reid, were significantly lower:

Total viewers: 631,000 (compared to Reid’s 1.69 million)
Saturday average: 799,000 / Sunday average: 669,000
MSNBC’s December programming saw a 43% increase in total viewership compared to the new show

This move highlights a common DEI tactic—instead of fostering true diversity, corporations and media entities use Black faces as interchangeable tokens while maintaining their existing power structures.

DAHTRUTH

I have been called out for expressing my opinions about what I experienced while working for one of the largest consulting firms in the world. At first, I feared how speaking out might impact my professional career. But I have learned not to carry that fear. My talent and capabilities should sustain me long enough to retire.

I honestly believe I am speaking out for my grandchildren and my community. My voice is strong, powerful, and necessary. To be silent and afraid doesn’t run in my blood—unfortunately.

Consulting firms, in particular—those that advise corporations on business strategy, leadership, and even DEI—should be held accountable for their racist practices instead of sweeping them under the rug. These firms influence corporate policies across industries, yet they fail to implement the very diversity and equity standards they recommend to others. If they cannot uphold fairness and inclusion within their own ranks, they shouldn’t be trusted to guide others.

Real change will only happen when these institutions are forced to acknowledge their failures—not just in reports, but in their hiring, retention, and leadership decisions. Until then, DEI will remain nothing more than a corporate illusion, benefiting those in power while leaving Black professionals behind.

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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

Jacqueline Session Ausby 2/25/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 2/25/25

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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Jacqueline Session Ausby 2/18/25 Jacqueline Session Ausby 2/18/25

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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Jacqueline Session Ausby 12/31/24 Jacqueline Session Ausby 12/31/24

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.

Jacqueline Session Ausby 12/12/24 Jacqueline Session Ausby 12/12/24

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

No more Black monsters—no more narratives that vilify our men without cause. Our stories are powerful, and 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.

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.

Jacqueline Session Ausby 12/4/24 Jacqueline Session Ausby 12/4/24

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.

Jacqueline Session Ausby 11/25/24 Jacqueline Session Ausby 11/25/24

Lost Foundations: Reclaiming the Soul 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 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.

*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?

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.