THE REBUKE

Choosing When to Cry

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I know as a Black woman, sometimes we cry, shed tears, and grieve as we witness the ways we are marginalized and oppressed. But the older I get, the more I’ve come to realize—you have to pick and choose when you let your tears fall and when it’s time to stop and walk away. It’s like a bad relationship. Most of us have had them, unfortunately. You know when you’ve invested one date too many, or when you gave in too quickly and found yourself chasing like a dog in heat. Eventually, most of us snap out of it, though some get caught up for decades.

The Problem with Native Land PODCAST

I am a firm believer that it’s okay to be vulnerable and shed a few tears when we are hurt. But here I’m talking about tears shed for causes that don’t truly impact your daily life. Specifically, the Native Land podcast hosted by Angela Rye, Tiffany Cross, and Andrew Gillum. This trio presents themselves as the intellectual voices of the Black community. Tiffany Cross had her own show on MSNBC but was terminated because of her rhetoric; Angela Rye at one point worked for the Congressional Black Caucus and was a CNN correspondent until she was silenced after a spar with Chris Cuomo; and Andrew Gillum was once a rising star akin to Barack Obama, but was caught up in a drug and homosexual scandal that cost him everything.

I say “Black” broadly, because they don’t really stand with ADOS, though they sprinkle in talk of reparations under a Pan-Africanist banner. They present themselves as representing all Blackness while pretending to align with the ADOS struggle, yet they embrace practices that cripple our community and shed tears for causes that have nothing to do with our struggles.

The truth is, these three have been an embarrassment to the Black community, both in their private lives and public personas.

Recently, on their podcast, they were discussing Trump and Union Station. They called out Trump and his so-called “Gestapo-style takeover” of an American city—namely D.C.—and his threat to send the National Guard to Chicago. They pretend there is no crime. Meanwhile, residents in D.C. and Chicago—both Black and white—are literally begging for the National Guard to come into their communities because of unchecked violence. This wouldn’t even be on the table if politicians were doing their jobs and addressing the crime devastating urban neighborhoods. And yet, instead of uplifting accountability, they invoke Jamal Bryant—the pastor who still leads a large congregation despite his affairs while married, his out-of-wedlock son whom he does not support—if not financially, then certainly not emotionally or spiritually—and his recent alignment with the LGBTQ agenda that blatantly contradicts Biblical principles.

Democrats have done nothing to solve this crisis. No legislation for education. No solutions for housing. No answers for drug addiction or gang violence. No protection from illegal immigration overwhelming our communities. And yet instead of addressing these realities the three host get on air and cry foul.

False Narratives and Distractions

When Tiffany Cross had her own show on MSNBC (The Cross Connection), she was let go after controversial commentary—such as saying the handling of Tua Tagovailoa’s concussion showed how “white NFL coaches do not protect Black bodies”—even though the Dolphins' coach, Mike McDaniel, is biracial. Those remarks didn’t align with reality, and she was put on the hot seat for presenting only one side of the story. The truth is, there are serious issues with how the NFL treats players’ bodies in general, but all of that gets overshadowed by race when commentary comes from individuals like Tiffany Cross.

More recently, an activist known as Afeni was arrested in D.C. for fare evasion. She was caught using a student pass she didn’t qualify for and resisted arrest. Police—not the National Guard—detained her. Yet the podcast framed this as though her arrest were tied to military presence in D.C. That’s false. And it ignores the real fear in our communities: gun violence, carjackings, robberies, and murder. When someone like Afeni miscasts fare evasion as a political stand for Black rights, it doesn’t elevate our struggle—it cheapens it.

And this is exactly the kind of distraction that keeps us from focusing on the real work of protecting our people—work that leaders like Mayor Bowser are actually trying to do in D.C. under difficult circumstances.

And let’s talk about Miriam Bowser, the mayor of D.C., and her struggle as a Black woman leading a city in crisis. Since she has been in office, she has faced the reality of rising crime and she knows the truth: D.C. doesn’t have enough police officers or resources to handle it all. So when the National Guard was sent in, she welcomed the help. And guess what? The results showed reductions. Carjackings went down. Shootings went down. Arrests were made. Is it sustainable? Probably not. But Mayor Bowser understands that every day someone else lives is a victory. She’s doing the best she can with what she has.

Yet when I hear Angela Rye and Tiffany Cross condemn this Black woman for trying to find light in a bad situation, I say to myself—you two are the problem. They even went so far as to call her a fascist. And I have to ask: why? Why is a Black woman working to protect her city suddenly a fascist? She’s running a city. They’re running a podcast. That is not the same thing.

And Andrew Gillum, who was once Mayor in Tallahassee, and who the opportunity to be a governor threw it all away, now sits there lecturing a woman who has not thrown away her opportunities. A women who is still working, still diligent, still trying to protect the ADOS community. For him to throw stones at her is sickening. It’s scandalous. It’s shameful.

But instead of shining a light on the hard work of someone like Bowser, these hosts choose to mock, condemn, and distort the reality of what’s happening. It’s the same pattern they fall into again and again—choosing emotional anecdotes and shallow outrage over truth and solutions.

Tiffany Cross and the Immigrant Anecdote

Bring in the tears and you go from soup to nuts in five seconds. Tiffany Cross goes even further, recounting a story about a young immigrant girl—or maybe several girls—walking down the street, supposedly being followed by four individuals she assumed were ICE agents. She admitted nothing happened, yet she was in tears retelling the story. Crying over a scenario with no evidence beyond her own perspective.

This is the problem with our so-called media outlets today. Instead of providing real news, they package bias and opinion as if it were fact. They use emotional anecdotes to stir sympathy but never address the actual issues plaguing the Black community. They spend endless time spinning stories about illegal immigrants—ignoring the pressing realities in our neighborhoods.

Illegal immigration doesn’t help our communities. It drains resources, undercuts wages, and shifts political focus away from the issues that matter most to Black Americans. Our ancestors did not build this nation for it to be handed over to those who come here illegally. As Tiffany told this story she cried, Angela cried and Andrew coddled them both. We need legislation that strengthens our communities, not policies that ignore us in favor of others.

Venezuela, Cuba, and Misplaced Blame

And then there’s this other false narrative—this idea that because America has intervened or competed with nations like Venezuela or Cuba, we are somehow responsible for their decline and therefore owe them open borders. That’s simply not true. Take Venezuela: for years, America bought oil and fueled their economy. Instead of using that revenue to diversify and invest in their people, Venezuela’s leaders gave in to greed and corruption. When America began sourcing oil elsewhere, their economy collapsed—not because of America, but because they built their entire foundation on a single export and never invested in their future.

The same can be said about Africa during the slave trade. Many nations enriched themselves by selling human beings, investing everything into slavery while ignoring long-term development. When slavery ended, those economies collapsed because they had put all their resources into a corrupt system. It’s no different from nations today relying on drugs, oil, or human trafficking for economic survival. When you put everything into exploitation instead of building sustainable systems, collapse is inevitable.

That’s not America’s fault. That’s not Black America’s responsibility. And it’s certainly not a reason to excuse or defend mass illegal immigration into this country and into our communities.

Native Land doesn’t address these facts. Instead, they give us anecdote after anecdote.

Shattering the Image

When I listen to people like Tiffany Cross, Angela Rye, Joy Reid, and even Roland Martin, I realize they’re trying to hold on to an image of America that was created by a party whose main goal was always to keep African Americans—ADOS—oppressed. We were used as pawns in their game to maintain power, and they’re still tripping over that same old image. But here’s the truth: ADOS is started to shatter these images and turn our backs on their false narratives. However, so-called black leaders, who have descended from the elite continue to hold the line and are not ashame to get on their podcast and cry over made up stories.

They understand that the Democratic Party as it stands today is diluted. It’s not strong. It has no real power. It’s weak. Yet they continue trying to gaslight us by saying we’re the ones being gaslighted. But we’re not. We understand what’s happening with immigration. We understand what happened in Venezuela. We understand what happened in Cuba. We understand what’s happening in Mexico. We’re not dumb.

They play this card as if they are the “intellectuals,” as if everyone else is just too simple to get it. They want us to believe they’re the smartest ones in the room. But in reality, they are not. Because if they were, they would understand that we already see the game for what it is—and we’re done playing it.

We are thinking about how to actually save our communities. We’re looking for ways to rise out of our circumstances without having to bend and beg before white corporate America. We’re ready to depend on our own capabilities, our own talents, our own intellectual skills, and our own creativity. That’s the vision we’re chasing—not the distraction of “saving” illegal immigrants who chose to leave Venezuela, Cuba, or wherever else to come here.

And one more thing: they love to talk about “Black and Brown” people. But let’s be real. When they say that, they’re talking about Venezuelans, Mexicans, and other so-called immigrants whose skin is not Black or Brown at all, but closer to the complexion of white America. Meanwhile, they’re not talking about Haiti. They’re not talking about the Congo. They’re not talking about Sudan. They’re not talking about the places where true Black struggle is happening in the world—and nobody’s paying attention to it.

What I Have to Say to Tiffany Cross, Angela Rye, and Andrew Gillum

What I have to say to people like Tiffany Cross, Angela Rye, and Andrew Gillum—who all carry stained pasts—is this: it’s not the stain that bothers me. We all have stains. We all have chapters in our past that we regret or wish we could change. Some of us wear those stains openly, even as scarlet letters. That’s human.

But when you stand on your platform with tears in your eyes for illegal immigrants I think of you as buffoons, when you parade Jamal Bryant around as though he speaks for the people of God, that’s when it becomes a problem. Because Jamal Bryant does not speak for our communities.

Nothing I have was handed to me. Everything I own, I worked for—with my own sweat, tears, prayers, and walk. I raised a son as a single Black mother. Then, after marriage and divorce, I raised two sons as a single mother. I still own my own home. I was never hindered by redlining, because I never chased the dream of living in a “white” neighborhood. I always wanted to live in a diverse community, and I have.

I’ve lived in some poor communities where drugs and guns were weaved into the fabric of our neighborhoods. Yes, my car was broken into. My house was broken into. But it wasn’t white people doing it—it was Black people in my neighborhood. I understood there were issuess with drugs and guns and our children. We need to be using our platforms to discuss legislation and polices that will help uplift our communities. Trump is a man with only a few more years of power. While Democrats have nothing to offer to check that power except tears and ridicule.

And still, I did not abandon my community. Even today, I live among both Black and white neighbors, side by side, peacefully. I can leave my car window down overnight and know it won’t be touched. Does crime exist here? Of course. Crime exists everywhere. But I am rooted where I am, because I care about my community and what it means to be ADOS.

And when I look at the platforms handed to people like Tiffany Cross, Angela Rye, and Andrew Gillum, I see wasted opportunities. They were given stages and microphones, and what did they do? They made themselves look like fools. Now they want us to forget all of that, to pretend it never happened, and to listen simply because they call themselves smart. But if you were truly smart, you would have made better choices with the opportunities you were given.

I didn’t have a stage handed to me. I didn’t have a microphone passed to me. I built what I have through hard work. Yes, I’ve encountered racism. I’ve lost jobs because of it. But I’ve also moved forward, because for every racist in one space, there are people in another who are not.

That’s why I can say this without hesitation: I have more respect for southern Republicans than I do for northern white Democrats. At least the Republicans are straightforward. They let you know who they are. You can see the snake in front of you, and decide whether to go around it or walk right through it. But the northern Democrats are the eels—you never see them coming. They say, “We want to help you build wealth.” And yet their version of “help” is Section 8 housing, paying rent forever, building their equity while you never own land, never gain equity, never build wealth of your own.

That’s not help. That’s control. And that’s why their game no longer works on us.

The Greatest Lie They Want You to Believe: Slavery Was Not That Bad

“Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.” – Frederick Douglass

When I was growing up, my mother often told us stories about her scars. She had many. One was a deep, straight line across the middle of her foot. I cannot remember if it was the left or the right, but I remember the dark mark that sank into her calloused skin. She grew up in Mississippi, the daughter of sharecroppers, and one morning while working on the farm, her foot was nearly cut in half by the fence at the chicken coop. There was no doctor to call, no hospital to visit. Her family filled the wound with cobwebs and alcohol, and somehow, miraculously, it healed. She carried that scar for the rest of her life.

I think about her hands too, fingers swollen and tipped blue-black. She explained that picking cotton did that to you. The sharp burrs cut her skin until it bled, hardened, and callused over. Her hands were living proof of survival.

When I think about the story of American descendants of slaves, I think about my mother’s hands and feet. Wounds that should have broken her body but did not. Scars that told the truth about survival. That was her generation. That was their fight.

But we are no longer the same people we were in the 1940s, 50s, or 60s. Now that we are standing up for ourselves, proclaiming loudly and proudly that ADOS built this nation, white America is scrambling to figure out how to silence us to rebrand themselves.

A New Power

One of the biggest differences between then and now is power. We have more power now than our grandparents did, and a large part of that comes from social media. Our voices are amplified in ways unimaginable fifty years ago. We can speak truth to power on a scale that cannot be silenced.

That is why we hear so much more unapologetic Black pride today, especially among American descendants of slavery. Our voices have grown strong enough to drown out the old lie that “white is right.”

A Turning Point in Alabama

We saw that power in Montgomery, Alabama, when white men tried to attack a Black dock worker and the community stood up in his defense. That moment was more than a brawl. It was a declaration. It said, “We belong here. This is our America too.”

Black people are no longer willing to sit quietly while being told we do not belong. That power has been simmering for decades, but now it is boiling over into action.

The Irony of Disdain

What is so ironic and frankly sickening is the disdain people still carry toward Black Americans. A few days ago, I watched a protest in Trenton, New Jersey. ICE and Homeland Security had come to arrest an undocumented immigrant. It was not clear whether the man had committed a crime or was simply here illegally, but protesters immediately gathered. Most were white and Hispanic. They shouted at the officers, demanding IDs and warrants, livestreaming the encounter, trying to block the arrest.

At one point, a woman turned to a Black officer and hurled the insult I have heard too many times: “Your ancestors would be rolling over in their graves.”

So when I hear someone say that, I know exactly what it really is. It is not honor, it is insult. It is outsiders weaponizing our history to shame us, while ignoring the fact that our ancestors did not fight and bleed so we could live chained to guilt. They fought so we could stand free, to live, to work, to choose. My ancestors are not rolling over. My ancestors are proud I am still here, still standing, and still building on the soil they watered with their blood.

And that is the point: we are not the same. We are not the broken people they imagine us to be. We are the living proof of survival and transformation, the very answer to every grave they thought would hold us down.

And I am tired of it. On the far left, Black Americans are expected to sacrifice our individuality and stand for every cause, as if our own struggles are not enough. On the far right, we are painted as criminals, using “per capita” statistics to distort reality while ignoring that white Americans are arrested in numbers three times higher than Black Americans. Both sides reduce us to stereotypes. Neither sees us as full citizens of this country we built.

We should not have to fear deportation. We should not have to fear mobs. We should not have to defend our place here again and again.

Yet even in spite of all this, we still survive. We still show up. We still build. We walk through doors that are closed to us and refuse to give up. And that is what unsettles people the most, that after everything, we still rise.

The Divide in America

Meanwhile, white America itself is splitting. Conservatives are marching openly in hate rallies. Liberals are fractured and uncertain of their own identity. In that divide, Black voters remain the deciding factor. Time and again, we are the ones who tip the balance in national elections.

Some talk about a third party, but history shows those efforts collapse under division. The reality is this: Republicans cannot win without our votes, and Democrats cannot govern without them. That is the leverage we carry.

The Jillian Michaels Race Card

When Jillian Michaels sparred with Abby Phillips on CNN, she tried to play a race card of her own. By turning the conversation toward racism, she leaned on something unspoken: the fact that she has an adopted Haitian daughter. That was her shield, her belief, “I cannot be challenged on this because I have a Black child.”

But let us be clear. Proximity to Blackness is not the same as living it. And there is a difference between Jillian and Abby that matters. Jillian adopted a child. Abby birthed one. Abby’s daughter is her blood, her legacy, a Black child born of a Black mother. That is not the same as adopting a Haitian daughter and quietly using her existence as a prop in an argument about slavery.

Now let us talk about Haiti. Haiti was the first nation to successfully rise against slavery, paying for that victory with both blood and gold. After independence, France demanded reparations that bled the island dry, and foreign powers continued to exploit Haiti until it was left in poverty, corruption, and gang violence. What happened in Haiti was proof enough of “white people bad.” That history matters.

When Jillian tried to silently weaponize her adoption against Abby, she revealed something deeper about how white America thinks about race: that having a Black child, even a Haitian one, is enough to speak over us, enough to dismiss our experience. But it is not. Abby Phillips, as a Black woman and the mother of a Black daughter, can speak to the ADOS experience in ways Jillian Michaels never can.

I pray her daughter is treated well. But having a Haitian child in your home does not absolve you of blindness, arrogance, or privilege. And it certainly does not give you the right to throw Blackness in someone else’s face.

Erasing History and the Politics of Collapse

It is through lived experience that certain things come into focus. As a child in the 1970s, I was too young to understand all the politics shaping the world, but I do remember the gas shortage. I remember America having to ration fuel, and my aunt would say she could only buy gas on certain days depending on the last digit of her license plate. My mother did not have a car, but I remember taxi prices going up. We would take cabs from our apartment building in New Brunswick, New Jersey, to the laundromat and the grocery store, and my mother would complain about the rising fares. A jump from $3.50 to $5.50 was a big deal in the ’70s.

Back then, the crisis was tied to the Middle East, and I saw it only through the eyes of a child. But looking back now, I can see the larger picture: America has always had to navigate global energy politics.

I agree with Jillian when she says America did not directly cause the collapse of nations like Venezuela or Cuba. That is true, but only to a certain extent. It was capitalism itself that fueled their collapse. When you tie your entire national economy to one system—in this case, oil—you have to be prepared for the risks that come with it, especially in a global market.

It reminds me of slavery. Enslaved labor became the biggest economic driver taken out of Africa, and when that system was disrupted, Africa suffered devastating losses. In the same way, Venezuela’s dependence on oil left them vulnerable. When prices crashed, their economy collapsed. That was Venezuela’s own fault, just as Africa’s leadership failed to adapt when the slave trade ended.

Cuba was just the same for me. I can remember the chatter of Cuba and the Bay of Pigs. Whenever I think of Cuba, I think of JFK. My mother often said she was walking down the hall in high school when his death was announced. It always struck me that my mother, who could barely spell though she could read, carried such strong thoughts about a politician.

When I was in my early twenties, I was being radicalized by the news and even by some school teachers. I can remember Cuba being portrayed as America’s enemy, but at the same time many from my community celebrated Cuba for sheltering Assata Shakur. I remember feeling torn.

It was only much later, after hearing about the socialism that destroyed a nation, that I began to see the fuller story. When I learned about Cuba seizing American-owned land after the revolution, I understood that nations rise and fall not only because of foreign pressure but because of their own economic decisions and the alliances they choose to make.

Still, I do not believe history should ever be erased. The story should be told. We should look honestly at Venezuela’s and Cuba’s history and tell the truth about their demise, so Americans do not fall into the trap of believing that Venezuelan or Cuban migrants entering the U.S. illegally are here only because “America caused it.” That narrative is false. The deeper reality is that both nations collapsed under the weight of their own failed systems.

And that is where Jillian Michaels, once again, misses the point. Yes, she is right that America did not cause these nations to collapse. But when she tries to equate capitalism with slavery, she erases a truth that cannot be ignored. Slavery was not just an economic system — it was the forced labor of Black people whose blood, sweat, and genius built this nation. That story belongs to American Descendants of Slavery, and it must never be buried under attempts to rebrand white America as innocent.

Greed and Reparations

White America has been greedy since 1619. Every system they built, every law they wrote, and the “perfect union” they dreamed of was designed to benefit white Americans, even if it meant enslaving Black Americans.

And that brings me to reparations. Black Americans were promised reparations. That promise was broken. Not because the debt disappeared, but because racist political systems stripped it away. America knew it owed us, and then it flipped the script.

ADOS have been lied to. During Reconstruction, 40 acres of land along the Georgia and South Carolina coasts was set aside for freed Blacks. Some had already begun to settle there under Special Field Order No. 15. This was America admitting her guilt — repaying former slaves not just for themselves, but for the generations of enslaved people who had already died in bondage.

But then Lincoln was assassinated. His successor, Andrew Johnson, rescinded the order, took the land back, and returned it to white Confederate owners. What was promised as repair was stolen back in betrayal.

When people argue that reparations are “welfare,” I reject that outright. Reparations are not welfare. They are payment on a debt, a debt for 246 years of slavery, followed by generations of terror, exclusion, and exploitation under the guise of Jim Crow.

And let us be clear. We are not talking about taking dollars out of individual people’s pockets. Reparations are not about “Johnny giving up one of his two dollars.” Reparations come from America itself — the same America that finds money to support immigrants who have no loyalty to this nation, the same America that funds other nations and even international agreements like the UN’s Global Compact for Migration, which uses climate change and other crises to justify endless flows of aid and resources—fueling the illegal migrant crisis. Everyone profits while ADOS continues to struggle to survive in the very land we built.

Far right pundits will say, “Well, you were not a slave, and I was not a slave owner.” That is the same as saying to the families of 9/11 victims, “Well, you did not die in the towers.” Nobody said that to them. Their families were compensated, because the loss was real. The same was true for Jewish survivors of the Holocaust, or Japanese Americans interned during World War II. Nobody told them their claims were invalid because their descendants carried the wound instead of them personally.

Some people look at me and say, “You own your own home, you drive a fancy car, and worked for major corporations. That proves racism no longer exists.” But no, it proves the opposite. It proves the tenacity and ingenuity of a people who have survived the most dispiriting and oppressive systems and still found ways to build, to create, and to endure. My success is not evidence that racism is gone. It is evidence that we refused to be crushed by it.

And because of that, I feel even more responsible to speak up for the ones who are still enslaved in different ways today. Mass incarceration, predatory drug systems, and cycles of poverty continue to trap millions of Black men and women. These are modern forms of bondage, no less destructive than the chains our ancestors carried.

This is why reparations matter. They are not about punishing America for the past, they are about acknowledging the debt that still lingers in the present. And in any case brought forward by descendants, the principle is clear: families act on behalf of those who were not able to seek justice for themselves. This is not new. Courts and governments have long recognized that when victims are denied justice in their lifetimes, their descendants have the right to stand in their place.

So when people say, “You were not a slave,” I answer: No, but I am standing for the ones who were, because they were never given their day of justice. And I will not allow their debt to be erased by time.

We Are Still Here

So yes, slavery was bad and fueled by racism that still exists. But ADOS is not the same people we were sixty years ago. We have learned. We have built. We have found new ways to use our voices and our power.

So when I hear Jillian Michaels twist history, it makes my blood boil. The attempt to not only whitewash American history but to paint America as a saint in a system that oppressed others is a blatant lie, and it must always be called out. Her switch to Cuba and LGBTQ issues is nothing more than sleight of hand, a distraction meant to redirect the conversation. But the story she really wants to erase is the story of ADOS. And the truth is, you cannot erase it. You cannot tell one story without the other, because the history of America is inseparable from the history of ADOS.

Fields of the Forgotten: Why Rereading Uncle Tom’s Cabin Still Matters

Artist’s Statement
Fields of the Forgotten | Why We Must Never Forget is a visual remembrance of the men, women, and children whose labor built this nation yet whose names were erased from its history. The cotton fields in this piece are more than a backdrop; they are silent witnesses to centuries of stolen promise, broken bodies, and unyielding spirit.

The figures represent both the visible and the unseen — those who survived and those who never made it into the history books. The overseer’s presence reminds us that oppression was not accidental; it was enforced, calculated, and sustained.

“You can kill a revolutionary, but you can’t kill the revolution.” – Fred Hampton, Deputy Chairman, Illinois Chapter, Black Panther Party

The older I get, the more I realize that whenever there is something America wants us to bury, it is usually because the truth inside it would empower and awaken the Black man.

So they, meaning white supremacists with the faces of boogeymen, do everything in their power to deter us from discovering the truth. Recently, I reread Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a book I had not thought about in years, and it hit me that literature—especially the kind that speaks to the true history of chattel slavery in America—is something this country would rather we forget.

This post is not just about one novel. It is about how our resistance has been portrayed, distorted, and erased over time. It is about reclaiming the complexity of our stories, refusing to let others define our heroes, and recognizing that the erasure of truth has political consequences today, including the refusal to pay the debt owed to ADOS.

Sambo, Quimbo, and the System’s Design

I reread Uncle Tom’s Cabin after someone called me “Sambo” for saying slavery and illegal immigration are not the same. The insult sent me back to the characters in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel: Uncle Tom, Aunt Chloe, George, Eliza, Sambo, and Quimbo, alongside the slave masters—Mr. Shelby, Augustine St. Clare, and Simon Legree—and their families. It also brought me to James Baldwin’s sharp critique of the book and eventually to modern works like Twelve Years a Slave and The Underground Railroad.

I vaguely remembered Sambo as a negative figure, meant to demean. Being called that name was clearly intended as an insult, yet I could not quite recall why it carried such weight.

As I reread the novel, I realized that, knowing myself, I am not a Sambo. Unfortunately, oftentimes to my own detriment, I defend the truly oppressed. My curiosity shifted from the insult to the novel itself. Each Black character played a central role. They were typecast without being caricatures. Sambo was the enslaved man who had become exactly what the system wanted him to be—a cruel enforcer against his own people. Yet in the end, he and Quimbo repented and tore off the wretched masks that had imprisoned them.

I was drawn to Tom. He was not selfish. He sacrificed for others, even allowing himself to be sold to protect them. He refused to betray those who escaped, refused to beat another enslaved person, and died rather than harm his people. His resistance was not loud or violent, but steady and absolute. His silence was not cowardice. It was defiance.

Sambo and Quimbo, in contrast, believed survival meant becoming what the master wanted—aligning with oppressors and enforcing the system’s cruelty with precision. That is the image white America prefers: the compliant Black who polices his own. But even they awoke in the end.

What struck me most was not just the actions of the enslaved characters but the mindset of the masters. Shelby, St. Clare, and Legree all believed their way of life was natural, justified, even moral. St. Clare’s long speeches about wealth and capitalism mirrored the mindset of many white plantation owners who knew slavery was wrong but justified it to appease their hollow souls. Against that backdrop, Stowe showed the many ways Black people responded to slavery, revealing how deeply oblivious white people often were to the truth.

Tom’s steadfast faith and Aunt Chloe’s quiet strength showed resistance through dignity, endurance, and humanity. Sambo and Quimbo showed what happens when people adopt the spirit of the system. George represented those who escaped altogether. The women—Cassy, Emmeline, Aunt Chloe—endured rape, beatings, and hardship, yet fought for their own freedom.

At its core, the novel is a story of resistance, survival, and the moral cost of oppression on everyone involved.

James Baldwin’s Inaccurate Critique

James Baldwin’s “Everybody’s Protest Novel” dismisses Uncle Tom’s Cabin as sentimental and symbolic rather than substantive. He argued that Stowe reduced her characters to tools—saints and symbols—denying them full humanity. He criticized her virtue model, where the good were those who endured silently, died with grace, and never fought back.

Baldwin wanted portrayals of Black people as fully human: angry, flawed, joyful, complex. He missed, however, that for enslaved people, survival often meant pretending or resisting quietly. Each of Stowe’s characters represents a truth about how people survived under an inhumane system.

He also overlooked the parallels between Tom’s “turn the other cheek” endurance and the Civil Rights Movement’s nonviolent resistance, championed by leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. That same endurance helped dismantle segregation.

While Baldwin was right to point out Stowe’s blind spots, he missed that sometimes fiction says what reality cannot. Stowe was not a radical. She was a white woman in 1852 writing for Northern Christians, planting seeds in the only way her position allowed. Where Baldwin saw sentimentality, I see spiritual clarity. Tom did not fight with fists, but with an unshakable “no.” That is resistance too.

Baldwin’s dismissal was a mistake. Rejecting Uncle Tom’s Cabin erases a valuable record of how varied Black resistance could be—and how white narratives have long shaped our understanding of it.

Modern Narratives and the Erasure of Black Men

The same tension between suffering and agency appears in modern works. In Twelve Years a Slave, Solomon Northup’s real-life story is framed on screen with relentless brutality but little space for the inner lives, strategy, or quiet resistance that kept people alive. It risks flattening the enslaved into victims rather than fully realized human beings.

The Underground Railroad takes a different approach, centering on Cora, a young woman who survives horrors across every state she passes through. But every strong Black man in her orbit is destroyed, corrupted, or erased—Caesar, Royal, Mingo. The survival of the woman becomes the focus, while male counterparts vanish.

The pattern appears again in The Woman King, which elevates a female hero while sanitizing the Dahomey kingdom’s role in the slave trade. The result is an incomplete truth.

Black women did not survive slavery, Jim Crow, or generational hardship alone. We endured alongside men who worked, fought, and protected their families in whatever ways they could. Without those men, there is no us.

Runaway Slave: Then and Now

In old slave narratives, the runaway risked everything for freedom. Today, “runaway” too often means men leaving their families, sometimes pushed out by systems designed to break them. The dignity and purpose of running toward liberation has been replaced, in many cases, by running from responsibility—though the root causes still trace back to systemic oppression.

Today’s Culture and the Echo of the Plantation

We still have Sambos today—just in new uniforms. They may be media personalities, politicians, or influencers, but their role is the same: align with systems that harm us, condemn those who resist, and be rewarded for it.

The plantation tactic of dividing the compliant from the defiant still works. Compliance has never guaranteed safety. Silence has never guaranteed dignity.

Black Youth Rebellion and Topsy’s Legacy

Some of the rebellion we see in Black youth today is survival in disguise. The system floods our communities with weapons of destruction, then punishes us for using them.

This erasure of the Black man leads me back to the Black child—like Topsy in Uncle Tom’s Cabin—shaped by absence. Then, the family was destroyed by whips and auction blocks. Today, it is destroyed by mass incarceration, economic deprivation, underfunded schools, and housing traps. Both eras strip away stability. Both leave children to grow up without the security of mother and father.

Topsy’s “confession” in the novel—admitting guilt because it was expected—mirrors how society predetermines our youth as guilty before they have a chance to prove otherwise. Until the systems that create these cycles are dismantled, much of what we call “crime” will simply be resistance in the only form a broken environment allows.

The Debt That Remains

The erasure and distortion of our stories is not just cultural—it feeds the political denial of what is owed. America owes a debt to ADOS, and it is time to repay it. Forty acres and a mule were promised and then taken away. Generation after generation, the fight for justice was deferred in the name of survival.

Now the call is louder. This country extends help to others while keeping its foot on our necks, all while presenting itself as a global good Samaritan.

We fill stadiums. We drive culture. We work in industries where doors swing wide for white applicants but remain shut for those who look like us. We knock, again and again, accepting crumbs while the feast is kept from us.

Reparations is not about guilt. It is about settling a debt that has been unpaid for far too long.

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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.

A Rising Undercurrent of Fear

“They call me Mister Tibbs!”

The conversation about race in America is often reduced to slogans, soundbites, and selective outrage. In the months since the last election, the tone has shifted sharply, with media outlets and political influencers on both the left and the right casting Black Americans into roles that serve their own agendas. Some call us “savages,” others use us as props to appear inclusive, but few are willing to confront the full truth. This post digs into the myths, the numbers, and the double standards that shape how we are seen, treated, and judged. It also sets the stage for my next piece, where I will revisit Uncle Tom’s Cabin to show how old narratives never truly die.

Over the past several months, an undertone of fear has been rising in this country. There is a growing sense that Black Americans have had enough of being mistreated and disrespected, and we are starting to fight back. The disturbing trend is that, at times, it has become violent. That is uncalled for and harmful.

The best way forward is not through acts of violence, but by using our power to vote. We saw what happened in the last election as more Black Americans shifted to the right, aligning themselves with Republicans for two reasons: first, because we love this country; and second, because we love our community.

A Shift in Political Assumptions

I believe Republicans have falsely assumed they had ADOS in the palm of their hands. Now they are witnessing something unexpected: Black Americans standing up and forcing the national conversation to finally focus on our community.

Yet instead of seeing us as fellow Americans, some still treat us with disrespect. They use language like “savages” and show half-naked young women across our screens, suggesting that “White equals good,” and then pretend that was not the message.

The Podcaster Divide

White men, emboldened by the last election, have taken to podcasts to draw lines. Some Black men, the ones who do not push back against their violent verbal assaults, are labeled “good.” Those like Officer Tatum and the Cartier Brothers are perfect examples.

They argue in percentages, condemning their own communities as if they are not Black men themselves, as if the world sees them as the “good guy.” The rest, they imply, are dangerous. It is the same old tale dressed in new language: that Black people need to be “whipped and chained,” locked in prisons for violence they are accused of committing, while every White savage, monster, rapist, and child predator slips by without the same scrutiny.

Media Framing and Manipulation

When a man of Hawaiian descent walked into a New York City building and opened fire over the NFL’s handling of player concussions, right-wing media was outraged that CNN called him a White man. They quickly flipped the story, calling him Black, though he was neither.

This was the White media’s attempt to frame the image of the Black man as violent and savage.

What the FBI Numbers Show

The FBI’s numbers tell a different story. In raw counts, White offenders commit more drug sales, more drug possession, more domestic violence, more property crimes, and more sexual assaults than any other group. Even for rape and pedophilia, Whites lead in total arrests.

Robbery is one of the few major crime categories where Black offenders outnumber Whites, yet Blacks are the ones overrepresented in statistics.

The Family Values Myth

Right-wing media pretends to be the protector of marriage, women, and family, when in reality, White Americans lead in the number of divorces. In 2022, Census data shows over 1 million divorces in the U.S., with the majority involving White couples, far more than any other group. Divorce is not a crime, but this idea that evangelical Christians are more wholesome and family-oriented than Blacks is a straight fallacy. The fact remains: more White couples divorce than any other group.

Percentages vs. Raw Numbers

People like Charlie Kirk, Matt Walsh, and others will argue statistics and percentages. Whenever a larger population outnumbers a smaller one and you want to reject the truth, you frame your argument that way.

Statistically, they will say Black people are more violent or commit more crimes because they do not want to face the raw numbers.

FBI 2022 Arrest Data:

• 6,875 arrests for rape (66% of known offenders) vs. 3,150 Black offenders (30%)

• Over 600,000 property crime arrests vs. 270,000 for Black offenders

• More than 500,000 drug possession arrests vs. 220,000 for Black offenders

And let us be clear, these so-called “Black” crime numbers include every person who identifies as Black, not just ADOS (American Descendants of Slavery). The number of ADOS individuals committing crimes is overinflated because the statistics combine all Black people, including African and Caribbean immigrants and their descendants.

A Double Standard in Justice

The truth is simple: all men are capable of violence. Some are not savages or monsters, while others are innocent victims, regardless of race.

A perfect example is the situation in Cincinnati. Republicans are outraged that a group of Black men fought back against a White man who continuously verbally and physically attacked them, calling them the n-word and slapping one of the men.

The White man picked a fight, and when he got beat up, he cried, “We’re the victims.” The far right told the story as if it were unprovoked, framing it entirely from a single perspective caught on video. Now they are going to use every Black person involved as an example, while the individual who instigated the altercation still walks free.

Mainstream media outlets, podcasters, and even the Vice President showed and addressed only one side of the footage. They used words like “brawl” and “attack” to suggest that Black people randomly targeted a group of innocent White people.

The Historical Pattern Continues

This narrative reflects a long-standing expectation in America: if a White man strikes a Black man, the Black man is expected to turn the other cheek. But if he dares to fight back with rage and vengeance, suddenly he is the threat, the one who must be jailed. Law enforcement often aligns with this narrative, functioning like modern-day plantation overseers.

If any other group commits violence against Blacks, we are told we must have started it, provoked it, or deserved it. People feel entitled to spit on us, call us names, and still expect our silence. They will pull us over for not having headlights on during the rain, even when the rain has stopped. If we do not comply, we will be punched in the face, handcuffed, and taken to jail.

The unspoken rule is clear: we should be used to violence by now. And God forbid we ever respond to it.

A Creeping Sentiment

Whites have long viewed Blacks as a quiet threat. Since the days of slavery, they have done all they could to keep Black people oppressed.

A creeping sentiment suggests that, because we are seen as violent, we need to be “checked.” Whites act on this by taking measures such as sending the National Guard into D.C. after a White person known as “Big Baller” was allegedly carjacked by a group of teens. The implication is, of course, that they were Black teens. It is fine to send in troops to address crime in D.C., but what will you do about the crime in suburbs across America?

Of course there is a problem, but it does not begin or end inside the Black community. It began with Black families being pushed to the margins, where drugs and other destabilizing forces are intentionally allowed to take root, just as they were during the War on Drugs, when federal policies flooded our neighborhoods with narcotics under the guise of law and order. And long before that, during COINTELPRO, when federal agents infiltrated, surveilled, and disrupted Black leaders and movements to prevent unified political power. These forces weaken our communities while fueling wealthier, whiter enclaves like Georgetown.

The hypocrisy is staggering. Those who benefit from this dynamic turn around and point to our youth as the threat. And beneath it all is a dangerous suggestion: with the right mix of federal law enforcement, redistricting, shifting party lines, and consolidating power in Congress, Black people could be pushed neatly back into bondage.

This is happening in Georgetown because newcomers with lavish lifestyles see “Black youth crime” as a threat. They call for troops to keep those youth, and by extension, the parents they say are not minding them, out. Even Green Party voices on podcasts like Breaking Points sound like conservatives, aligning with Trump’s ideology because it makes them comfortable. The same people who champion abortion rights, free healthcare, food stamps, and speak out against starvation in Gaza are now the ones saying, “Seize them and put them in jail until we get to the root of the problem.” Well, if that is the standard for Black kids who commit crime, then let us see you demand the same for White kids. But we know you will not, because mercy takes a back seat the moment it threatens your comfort and your control.

Our Message to Both Sides

The pressure comes from both the left and the right, each with its own methods of keeping us in our place. But like Mr. Tibbs, we can proudly stand our ground and strike back, not with fists, but with our minds, our actions, and our votes. I get it, Black people commit crimes; this is true. But we have worked hard in this country to improve our lives, and these narratives will no longer work to condemn us. Our fight is through the strategic use of our voting bloc power to command justice.

To White liberals, we say: we are not pawns to ease your conscience while you pretend to be the Good Samaritan, knowing you are the greedy master.

To White conservatives, we say: your feigned superiority must be checked, and we welcome this fight. We will no longer be the victims in your den of hate, fear, and unearned superiority.

DAHTRUTH

If I have to keep this real, then I must state that addressing violent crime means addressing crime in all neighborhoods. That means confronting the root causes wherever they exist — whether in Black communities, White communities, or anywhere else — without selective outrage or political favoritism. Until we apply the same urgency and resources across the board, we will keep treating symptoms instead of curing the disease.

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The narratives that define us are not accidental. They are crafted, repeated, and reinforced until they feel like truth. But history tells us they can be challenged, reshaped, and dismantled. In my next post, I will turn to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, not as a sentimental relic of the abolitionist era, but as a blueprint for how stories have been used to control the image of Black Americans. Understanding those patterns is key, because until we name and confront the lies of the past, we will keep living under their shadow in the present.

The lies that bound the slaves in Uncle Tom’s Cabin still bind us. They have just been dressed in modern language.

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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.

From Denim to Disgrace: How Fantasy, Sex, and Power Keep America Looking Away

“The bluest eye in the world. And it belongs to a little Black girl.”

— Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye

Pecola Breedlove never got blue eyes. She got madness instead. What Morrison offered us wasn’t a fantasy. It was a warning.

In America, sex is a currency, and fantasy sets the exchange rate. We pretend to be shocked by what we see, yet we created the market, packaged the product, and wrote the script.

After hearing about the new American Eagle Outfitters Fall 2025 denim campaign featuring Sydney Sweeney, I was struck by the amount of outrage. Every other swipe brought up this woman wearing jeans. The implications were hidden in the actress’s words. Titled “Sydney Sweeney Has Great Jeans,” the campaign showcases Sweeney, the 27-year-old star. Sweeney claims she has “good jeans,” and we’re meant to understand this not only through her blue eyes but also through her revealing top, her thin alluring figure, and the overt sexuality of the presentation.

The outrage surrounding the commercial centered on what many perceived as a veiled eugenics message: that goodness equates to being white, blue-eyed, and blonde. I didn’t share the same reaction as many in my community. Instead, I was more troubled by the suggestion that life becomes easier if you simply buy the right pair of jeans from American Eagle Outfitters. The double entendre of blue eyes plus blue jeans equals good genes was clear. However, what concerned me even more was the persistent framing of beauty around a specific body thin type. And we all know that’s cap.

Morrison warned us what happens when a society teaches a little Black girl that blue eyes equal love. Sydney Sweeney’s campaign is not just about jeans. It is about the fantasy America keeps selling. One where beauty, goodness, and power all come wrapped in thin white frames and light eyes. Pecola wanted the bluest eyes in the world. Now we’ve packaged them, filtered them, and are selling them back to the masses—for $69.95 a pair.

In many African nations, fuller figures have long symbolized beauty, wealth, comfort, and status. A full-figured woman was seen as well-fed and well-kept. The United States is now embracing this trend, packaging beauty in fuller figures and selling it to the highest bidder. These are the new genes sold by plastic surgeons in surgery centers.

The American Eagle Outfitters campaign is trying to dig up old images of yesterday and cast them into algorithms, all for profit. It is the old adage: sex sells in blue jeans. This narrative is not new. It is an old one, repackaged as a modern ideal. It contradicts today’s cultural norms.

What I find interesting, and perhaps a brilliant marketing strategy, is that even bad press becomes good press if it keeps you relevant. American Eagle Outfitters launched their campaign in just the right climate to get their name circulating in the culture, even if they are quietly pushing a lie. I will say it clearly: it is a brilliant marketing strategy. People are clicking and commenting. Heck, I’m writing a blog about it. But there is a reason. I have a purpose.

It is no coincidence that American Eagle is entering this conversation at a time when discussions about sex are becoming more open, particularly when people are asking who might be on Epstein’s so-called list.

While mainstream media remains hyper-focused on Epstein, Trump decided to release the MLK files. I was initially upset until I heard what was in the documents. The files revealed nothing new about Dr. King’s infidelity, a fact already widely known. The release caused no real damage and served only as entertainment while more important issues remained hidden.

If an Epstein list exists, it would likely expose many powerful individuals—those high-level executives hiding the dirty little secrets of what’s been done to individuals with blue eyes in blue jeans… and others with different genes. That might explain why Biden didn’t release the list either. After all, he’s been called a pedophile himself.

Maybe Epstein was killed because he wasn’t getting a pardon—and the people in power feared what he might say.

They say he hanged himself.

If the media says so, then it must be true… right?

As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t care much about who is on the Epstein list or whether it even exists. It is no secret that many people, in both public and private spaces, have engaged in sexual exploitation. Some use sex to climb social or professional ladders. Others pursue relationships for money, power, or access. Many individuals sell more than love. The real story is not the list. It is our refusal to acknowledge how deeply sex and power are entangled. That dynamic shows up everywhere—from the halls of Congress to a 30-second denim commercial.

Calling this entire conversation a distraction is not an exaggeration. It perfectly reflects the petty, polarized back-and-forth that keeps America stuck. While the left continues to cry about Epstein, the right sells sex and “sexy” by turning Sydney Sweeney into a campaign charm.

The Democrats are struggling to hold things together. They are losing funding and facing internal division within both Congress and the DNC. The recent fallout between the DNC Chair and the Vice Chair, who resigned after threatening to primary sitting members of Congress, makes that division clear.

Congress now faces a triple divide: socialists, centrists, and so-called moderate progressives. Instead of working together, they are battling for control over a fractured cultural identity. What they are discovering about the party is a complete lack of ideas, experience, and cohesion. The party has no clear vision, so it leans on recycled headlines like the Epstein story to distract from Trump’s growing momentum.

Just like that, a campaign ad slips in with the old “Make America Great Again” undertone, and the conversation about accountability is drowned out by a white woman in jeans. It’s subtle. It’s slick.

I understand what’s happening.

The real concern is this: in America, sex is used to get ahead or to control others. We sell it in every form and then pretend we are upholding moral values. We perform outrage when women report sexual assault, but at the same time, we build entire industries around exploitation. Strip clubs on the outskirts of cities are treated as harmless, yet they power much of the business world’s after-hours economy.

The world was shocked when a CEO was caught on camera at a Coldplay concert with a woman from his company. They both looked at ease, smiling, as if it were just another night. For some women, that’s how it works. They go along with the game until the deal goes bad. After one, two, or three failed encounters, the story flips and they become the victim. This is mainstream now. And it has spread across cultures.

Sydney Sweeney in the American Eagle commercial is following a familiar script. She offers sex through the idea of “good genes.” She represents a type that many men believe sells more than intelligence or capability. Buyers of the past only wished they could. Today’s buyers count their coins. And as for the jeans, plenty are lining up to buy them. It doesn’t even matter what color the jeans are anymore. Black or blue, it’s about the fantasy stitched into every seam.

There is no illusion here—power can absolutely be purchased if you look the part. And good genes come in all colors. America continues to place desire above dignity. We celebrate the illusion of control while losing our grip on everything that truly matters.

What’s truly sad to me is watching the video itself—the way the camera scans across the young woman’s body, the way she arches her back and buttons the jeans. It brings to mind the same kind of exploitation tied to Epstein’s list. The public gets the names of the powerful men. But the names of those who sold their souls are never mentioned. Nameless, faceless individuals. Women like Sydney Sweeney.

I had never walked into an American Eagle Outfitters store. I never had much interest in the brand. Aesthetically, it’s not for me. But after some research what surprised me, was Jennifer Foyle, the Executive Creative Director, a self-proclaimed champion of women’s causes, would approve such a campaign. All proceeds from the Sweeney collection are reportedly going to a women’s crisis center, and yet no one seems to see the irony. They’re selling the very imagery that drives women to crisis centers in the first place.

And this is the American way. We condemn Epstein after the fact—after the documentaries, after the suicides, after the cover-ups. But before that, we indulged the culture that made him possible. We celebrate the fantasy, package the innocence, and profit off the performance. Then we act shocked when the fantasy gets out of hand.

We consume the performance, condemn the predator, and forget the pattern. Epstein wasn’t the glitch. He was the blueprint.

I don’t believe the marketing manager at American Eagle Outfitters cared about the message. They were selling an image to young girls and boys—profit over principle. Propaganda at its finest.

My final thought? I believe Sydney Sweeney comes from good jeans—just like I believe onyx, hazel, and every other eye color come from good genes and wear blue jeans. I just hope that letting herself be used as the face of “good jeans” doesn’t land her on one of those new lists.

If I were her mother, I’d protect her—and tell her to put on a shirt, and a bra, and sit down somewhere.

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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.

Who is thy neighbor

“And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh.”

—Luke 21:28

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It’s so phony. Some ADOS look in the mirror each day and still decide that America is our problem. Without considering, our ancestors, once enslaved, didn’t dream of going back to the land that sold them. Instead, they fought to make a place for us here. They survived. Now we live as proof of a legacy that couldn’t be kept down. Yet I keep seeing posts condemning America, even as people survive off the very idea of it.

Our ancestors used the Constitution and war to overturn a lie. They fought to make the promise real. They didn’t sit around waiting for handouts, living in fancy hotels, or being given Food Stamps. So when I hear people comparing the lives of ADOS to those of illegal immigrants, I find it both disgusting and offensive—especially when it’s coming from a fellow sister or brother. Illegal immigrants have the freedom to go home. Slaves did not.

I hear people talk about “love thy neighbor” without ever mentioning that sometimes your so-called neighbor can be a thief or a backstabber. They sneak in and take your resources—undercutting wages and having babies to qualify for free food and shelter. I understand the argument: undocumented immigrants (or “undocs,” as Gavin Newsom calls them) take on roles that no other American wants, so why not let them stay and do the work? But many of these illegal immigrants turn around, work for minimum wage, and call Black people lazy for demanding fair pay.

I know the Bible says, “If your brother offends you, turn the other cheek.” That implies your neighbor is someone who shares your faith and your values—someone who believes in the same God and lives under the same law. That’s your neighbor. Illegal immigrants not only break the law by entering the country without permission, they often falsify documents to remain here and marry in hopes of staying.

From around the world, nations glorify the ADOS struggle. They admire our tenacity. Only to arrive in America, they turn around and condemn us for continuing to be strong and for fighting for our rights. They do this while using every resource and opportunity to grab what they can. They step on the backs of the so-called, “poor, lazy, lowly” Black Americans with a snobbish pride.

Still, we rise.

We rise without shame. We continue to build, grow, and even control the very electricity that scorches us for daring to hold power.

From Mexicans to Haitians to Africans—many from lands destroyed by their own people—they can’t fathom how American Blacks, with our “lazy, broken, crooked” selves, still hold so much influence around the world. More than anything, they want to be just like us—just not the fringe ADOS.

They really believe it’s free.

So they tell the lie when they come to this country: “We are not the same as ADOS.” They say they will farm your land, nurse your cows, clean your house, cook your food, walk your dogs, and deliver your mattresses and couches. They do all this for $8 an hour, all in pursuit of the American dream. Yet they step on Black labor and drain resources in the name of “loving thy neighbor.”

People love to quote the Good Samaritan, but they miss the power of the parable. The Samaritan didn’t ask the wounded man how he ended up on the side of the road. This is true. The Samaritan didn’t judge his past or question who was responsible. No lie.

In other words, ADOS shows that same spirit toward illegal immigrants—voting Democrat and supporting policies like the DREAM Act. Meanwhile, illegal immigrants often look down on ADOS, even as they rely on the very same systems we’re accused of abusing. From DEI initiatives to low-wage labor, they benefit even more than we do. They come here, have babies, and tap into resources for housing, food, and healthcare—without ever having contributed to the system they’re draining.

It doesn’t matter how hard you work. Taking without ever having helped build is not the same as contributing. Yet they elbow Black Americans aside, claiming equal rights without documentation. If anyone dares to question it, they claim the right to resist.

This isn’t the Good Samaritan story. The Samaritan helped a man who posed no threat to him. The wounded man didn’t attack the Samaritan. He didn’t threaten him, mock him, or ridicule his position. He simply needed help. That’s what made the Samaritan’s compassion so powerful—it was a response to genuine need.

That is humanity. It is offering mercy where there is no malice. What makes the parable powerful was mercy shown to the humble, not empowerment handed to the illegal entitled.

Notice this: the priest and the Levite walked to the other side of the road. They acted as if they hadn’t seen him, as if helping him would defile them. They were too concerned with preserving themselves, their image, and their comfort. That’s what I think about when people argue that illegal immigrants are needed for farming or meatpacking, or to clean your houses or babysit your kids. They act as if that justifies ignoring everything else—as if shielding their conscience from defilement is more important than the truth.

But I digress. This passage isn’t about policy. It’s about individual humanity.

Maybe that’s what this moment is asking of us again—to open our eyes and consider who truly qualifies as a neighbor. Is it the one who humbles themselves before a stranger? The one who votes to fling the gates wide open, without wisdom or discernment? Or is it the one who slips through the fence—not to seek refuge, but to take?

Oh, the rise of the little foxes. “Catch for us the foxes, the little foxes that ruin the vineyards…” They sneak in quietly, feeding off the fruit we labored for and spoiling the vine before it can ripen.

Where are the shepherds of the ADOS community? Where are those who were charged to guard the gate—to protect our people and our resources?

“Woe to the shepherds of Israel who only take care of themselves. Should not shepherds take care of the flock?” (Ezekiel 34:2)

The shepherds are silent. The watchmen are blind. The vineyard is under siege. The flock is under attack.

Right now, the world feels like it’s on fire. Wars rage in Haiti, Sudan, Syria—and on the streets of our own cities. Famine spreads. Ideals collapse. And AI threatens to redefine what it even means to be human. We’ve seen this before, countless wars throughout our lifetime—from Vietnam to Congo to Gaza—but this feels different now. It’s as if God is turning up the flame of fire.

Little by little, He is breaking strongholds, shaking kingdoms, and exposing lies. In that shaking, something is being revealed: the heart of man and the hand of God.

This isn’t just politics. This is prophecy.

The mountains are shaking. The seas are quaking. God is allowing the shaking, knowing all this will lead to world peace, as it is written.

So, as the world tears itself apart, I’m reminded that Jesus didn’t tell us to blindly let in the thief at the border. He told us to be the neighbor—the one who sees, the one who acts, the one who protects its flock with godly discernment.

ADOS not every man is our neighbor. Not every cause is holy. We need to open our eyes. We need to see the difference.

———————-

AUTHORS NOTES:

Now, I know what I’m saying—the words I’m speaking—may sound hyperbolic, as if I’m just spewing one-sided talking points. But this year, I had a few renovations done on my home. Each time, a white man came out to give me the estimate. White men talked to me about the job, but every time, foreigners came to do the actual work.

To suggest that a Black man won’t take a job installing HVAC systems, putting in a fence, or even delivering furniture is the biggest hoax they’re telling people.

I’ll give you an example. My bed was delivered without the mattress support piece, which was missing from the order. The Hispanic delivery person told me the salesperson hadn’t included the part—even though it was necessary to assemble the bed. Then he tried to sell me the part for $250. He barely spoke English, but he managed to get that message across.

I called the furniture store, and they informed me that the part was included in the price. The delivery driver had no right to try and charge me anything extra.

I had him pick up that entire bed and take it back.

The store lost a customer.

And the delivery driver—who was not very neighborly and tried to rip me off—had to do all that work for nothing.

Not even a tip.

___________________

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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.

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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© 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.

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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© 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.

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.

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

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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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© 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.

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.

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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© 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.

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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© 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.

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.

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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© 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.

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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📢 Copyright Notice:

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.

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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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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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.

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

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“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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© 2025 Jacqueline Session. All Rights Reserved.

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