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.

Moments AI Can’t Touch

I’m sitting here on my bed right now, listening to the Glenn Loury podcast and thinking about whether I want to work on my Replit project. And honestly, I do have something going on with it. I can’t believe how AI is really changing and transforming our world.

Just the other day, I used Replit to create an app. I simply told it what I wanted, the idea that had been living in my head, and it built the whole thing. It was like watching a thought turn into something real. Even when I needed more specific changes—certain pieces to connect a particular way—I explained it, and the system understood. It told me exactly what I needed to do, and then it just did it. That’s AI. That’s where we’re heading. And it’s both exciting and a little terrifying.

But today, after a long week, I had a short day. I didn’t work that hard, and I was glad for that. I was happy to have a job. I know I’m blessed and highly favored. That’s for sure.

So now I’m just relaxing. I updated my timesheet, wrapped up work, and settled in. My room’s a mess—completely torn apart because I’m getting new furniture. I’ve pulled everything out, trying to sort through things, throw stuff away. There are shirts that need folding, socks that need pairing, things everywhere. But this space is mine. And even in the chaos, it makes me feel good. I know I’ll get through it. Today, I’m choosing to ignore the mess and just be.

Then my granddaughter drops in.

They always drop in when they want something. She walks in and sits down, all her hair out—so much hair, it’s unimaginable. I look at her and think, Gosh, I can’t even remember when I was that age. But I hope to God she remembers this—walking into her grandma’s room, seeing me just like this, in my space.

Of course, the first thing she reaches for is my makeup bag. She starts rummaging through it, looking at lipsticks I’ve never worn and probably never will. They’re glossy, light-colored—just sitting there for some reason. Maybe I imagine that one day I’ll put on a full face of makeup, maybe even wear lipstick too. Probably not, but who knows?

She starts separating the lipsticks, arranging them into little piles. Then she finds one in a shiny gold case—fancy looking. I have no idea where it came from. Probably some free Sephora sample. She opens it, looks at it, looks at me, and then puts it back.

I glance at her hair—some braids in, some out. I think about helping her take one down, but they’re too small. I’m not doing all that tonight. So I let her be. She keeps sorting the makeup.

Then, she looks at me, holds up a pink gloss, and places it in the center of the bed. “Can I have this?” she asks.

I look at her. “Take it,” I say.

She grabs it and bolts out of the room like she just got away with something big. And I’m sitting there, smiling to myself, thinking: Isn’t that how they get you every time?

But you know what? That moment made me feel so good. My mother would never have done something like that with me. So to share that with my granddaughter—it brings me real joy. She doesn’t have to struggle. Right now, things are okay. They’re doing well in school, they’re growing, they care about truth and justice. So liberal I can barely stand it—but I’m proud. I know they’re going to be the ones who stand up and fight for what’s right.

And all of that—AI and lipstick and a messy room full of love—adds up to a great Friday night.

I’m not doing much. Just relaxing. Maybe I’ll keep watching the podcast, maybe I’ll work a little on my app, or try to get through my book. I’m reading Nexus right now—don’t like it, but I’m determined to finish.

Anyway, that’s 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.

Circling the Same Mountain

Then he said, “May the Lord not be angry, but let me speak just once more. What if only ten can be found there?” -Genesis 18:32

Since the election, Democratic leaders who hold to left-leaning socialist ideologies have been busy licking their wounds, while Democrats begin vying for the presidency. There’s a huge problem, though—one that is painfully obvious. No Democrat, Green Party member, or left-leaning populist looks remotely capable of taking that chair. I’m right-leaning myself, but I still want to see a candidate rise who embodies true American democracy and the moral courage needed to change our course.

“We will never bend our backs in the face of adversity; we will stand firm until our peoples are truly emancipated. With you, we are certain that victory over the forces of evil is at hand.”

— May 2025, Captain Ibrahim Traoré ource

Our only real hope was Wes Moore. A former Army captain and the current Governor of Maryland, Moore has a compelling story and a deep connection to both the immigrant and Black American experience. But his recent rejection of a reparations study bill may have sealed his political fate.

I hope I’m wrong about Wes Moore. Maybe his veto of the reparations study wasn’t a dismissal, but a strategic pause. Perhaps he believes the time for studies has passed and that action is overdue. It’s possible he’s buying time to craft a more impactful approach. I want to believe he can still emerge as the leader we need.

Wes Moore has the unique ability to speak to the wounds of colonization, the legacy of slavery, and the lived experience of being a Black man in America. His story threads together the immigrant narrative and the ADOS struggle, giving him both a wide lens and a deep well to draw from. But even with all that, he would still need to win. And winning in America—as a Black man with a message rooted in truth, resistance, and reparative justice—has never been easy.

If we want a Black American leader to rise to the presidency, we need someone to come up from the concrete, like Ibrahim Traoré.

Traoré, the young leader of Burkina Faso, took power through a coup, following in the footsteps of similar shifts in Mali, Niger, and Chad. These countries—now often referred to as the “Coup Belt”—have rejected Western control and influence. Traoré did not ask for permission. He seized power. Since then, he has become a messianic figure to many across the African continent.

What makes Traoré so compelling is not just how he took power, but how he governs. He is militant but principled. He expelled France, refused Western aid, and has prioritized using Burkina Faso’s own resources to serve its people. Under his leadership, the country has begun building electric cars named after its cities, invested in food independence, and taken serious steps to control its own wealth—especially its gold reserves. He is the embodiment of self-determination.

And we have no equivalent here.

Traoré is everything the ADOS community wants and needs. We are thirsty for a strong Black man to represent our community. We’re constantly looking back—invoking the strength and sacrifice of Malcolm, Martin, Fred, and Medgar. That’s because when someone rises from the bottom, there’s something about that rise that marks them. It manifests in how they speak, how they walk, how they carry the weight of their people.

But in America, there’s no one who can relate. Even our poorest don’t know the kind of poverty that defines places like Sudan, South Africa, or Burkina Faso. Even at our lowest, we can find water to drink, a food pantry, a dollar here or there on the hustle. The American floor is not the global floor. And so, the hunger, the urgency, the grit—it shows up differently. Or sometimes, not at all.

Of course, America is not Burkina Faso. We are not calling for a coup—but for the kind of courage and independence Traoré displays. The kind of unapologetic truth-telling that won’t bow to political donors or corporate handlers.

Wes Moore came close. His background, leadership, and clarity on issues affecting Black Americans gave many of us hope. But aside from him, there is no one else. No one has emerged with that kind of boldness, clarity, and unwavering commitment to the people.

I often think about Abraham’s plea to the LORD to spare the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah if just one righteous man could be found. That’s how it feels. The odds are heavy. The pathway is narrow. But the possibility of one man rising from obscurity still lives in my imagination.

As I watch CNN and MSNBC and listen to podcasts like Matt Walsh and Charlie Kirk, I see just how difficult it will be for a Black man to rise from obscurity. One man. One story. One voice loud enough to challenge the noise.

Africa was devastated by colonization. America devastated us through slavery. And both continue to be impacted by modern forms of exploitation and control. For America, if the goal is to bridge the widening gap between the West and Africa, there is only one real path forward: elect a Black American Descendant of Slavery as president. A man who can speak both to Africa and to America. Someone who can restore a moral voice to a nation losing its grip on truth.

It cannot be someone like Obama—brilliant, yes, but disconnected from the full ADOS experience. Obama’s rise was shaped by compromise and polish. His story wasn’t forged in the same fire. We need someone born from the pain, the promise, and the perseverance of our people. A man who understands the weight of corporate racism, of being overlooked and undermined despite talent and achievement. Someone like so many of us who have been told we’re not good enough while watching others, less experienced, take the seats we’ve earned.

This is what’s missing. And until we find him—until he rises—we’ll keep circling the same mountain.

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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.

A Streetcar Named OnlyFans: One Subscription at a Time

A Streetcar Named Desire was on television the other day, and it got me thinking. Women back then had to do all they could to be seen and heard—and yet remain invisible to men—as they tried to keep themselves looking young and beautiful, or pleasant and useful, with age hanging like a forever shadow over them. There is something especially sad about a woman who loves a man so deeply that she sacrifices her own happiness just to keep him. But perhaps even sadder is the widowed woman left alone, unmarried and unprotected, trying to preserve a life that has long slipped away. More than that, it’s a longing for an elegant lifestyle that quickly falls from your grip, leaving you imprisoned in your own mind. Your only escape becomes the house of your dear sweet sister—Stella!

It’s a tale of two women: Stella, so docile she remains in an abusive relationship, and Blanche, who has given so much of herself that she spirals completely out of her mind. It’s a disappointing story, one that has played itself out in America far too often. No more Blanches or Stellas. We can’t afford to keep romanticizing broken women who are either silenced or slowly erased.

If I had to be Stella or Blanche—and if I’m honest, I’ve probably been a little of both at different times in my life—I’d choose to be Stella. Not because her story is less painful, but because at least she got out. She may have clung to the illusion of love for too long, but she eventually walked away. Blanche, on the other hand, lost herself entirely. After the trauma of losing her young husband to suicide—a death tied to a truth she couldn’t accept—she spiraled. She sought comfort in the arms of strangers, not because she was promiscuous, but because she was broken. Society branded her immoral, but really, she was just trying to survive. She lied to keep up appearances. She softened the harshness of reality until her mind could no longer tell the difference.

The delusion was real. We think of A Streetcar Named Desire as an old-fashioned film. A black-and-white movie that makes today’s color and appeal feel like triumph by comparison. But that’s not true. This same behavior is playing out today, in clips and tricks. That’s why I feel compelled, even if a little late, to speak on the OnlyFans (Shannon Sharpe) hype.

“And also all that generation were gathered unto their fathers: and there arose another generation after them, which knew not the Lord, nor yet the works which he had done for Israel.”

— Judges 2:10 (KJV)

Last week, I saw a post on LinkedIn that genuinely baffled me. It was being celebrated with likes, hearts, and congratulatory comments. The post praised Denise Richards, a former actress, for reportedly earning $2 million a month on OnlyFans—and her daughter, who supposedly brings in $80,000 a month on the same platform. It was framed as inspirational, as if we should all applaud this mother-daughter duo for their so-called entrepreneurial success.

It’s as if “I’m Every Woman” now includes celebrated sex workers. As if we’re all supposed to applaud selling our bodies for likes and CashApps. As if the path of a virtual sex worker is somehow equal to that of a street hooker. Let’s be real: a street hooker at least knows the shame, while an OnlyFans performer hides behind screens, filters, and followers who shield them from accountability. They are not the same.

In the 1940s, women couldn’t pretend. The culture was dominated by men—men who saw women as nothing more than sex toys and shiny trinkets. We tell ourselves things are different now because today women can pretend all day, every day, and get rich quick doing so. Men are reduced to subscribers, paying monthly for sneak pics. Pictures of half-naked bodies are like Pokémon cards.

What unsettled me most about the LinkedIn post was how many people in the comments considered Denise Richards’ story a success story. Success is no longer based on skill, talent, or merit. In this culture, it’s based on the number of subscribers and the amount of money you can make. It’s a true example of capitalism, where visibility and profit are valued more than substance or purpose. I can’t tell you how many introductions now include subscriber counts or follower numbers, as if that alone defines a person’s worth.

Two things may be happening: women are lying on social media, or there is a cognitive dissonance that reveals a deep error in judgment. To be real, I think many of them are lying—pretending to conform to a cultural narrative just to stay relevant.

But here’s the part that remains unsaid: OnlyFans is built on seduction, suggestion, and access. People don’t pay those fees for cooking tutorials or fitness tips. They pay to see skin—and often, the promise of more. We can dress it up with the language of empowerment, but at the core, it’s a transaction where bodies become the product. Sex and self-gratification are glorified over fidelity, love, and relationship. True feminism that still relies on a man’s bottom dollar. Power rests in the pocket of the one with the most coins in the CashApp.

I’m not judging people’s choices about how they make their money. But from personal experience, I know this: the more you sell your body, the more of yourself you lose. It chips away at your spirit and dignity, and at some point, you look around and realize you’re empty. But with OnlyFans, at least your bank account will be full, because there are enough perverts to keep proprietors in business for a long time.

What’s happening in our culture may feel like liberation to some. But it’s a form of oppression. You have to keep your withering body from turning back to dust when all the odds are against you. In the end, you’ll have nothing more than photo ops and nothing to show for the sacrifices you made with your body. Like Stella, you too will grow old and unwanted. But where she was forced into the light, OnlyFans models can hide behind filters, screen savers, and blocks. Some will sell themselves and suffer no consequences. But that’s not the case for most. Blanche is a perfect example of how far seduction will take you.

To be fair, Blanche catching her husband with another man is enough to drive any woman out of her mind. A woman scorned is going to hurt the man or herself. Stella’s husband committed suicide and left her destitute. But she had learned to use what she had to get what she needed—her body. She had to take it to the streets. This left her searching for love and acceptance in bars, clubs, and funeral homes. In these dark places, Blanche found nothing and lost herself. In the end, it all comes down to matters of the heart and what’s right and wrong. Does a mother want to cultivate a whore? When a mother leads her own child down a dark path, it’s sickening.

I read an article where Denise Richards’ daughter said she’s not mad that her mother, having just joined the platform, is making millions more. It doesn’t impact her self-confidence. She’s making plenty and stacking up wealth. But when a mother and daughter are both on the OnlyFans platform, they’re not building generational wealth—that’s generational trauma with a marketing plan. This is the culture becoming the norm.

Women have found a true Pandora’s box, and it’s called OnlyFans. Sex has no barriers when everything is virtual and takes so little. Use your body, and when it starts to drop and sag, or to enhance the little you already have, there are plastic surgeons everywhere who, for the right price, can give you all you need to stream.

It’s obvious now: as more women take to OnlyFans, the more BBLs we’re seeing on the streets. The American Society of Plastic Surgeons is reporting a clear rise in cosmetic procedures, and you don’t need a study to feel the shift. You can see it in women walking around with asses that look like basketballs, whether on the street or scrolling online. When I was growing up, the idea of plastic surgery was foreign, reserved for the rich and famous. Now, it’s as simple as putting in the grunt work, filling out the forms, and saving up the cash.

All my life, I tried to cover my big booty and protruding breasts—and now, many are removing fat from parts of their bodies to form a round booty. It’s mainstream now that Kim had sex with Ray J. What was once a luxury is now a hustle, and for many, the ticket to visibility, attention, or fast money.

When we consider all this, it’s fascinating that Shannon Sharpe has sort of hit the mainstream by exposing the problem with OnlyFans. It leads to relationships that are manipulative, have no depth, and lack love, decency, and respect. Sharpe’s behavior is the consequence of these transactional relationships built on virtual money, sex, and fake performance. These days, Shannon Sharpe is making his walks of shame. After having one of the most viral interviews with Katt Williams—who forewarned him to leave young white girls alone—the prophecy hit. God is not mocked. Shannon talked about how he would not lose with God on his side. He said progress was progress, all while living a shameful life. Now, it’s unfortunate that he has been exposed.

Now he’s been exposed for the fool he was. This is spiritual. In many ways, Katt’s words were prophetic. Shannon was warned. Now he’s taking to social media, trying to get ahead of the story. He’s using his platform to proclaim innocence, stepping down from ESPN before he could be fired. But the truth remains: he was carrying on a relationship with a 19-year-old OnlyFans girl, taking great pleasure in the daily use of degrading language by a white girl—as if legality erases morality.

This isn’t about innocence; it’s about what’s right and what’s wrong. A grown man with power, wealth, and influence doesn’t get a pass just because the girl was “legal.” The power dynamics are real. And so is the inconsistency in how he’s handling it. This is a reflection of something deeper—how Black men are often socialized to protect their image at all costs, even when it means ignoring their own brokenness, their view of women, and the ways they’re being exploited by a world that uses them.

In this case, an OnlyFans model lured him in like a street hustler—with a smile, a tease, and a subscription. She used her platform to bait him, recorded him, and then tried to extort $50 million. This was calculated. She thought she could play the game and win. And while her language and behavior paint her as little more than a self-proclaimed prostitute, I won’t fully disparage her hustle—but I will call her behavior out for what it was. She played the victim and the race card. Shannon allowed it. He paid for it—literally and figuratively.

It’s a tragedy when a Black man who overcame so much is taken down by someone who saw him as a quick payday. After baiting him, she joked, “That’s not a good look, Shannon,” while trying to choke him and using the recording to make him look bad.

Meanwhile, Tony Buzbee, a white lawyer who repeatedly tries to take down famous Black men, lurked in the background waiting to file a civil case for sexual assault. Well, if you ask me, Shannon needs to file a civil case against the young girl for her use of violent and offensive language and for obvious extortion.

This is what happens when manipulation becomes the model—when sex is the currency and dignity is collateral. This is OnlyFans gone wrong. Had Shannon Sharpe been a different kind of man, we’d be having a different conversation. The OnlyFans person attempted to paint him as the monster, but it turns out she was the one hiding claws.

This is one case of manipulation that just happened to hit the mainstream media because of Shannon Sharpe’s celebrity, but it happens far more often than anyone wants to admit. We’re told that a few women making millions a month proves that OnlyFans is viable and respectable. That is a lie. Shannon was exposed in this case, but in countless others, it’s the women who lose—and those stories never get told. OnlyFans buries those stories while it glorifies the few who rise to the top through a lifestyle built on seduction and illusion.

Shannon was like Mitch, the character from A Streetcar Named Desire who shows interest in Blanche. Mitch fell for Blanche beneath soft lights and sweet talk, thinking she was the kind of woman he could make honest—wholesome and respectable—until he heard the whispers. Maybe Mitch had discipline. Shannon, however, suffered a harsher fate. He was exposed nationally and is now seen as an old pervert who was nearly duped by a girl who had only recently become of legal age. Like Mitch, he saw the truth just before full entrapment. The OnlyFans model moved too fast, got caught in her own web, and exposed herself—name and all. I wonder how she’s doing now. At least she can take her hustle and attempt to rebrand herself, I suppose.

That original LinkedIn post bothered me because it wasn’t just praise—it was blindness. A refusal to confront what’s really being encouraged. We’ve glamorized the transactional. We’ve normalized the hustle. We praise women who sell their bodies for CashApps and Venmos. There’s no shame anymore. The Bible says, “Woe to the world that causes others to sin.” That’s what OnlyFans has been since its inception—a platform to sell sex.

We’ve decided that it’s okay to get a little cash for a cheap flash. I knew a girl who sold pictures of her feet on OnlyFans to pay for a trip. A few quick dollars for foot pictures—it’s all so innocent. Men are so greasy and desperate they’ll buy feet pics online while a real woman is probably asleep next to them in bed.

And just to be clear—Shannon didn’t rape that OnlyFans model. It’s clear they had an inappropriate relationship. The model saw him as a get-rich-quick scheme and set him up. What’s interesting—and painful—is that Black men are falsely accused of rape more often than any other group. That’s not fiction. That’s fact. Here, you have a young girl using a platform to manipulate a Black man by playing the “pay me” card.

It’s unfortunate that in America we’ve created a culture that confuses visibility with value. And in doing so, we’ve sacrificed the things that matter most—integrity, purpose, and truth.

And yet, even with all the money, filters, surgeries, and subscribers, the story still ends the same.

Let’s go back to Blanche and Stella.

In the end, both women lose. Blanche, after all the pretending, chasing, and spiraling, is institutionalized—left to live in a delusion she can no longer control. And Stella? She returns to the very man who abused her. She tries to believe in love, but she’s trapped by the lie. Neither of them wins. One loses her mind; the other loses her freedom.

They are cautionary tales of what happens when women sacrifice their bodies for abusive love, or when they chase after affection through seduction. It’s a tragic testament—but such is the case when society pushes the envelope so far that morality collapses under the weight of performance.

It reminds me of that verse in the Bible, from Exodus, where it says that after Joseph, a new generation arose that did not know God. That’s where we are now.

We live in a time where people no longer have a moral foundation to base their thinking or lifestyle. Where the bottom line isn’t faith, or purpose, or even family—but capital.

OnlyFans is not empowerment. It’s a symptom. It’s what happens when a culture loses its soul and sells its daughters one subscription at a time.

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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 New Willie Lynch Letter: Shedeur Sanders and the Price of Black Pride

“If you ain't trying to change the franchise or the culture, don't get me.”

Many years ago, I read the so-called Willie Lynch Letter. When I first read it, it resonated as truth. It reflected the world I knew: if you had Black skin, there were unspoken protocols we were told to follow so you didn’t appear out of line. For instance, if you were walking down the street and approached a white person, we were told to lower our eyes or possibly cross the street. And if you were stopped by the police, you had to be overly polite, ending every sentence with “Sir” or “Ma’am.”

My generation was rebellious. We sidestepped these social norms. For us, the days of Rosa Parks were long gone. We sat at the back of the bus not because we had to, but because we wanted to.

Later, I learned the Willie Lynch letter is widely believed to be a hoax—a 1712 speech attributed to a British slave owner who supposedly gave American enslavers a guide to control African slaves. Real or not, the strategies described in the letter have echoed through generations. The method involved dividing enslaved Black people by age, gender, and skin tone. Enslaved women were deceived at high levels because they were tasked with raising the next generation of women to be strong and ensuring the young boys were docile. The letter also described how to publicly break the strongest male slave, physically and mentally, in front of everyone else. This performance of destruction was meant to ensure fear and compliance for generations to come.

“You’re going to get the truth. You’re not going to sugarcoat it. And that’s going to be the uncomfortable part.”

— Marshawn Lynch

Historians may call the letter fiction, but the behavior it describes has been all too real. The same methods once used to keep Black people down during slavery are still used today to divide Black families, suppress Black talent and potential, and keep the Black man in check.

Some people insist that times have changed, and yes, they have. But the tactics haven’t just changed—they’ve evolved. Long gone are the days when the behavior remains the same.

We saw that behavior rear its head again over the weekend. It showed up during the NFL Draft. Countless people are dismissing what happened to Shedeur Sanders, declaring that this is “not about race.” But history has taught us that when this kind of behavior is called out, the response is always the same: “It’s not about race.” Lynchings, whippings, and the sale of children were never “about race” either. They were framed as acts of discipline, necessary to maintain peace for whites. Slaves had to be controlled, and sparing the rod was seen as unbiblical. It was the same mindset used to justify taming animals.

Clearly, what happened to Sanders as he waited to be drafted by a league wasn’t about merit or capability either. He was repeatedly overlooked, despite his performance. Sanders threw for over 3,200 yards, 27 touchdowns, and only 3 interceptions in the 2023 college season at Colorado. He also rushed for 4 touchdowns, demonstrating both leadership and talent. He was projected by some analysts as a second-round pick. Instead, he was passed over. Critics like Officer Tatum and other right-leaning independent media sources focused on his perceived arrogance, pointing to his Instagram posts and confident persona as red flags. But Willie Lynch-style tactics don’t require many examples. You only need to punish one in order to control the rest.

What’s even more cruel is how Sanders was taunted. Jax Ulbrich, the 21-year-old son of Atlanta Falcons defensive coordinator Jeff Ulbrich, decided to give Sanders a call. Jax Ulbrich identified himself as the general manager of the New Orleans Saints, telling him, “We’re going to take you with our next pick—you’re going to have to wait a little bit longer.” It was meant to be a joke. To some, it was funny. But it was really just another lynching, carried out in modern form. No rope, no tree—just the same message: Don’t step out of line.

Sanders was used by the owners of the NFL to send a message. When a confident, talented Black man with a bold father dares to defy expectations, the system will find a way to humble him. His public humiliation sends a warning that speaks volumes: This will be you should you get out of line.

People defend this behavior by insisting that NFL coaches want to win, so they wouldn’t pass over talent for personal reasons. But they did. Instead of admitting it, they gaslight us, pointing to Sanders’ “character” as the issue. Yet players with criminal records were selected over him. To some, Sanders came off as an unruly Black man—too bold, too outspoken, too much like his father. They wanted to strip away whatever he inherited from Deion Sanders. Pride is the very trait that belies what whites say about Blackness. The white ownership class used this as an opportunity to send a signal, just like they did when Kaepernick took a knee. Back then, they told Black players, directly and indirectly, not to show allegiance to their community. Some disobeyed, but many obeyed. And now, once again, the NFL is demonstrating what will happen if you are too proud. Speak out or speak up—it will happen to you too.

This proves something that many refuse to accept: merit and capabilities alone will never be enough, and racism is far from dead. In fact, what the Sanders case reveals is that the goalposts have moved. The scrutiny now extends beyond talent. It includes “character,” a conveniently vague term that is used to disqualify Black men who don’t conform. Commentators like Matt Walsh and Charlie Kirk claim Sanders’ character hurt him, but when you look at his actual record, there’s no evidence of poor behavior. In reality, our Black boys are not judged by merit, capability, or character. Their futures depend on white perception.

Some people argue that the NFL owners didn’t conspire to keep Shedeur Sanders out of the early rounds. They say there’s no secret meeting, no organized plan. But that argument is naïve. We’ve seen how corporations and governments fall in line together. Hence: COVID.

Whether conscious or not, systemic racism is often less about overt conspiracy and more about consistent outcomes shaped by bias. The truth is, white Americans spent over 265 years telling themselves that Black people were less than human. Even if they knew it was a lie, they believed it was necessary to keep Blacks in chains. So yes, owners could absolutely act—consciously or unconsciously—to make Sanders an example. At the end of all this, it’s clear this is really not about Sanders. It’s about reminding every young Black athlete what happens if you’re too confident, too proud, or too Black. The message is clear.

What makes it worse is the fractured response from the Black community. Some say he got what he deserved. Others dismiss racism entirely. A few acknowledge it, but only with disclaimers and excuses. No one wants to confront the reality that systemic racism hasn’t ended—it’s just adapted. We rally around low-cost causes, like boycotting Target, because those don’t require real sacrifice. But when it comes to standing together against actual injustice, we crumble.

The fight against racism today demands sacrifice. It demands that Black people—especially those with cultural and economic power—take risks. If the Black players in the NFL, who make up more than half the league, stood up for Shedeur, they could have disrupted the system. They could have stood up. But they are not going to make that type of sacrifice. Instead, they would rather buy T-shirts and baseball caps from Sanders' online store. They could have demanded accountability. Instead, the message stands: merit isn’t protection.

“I’m an African-American quarterback. That may scare a lot of people because they haven’t seen nothing that they can compare me to.”

— Cam Newton

This isn’t just about the NFL. It’s happening in corporate America too. There, it shows up as one Black person “holding the line” while leadership insists promotions are based on talent and merit. When Black candidates are passed over, it’s always chalked up to a “lack of qualifications.” And even if those qualifications are met, the unspoken rule remains: too many Black faces in one space means someone must be made an example. Someone always becomes the Willie Lynch figure, passed over or punished to keep the power structure balanced.

America is headed toward a reckoning. As minorities grow to outnumber whites in more communities, the response has been to use every tool of influence and power to restrain Black people. When a Black person speaks truth or challenges authority, they’re labeled aggressive, rude, or insubordinate. Even among our own, some are quick to shrink back in fear, clinging to respectability.

We can act like what happened to Shedeur Sanders was normal. Or we can stop and confront this behavior. Black players in the NFL should protest—not just for Shedeur, but for every Black man who has been punished for standing tall. Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr., Sojourner Truth, Young Thug, ASAP Rocky, Jay-Z, Bill Cosby, Michael Vick, and even me—we all carry pieces of this struggle.

Meanwhile, organizations like the NFL insist their decisions are objective, that character matters more than anything else, and that all players are treated the same. But we know that isn’t true. We saw the truth when Shedeur Sanders was passed over—not because of his talent, but because of what he represents. He became the example. A cautionary tale used to remind Black players that there are limits to their pride, their visibility, and their power.

The tactics have evolved. The chains have changed. But the system—the need to control, to punish, and to humble Black men—has never gone away. It’s just been rebranded.

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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.

Do You Hear What I Hear? The Dog Whistle and the Fear It Feeds

Tariffs have dominated the national conversation this past week. According to some, what Trump has done is downright awful. Disrespectful, even. And it affects everyone, from the elderly to the young. His tariff policy sent the stock market into a spiral. It was one of the worst crashes in recent American history.

For many Americans, it wasn’t just a headline. It was a hard hit. 401(k) accounts took a deep and sudden loss, one of only four times in American history that retirement savings fell so sharply, so quickly. Grocery bills spiked. The cost of buying a car jumped overnight. The fallout was immediate and personal.

While a few cautious Democrats stayed quiet, others saw the crash as their signal to take to the streets in protest. It all felt like a quiet Soros tactic. A calculated manipulation of the market, using Trump’s long-telegraphed tariff threats to trigger financial chaos. Like a Van Gogh painting, a masterpiece of disruption. That’s how Soros once scored off the British pound. With a kind of artistic precision, he broke the Bank of England. So why wouldn’t it be possible again? That’s the mainstream narrative. But no one wants to talk about how many Democrats supported tariffs in the past. How many Democrats have argued China needs to be checked and are now mad Trump has done what Obama or Biden didn’t have the courage to do.

In Democrat fashion, the streets filled quickly. Marches, signs, chants in the name of trade, jobs, and the economy.

At the same time, progressives began doubling down on their small wins, disguising political theater as revolution.

Cory Booker took a victory lap for outlasting Strom Thurmond’s filibuster, a harkening back to the era of Jim Crow, when Black Americans were openly oppressed. The comparison is unclear, as Thurmond argued against legislation while Booker argued for nothing. Especially not for the ADOS community affected by the policies of those like Strom Thurmond.

Perhaps Booker sees this symbolic gesture as paving the way for his run for president. Every Democratic politician knows they need ADOS to win. He is clearly targeting the ADOS community, as most of his recent posts are aimed in our direction, invoking the names of Ida B. Wells and Fannie Lou Hamer. It is shameful and insulting, as if we haven’t seen this same playbook used before. Whenever Democrats want to galvanize the Black community, they start whispering tales of slavery, Jim Crow, and Black Wall Street while doing nothing for the ADOS community. During the portions of his speech I listened to, Booker never once mentioned legislation that would directly affect American Black citizens. Most of his remarks centered on every other marginalized and oppressed group except for ADOS.

On the same day Booker delivered his 25-hour spectacle, Democrats celebrated a Supreme Court win in the state of Wisconsin, a victory that promises them two more seats in the House. A Republican loss, they say. A power shift, shadowed by the looming threat of impeachment.

This convergence of events — the market crash, the protests, the political theatrics — created a climate ripe for misdirection. Then, right on cue, Trump lifted the curtain on his tariff expansion, and chaos erupted. Protests branded #HandsOff2025 were suddenly everywhere. Progressive speakers, already hand-selected, had their speeches prepared. Signs were printed. The T-shirts were ready. It all unfolded with eerie precision, as if it had been scripted long before the first headline hit.

Republicans began to scramble. They could not figure out how to respond to the crash or to the outrage flooding the streets. Talking points collided. Blame was tossed back and forth. And as fear crept in, both sides rushed to their media platforms to make the case for and against tariffs.

But through all the noise, some of us stood still. Many of us understand that tariffs come with serious economic trade-offs. We know what Trump is doing will create chaos in the market, but we also know the chaos may be necessary. The hope is that things will eventually balance out, that the economy will adjust, and the playing field will shift in our favor. So, we wait. We watch. We listen.

Yet, as the tables began to wobble, the rhetoric spiraled. The far left and far right retreated into their corners. Centrists in both parties tried to stay grounded, but the middle was eroding. The eruption spread, and with it, a familiar fear. And just as expected, one side barked first. The far right blew the dog whistle.

Republicans, and I mean white and Black Republicans, quietly introduced another story into the national bloodstream. A new story wrapped in an old, dangerous narrative: the violent Black man. The story of Karmelo Anthony, a Black boy, and the seventeen-year-old white boy he stabbed to death. When it started appearing in my algorithm, I ignored it. I looked at the Black boy and everything inside me said he’s not the type. I didn’t want to hear anything else, so I kept scrolling.

But then I heard voices from our own side. Black voices like the Cartier Family Podcast, young Black men, proud Trump supporters, disparaging Karmelo Anthony without hesitation or facts. Charleston White also took to social media, furious that Karmelo had a GoFundMe. Jason Whitlock took to his podcast condemning Anthony and disparaging the Black community. It was astonishing to see. It was as if they didn’t realize they were the ones holding the water hose now, turning it back on their own people. They condemned this young Black boy and, even worse, some went as far as to suggest he deserved the death penalty.

It’s not new. During the Wilmington coup, even some Black leaders condemned Alexander Manly, the editor of The Daily Record, the Black newspaper in Wilmington. It was the Black elite who quietly placed a letter in his mailbox, urging him never to return. Such a familiar refrain.

It’s the same tactic being amplified by white conservative voices—Michael Knowles, Matt Walsh, and others—who thrive on pushing the narrative that Black youth are inherently violent and that the only solution is more policing, more punishment, more division. These figures strategize. They exploit fear. They paint themselves as patriots while refusing to confront the very systems of inequality that drive the violence they claim to despise.

Matt Walsh took to his podcast and condemned Black boys as hardwired for violence, making broad generalizations without facts. He spoke as if he personally knew the young man, projecting fear into fiction. He never mentioned school shootings, Dylan Roof, or the suicide epidemic plaguing white boys.

Michael Knowles went even further. He claimed Karmelo Anthony was likely raised in poverty, lacked spiritual guidance, and had probably shown violent tendencies for years. He blamed the social systems and the community around Karmelo for turning a blind eye, speaking as if his assumptions were truths. This is dangerous—not only because it's rooted in bias, but because it ignores the larger context.

Meanwhile, no one is discussing the psychological trauma many white boys endure either. Suicide rates. School shootings. Dylan Roof. Ted Bundy. These stories fade while Black youth remain the symbolic threat.

“If the white men can stand negro supremacy we neither can nor will. Tho’ I do not believe for a moment that they will submit any longer. It is time for the oft quoted shotgun to play a part, and an active one, in the elections.”

— The words of a racist white woman, Rebecca Waddell Cameron's Letter (October 26, 1898). She blew a dog whistle that terrorized an destroyed an entire black community in Wilmington, North Carolina. So many people died, they can't even find all the bodies.

This isn’t the first time we've seen Black power provoke fear. In 1898, in Wilmington, North Carolina, a local government made up of both Black and white leaders was violently overthrown by armed white supremacists. It is still the only successful coup d’état in American history. Black residents had begun to build wealth, hold office, and publish newspapers that openly challenged white supremacy. In response, white mobs burned Black-owned businesses, killed dozens of Black citizens, and forced elected officials to resign at gunpoint. The coup destroyed what was one of the most progressive and integrated communities in the South at the time.

During the Wilmington coup, even some Black leaders condemned Alexander Manly, the editor of The Daily Record, the Black newspaper in Wilmington. It was the Black elite who quietly placed a letter in his mailbox, urging him never to return. Such a familiar refrain.

The dog whistle.

According to Jeff Metcalf, father of Austin Metcalf, Karmelo Anthony stabbed his son to death for nothing more than asking him to move. The father claimed Karmelo was under a school tent and introduced himself. First, he claimed his son grabbed Anthony and told him to move. Then, he said no—he grabbed Anthony’s backpack, and that Karmelo, unprovoked, pulled out a knife from the very same bag and stabbed his “poor boy” in the heart. The story just doesn’t add up. Like Sandra Bland—had she complied, maybe she would be alive today. Anthony should have just moved. That’s the narrative. Austin’s father stood before the camera with a fake tear falling from his eye and asked, “What kind of parents does this boy have?”

Because buried in that question is a much deeper accusation: Look at what’s happening here. These Negroes are out of control. They don’t know their place. They think they can just take shelter under our tents, walk through our spaces, and not be questioned.

The message was clear back during Jim Crow and Civil Rights and is true now: Black advancement must be stopped by any means necessary, because blacks need to be controlled. This is exactly the kind of story that speaks directly to the fear of the rigid white Republican base, the base that believes it has just won an unspoken cultural war. Not simply because of Trump’s return to the White House, but because 20 percent of Black voters backed him. And now, with Trump promising a supposed reckoning for all communities, the American Black community is starting to band together. Republicans, particularly in the South, recognize that their core voting population is shrinking. When you combine ADOS and Black immigrants with liberal and independent voters, conservatives are outnumbered. And the ADOS voting bloc stands as one of the most powerful in the nation. This truth terrifies white conservatives—especially white southerners.

Now let’s flip the coin.

There can be a case made that Karmelo Anthony sought shelter from the rain under the tent of another school and he had been attacked. Particularly by the two Metcalf boys. They approached him and tried to make him move because he didn’t belong there. Karmelo acted in self-defense and stood up for himself—and that was the crime. We have a similar story in the Ahmaud Arbery case when a man went behind a house to get water and was tracked down like an animal, gunned down by two white men. He had been labeled the aggressor until the video appeared. Perhaps this encounter between Karmelo and Metcalf had nothing to do with race and yet here we have pundits playing this story about race. The race of the Black boy and his violent nature.

Now we all know someone has crossed a line, but when we hear all the facts it seems as if Austin Metcalf and his twin brothers were aggressors in this situation. But without any other facts and just opinion, we can’t make accusations. Instead, Walsh, Knowles, and even Black boys like the Cartier brothers tell the story from their own perspective.

The crime becomes a symbol. The Black boy isn’t a teenager anymore—he’s a threat. An invader. Much worse, an invader with a knife. And the white boy becomes a martyr for a nation desperate to protect its fantasy of control. It’s the same narrative that has long painted Black men as rapists or murderers.

That’s the real message. And far white Republicans hear it loud and clear. Black Republicans only see distorted facts and, without knowledge and filled with self-hate, they sell the same fake narrative. Even as they defend the white boy, they don’t recognize they could also be in the same situation—seeking refuge from the storm, getting a drink of water, or smoking a cigarette in their own vehicle.

The only way to win is to galvanize their base and to do this they have to sound the alarm. Not with facts. Not with unity. But with fear. And that fear is delivered through a familiar tactic: a dog whistle disguised as outrage. A narrative slithered across headlines and echoed in comment sections. One that says, “Look at them. They’re out of control. They are angry, violent and vicious—inherently.”

In The Red Record by Ida B. Wells, she shares plenty of stories about the ways Black men were attacked and lynched without a shred of evidence—accused of supposedly assaulting some innocent white person. The only real difference between the 1860s and today is that Black folks are beginning to fight back. We saw that during the Montgomery brawl, after a white mob attacked a group of Black people. Yet none of these things has stopped whites from attacking Blacks and being justified for killing them.

This week, I had so many other stories to write about: Cory Booker and his performance that is supposed to be historic, and of course, Kanye West in his Klan outfit made of black leather. But I had to stop to address this story—a story I didn’t have the wherewithal to click on when it originally appeared in my algorithm but was forced to confront because so many voices were attacking all Black boys. More importantly, Democrats have still been silent—as if they quietly might agree. It is clear Republicans want this one crime to serve as an example, a justification for punishing all Black boys. This is no different than the case of the Central Park Five—falsely accused of raping a white woman.

This story is bigger than one story. It’s about the battle for our sons.

We are failing both Black and white boys in this country, but in different ways. Black boys are disproportionately affected by gun violence and homicide. In 2020, they had a firearm homicide rate more than ten times higher than their white peers. But curiously, it is Black-on-Black crime. At the same time, white boys are more likely to die by suicide and to carry out school shootings. In that same year, white youth had the highest firearm suicide rates, and white males make up the overwhelming majority of school shooters. White males attack more innocent individuals—than those who attack them.

These realities paint a bleak but honest picture. Black boys are being killed by others. White boys are dying by their own hands—or committing violence against others in planned, high-profile attacks. Both are symptoms of a larger national illness. One of neglect, cultural isolation, and an unwillingness to address the pain brewing in our communities. If we don’t face this truth head-on, we will continue to fail an entire generation of boys—and by extension, the girls and communities connected to them.

We are at a tipping point. ADOS, Black immigrants, white, Hispanic and Asian, centrists, leftists, conservatives—we all must make a choice. Not between parties, but between power and illusion. Between repeating cycles or cultivating a new American narrative. It is time for us as a country to rewrite history. This can only begin by changing the narrative and asking bigger questions.

Why would a white boy force a Black boy to get from beneath a tent that belonged to the school?

That is up to a jury to answer.

Every dog whistle carries the same message: fall in line or be punished. But the beauty of this moment is—we’re no longer deaf to it.

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P.S. I am so happy that Karmelo Anthony’s family has remained silence. While Jeff MetCalf is using his son’s death to make the rounds to the media. Everyday with a story that shifts and shape shifts into a new lie. However, we have now learned that Karmelo Anthony is an honor roll student, the captain of his football team, he saved a life at fourteen, he has never been in trouble with the law. He comes from a respectful household with a mother and father and knows right from wrong. As the right-leaning media disparages this young man’s character out of fear, one thing is clear social media seems to have gotten their facts wrong. Podcasters like Knowls and Walsh have become as vicious, vile and biased as CNN. they have argued a point based on inaccurate data. We also learned that Austin Metcalf and his twin brothers were bullies. We have heard nothing more from the pundits…

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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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📢 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.

Beyond the Brand – Why We Need an ADOS President Now

The future is waiting. But who will answer the call? DahTruth is, we’re not waiting for permission anymore.

The older I get, the more I realize how deeply politics have shaped not just my life, but the lives of my parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and those who came before them. In America, every generation of Black people has been impacted by decisions made by two political parties that have always had something to say about our worth, our labor, our economic conditions, and our place in this country. From slavery to Jim Crow, from the Civil Rights era to the so-called War on Drugs, American Descendants of Slavery (ADOS) have been exploited in the name of progress, manipulated through policy, and offered salvation through the illusion of voting.

Voting, once seen as a hard-won right and a tool of liberation, has increasingly become a mechanism of control. The Democratic Party, in particular, has given out just enough to maintain power while delivering financial windfalls to corporations and special interests. This reality has become painfully obvious to my generation. And like the Whig Party of the 1850s, the Democratic Party is now showing signs of collapse.

The cracks began to show in 2008 with the election of Barack Obama. Many Black Americans believed he would finally deliver policies tailored to the ADOS community. Instead, his presidency prioritized military strikes, Wall Street bailouts, auto industry rescues, and broad healthcare reform. The poorest among us were handed free cell phones with limited minutes, while companies like Safelink and T-Mobile raked in more than $2.2 billion by 2012. Once the free minutes ran out, poor Black families were forced to buy $10 and $20 refill cards just to stay connected. The program became a trap in plain sight—offering a symbol of help while turning economic hardship into profit for telecom giants.

This model extended beyond phones. It applies to housing, prison systems, Section 8 contracts, and other assistance programs where corporations profit while the poor struggle. During the crack epidemic, the language around Black communities became synonymous with criminality. Terms like "crackhead," "crack baby," and "crack house" defined the narrative, while the real profiteers in suits drove luxury cars into gated communities. The same people who created policies that criminalized our pain benefited from the aftermath.

For generations, ADOS people have been used, discarded, and recycled by the Democratic Party. Obama was the last straw for many. Joe Biden won his election because many Black voters feared Donald Trump more than they trusted Biden’s agenda. That vote was made in resignation, not enthusiasm. Many people within our community have started to see that the party we once believed stood with us has, in fact, held us in place.

Black Americans now find themselves both visible and invisible in the political landscape. We are expected to show up but not speak up. We are told we are essential, yet rarely prioritized. The call to dismantle the two-party system grows louder. And this moment mirrors a familiar turning point in history. In the 1850s, the Whig Party split over the question of slavery, an issue so morally urgent and long-ignored that the party imploded. Some leaders sought to resolve it through compromises like the Fugitive Slave Act and the Compromise of 1850, believing they could silence the issue with political deals. But a country built on bondage could not run from its reckoning forever. The Free Soil Party rose from the ashes and eventually formed the core of the new Republican Party. That collapse came when the people recognized that compromise was not enough.

Like the Whigs, the Democratic Party is beginning to fracture. While the media keeps its focus on the war in Gaza, the real fault line runs through the issue of reparations. This is the defining political divide of our time. On one side are far-left progressives and Green Party advocates who claim to support reparations for ADOS. On the other side are centrist Democrats, including many Black immigrants and long-time party loyalists, who either reject reparations outright or refuse to engage with it.

Reparations must go beyond slogans and become policy. It can begin with housing. Instead of continuing to give government funds to landlords who profit from Section 8, allow ADOS women receiving vouchers the opportunity to purchase their own homes. Rather than funnel federal resources to nonprofits and so-called venture philanthropists who decide who is “worthy” of funding, give those funds directly to ADOS entrepreneurs to build their own businesses. Stop using tax dollars to build more prisons and instead invest in schools placed in communities where Black families are purchasing homes. Create neighborhoods with small businesses and schools—not to enforce forced integration, but to create natural overlap between segregated communities in ways that reflect equity and ownership, not shame or exclusion. Reparations must repair. And repair starts with power.

This divide reveals more than policy differences. It exposes the failure of both mainstream and fringe factions to seriously address the legacy of slavery and the economic justice owed to the descendants of those enslaved. For years, I’ve said the same thing: the only real solution is an ADOS President. No more symbolic victories. No more surface-level representation. This must be a leader who comes from the lineage, who understands the cost, and who refuses to trade justice for party politics.

And as a Black woman, I want to be clear. I believe the only hope for America lies in the leadership of a strong Black woman. We have always been the voice of reason and the foundation of our communities. We carry generations of resilience, wisdom, and clarity. But I also understand that throughout American history, every generation has benefited from the upliftment of strong Black men. When they lead with integrity, Black women follow—not in silence or submission, but in power and solidarity. The illusion of Black leadership in this country has done enough damage. A Black face in a high place does not guarantee liberation. Now is the time to uplift the right Black man, even if real Black leadership still feels like a myth in America.

This past weekend, two podcasts offered competing visions for what future leadership could look like. Both Native Land and Sabby Sabs shed light on these tensions but arrived at very different conclusions about who should lead and what issues matter most. Reparations, though barely mentioned, remains the single most important issue dividing Black voters—and the clearest marker of whether any political movement is truly serious about justice.

Native Land Podcast featured a panel hosted by Angela Rye, Tiffany Cross, and Andrew Gillum, with guests Terrance Woodbury (a Democratic pollster) and Gary Chambers (a civil rights advocate and perennial candidate). Their conversation centered on the status of Black voters following Kamala Harris’s failed presidential bid. While there were moments of clarity, the discussion ultimately avoided addressing the shifting political tide among Black voters who are increasingly turning away from the Democratic Party.

Instead of focusing on that shift, the panel propped up political figures like John Ossoff and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. They chose to spotlight these candidates over established Black leaders in Congress such as Hakeem Jeffries, Cory Booker, Hank Johnson, and Stacey Plaskett. That decision reflected a continued reliance on symbolism rather than substance.

John Ossoff has at least signed legislation into law, including reforms that impact the Black community. But he lacks the experience and longevity to present a strong presidential case. Still, Native Land presents him as a viable option because, as they put it, “he looks the part.” Meanwhile, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez has the following. She’s built a brand for herself as a progressive firebrand but has delivered very little in terms of actual policy. She has introduced bills on issues like water affordability and minimum wage increases, but none have passed. Her widely promoted Green New Deal gained attention, but never gained traction.

Her most notable failures include:

• The Green New Deal, which failed to pass despite national attention.

• The loss of job opportunities in her own district after she opposed Amazon’s arrival, which would have created thousands of working-class jobs.

• A lack of understanding of government processes, demonstrated by her public misstatements about the role of judges and courts in blocking legislation.

Her stance on reparations remains her most disappointing position. AOC does not support reparations for ADOS but fully backs continued government support for illegal immigrants. Despite this, she is being positioned by the Democratic Party as a rising leader. This approach represents a familiar pattern, merely dressed in new language.

Meanwhile, Sabby Sabs presented another version of failed politics. On her podcast, she hosted Zeynab Dey (former press aide to AOC), Jason Call (former Jill Stein campaign manager and a self-proclaimed Marxist), Jason Chukwuma (political podcaster), and Ron Placone (a comedian). These are Green Party-aligned progressives who once backed Jill Stein and now support Bruce Ware, her former VP running mate. Many in the group voted Green and continue to encourage others to abandon the two-party system. Still, they support Democratic policies with one exception: they oppose pro-Israel stances and American funding of the war in Gaza.

The panel focused on AOC and Bernie Sanders’ “oligarchy” campaign, claiming it aimed to unify working-class Democratic voters. They ultimately concluded that AOC is unfit for a presidential run, not due to her lack of experience or policy failures, but because of her position on Israel. One panelist labeled her a sellout.

The problem with this approach is that it trades one form of political delusion for another. The panel rejected AOC for being too centrist while clinging to progressive ideologies that have consistently failed to deliver results for Black communities. Their conversation prioritized ideological consistency over actual policy outcomes.

To deepen this narrative, The New York Times published a piece suggesting that AOC may be positioning herself for a 2028 presidential run. This is the same pattern that led to the Democratic Party's loss in 2024. Without a course correction, the same outcome is likely to repeat. AOC may excite certain segments of the base, but she lacks the coalition-building skills, legislative accomplishments, and executive experience necessary to lead a nation. Her rise is not a victory for marginalized communities. It is a symptom of a party more concerned with visibility than viability.

Black Americans can no longer afford to support candidates based on image alone. No ADOS Black man has ever become president. Black women face even more systemic barriers. The lack of representation is not due to a lack of talent but rather a political system that continues to push our needs to the margins.

This is a moment to demand an ADOS candidate for president. Not a Black immigrant. Not a white liberal. Not someone who lacks constitutional knowledge or a track record of legislative success. Not someone who has never run a business or served a working-class community with integrity and tangible results.

Listening to both Native Land and Sabby Sabs felt like watching two disconnected factions of the same broken party. One is trapped in loyalty without accountability. The other is buried in ideology without strategy. Neither addresses the real needs of Black Americans.

It is time for an American Descendant of Slavery to run for president. Not later. Now.

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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.

When Representation Replaces Revolution

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

— — Malcolm X

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

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

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

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

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

The Rise of a Black Elite Without a Revolutionary Spirit

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

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

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

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

Joy Reid: Platformed but Disconnected

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

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

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

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

Cori Bush and Jamaal Bowman: Selling Out Through Zeteo

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

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

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

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

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

Jasmine Crockett: A Starlet Without Substance

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

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

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

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

That’s not strategy. That’s surrender.

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

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

We must hold ourselves to a higher standard than that.

The Death of Revolutionary Thinking

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

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

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

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

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

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📢 Copyright Notice:

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.

The Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Scramble for Democratic Leadership

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My mother used to say all the time, “A hit dog will holler,” and I must say, she ain’t never lied. Watching Democrats and left-leaning progressives scramble these last few weeks has been mind-boggling. It reminds me of It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, that classic film where a bunch of misfits frantically search for a treasure buried beneath a giant “W.” The Democratic Party looks exactly the same, chaotic, lost, and desperately searching for a leader to save them.

Let’s start with the younger Democrats, the ones who were supposed to be the future of the party. Jasmine Crockett, Summer Lee, Ayanna Pressley, and of course, AOC were expected to bring fresh ideas and real change. With the exception of Summer Lee, who at least has a bill that became law, the rest are the epitome of performative politics. They posture, they tweet, and they make speeches, but they rarely move legislation forward in ways that materially impact the Black community. If they were serious about change, they would be focused on real policy work instead of just talking about it.

Meanwhile, Congress itself has become nothing more than a stage for grandstanding. The Squad and other left-leaning members show up in their blue suits, ready to put on a performance. There is no negotiation, no strategy, and no compromise, just more political theater. While they are busy chasing social media applause, older Democrats like Hakeem Jeffries sit back and watch, allowing the spectacle to continue. At this point, the Democratic Party is less about governance and more about who can go viral first.

Where’s the Policy?

Let’s be real. When was the last time Congress seriously tackled inflation, gun violence, prison reform, Social Security, veteran care, homelessness, or drug addiction? These issues have become nothing more than talking points, debated in hearings, thrown into campaign speeches, and then promptly forgotten when it is time to take action. Instead of addressing real concerns, the same politicians who have failed to deliver on these core issues are now gearing up to rally behind Kamala Harris or Governor JB Pritzker for president, as if either of them has the vision to fix the mess Democrats are in.

The Democratic Party is not just divided. It is fractured beyond repair. On one side, you have progressives like Sabby Sabs, Marc Lamont Hill, and Brianna Joy Gray, who are obsessed with climate change, Gaza, and Medicare for All. They are still convinced Bernie Sanders was robbed in 2020 and refuse to move on. While I align with them on reparations, their broader policy agenda is wildly unrealistic. They push for free healthcare, free housing, and free food, yet offer no real, sustainable plan to fund it without overburdening taxpayers.

On the other side, you have the Kamala Harris loyalists. Angela Rye, Tiffany Cross, and Andrew Gillum still cannot admit she was never the right candidate to begin with. Instead of facing reality, they are stuck in 2020, bitter about how things turned out and blaming everyone but the voters who rejected her.

Then you have the entertainers-turned-political-commentators like Charlamagne Tha God, who spent years cheerleading for the Democratic Party but now want to act like they have been skeptics all along. Suddenly, they want to distance themselves from the party’s failures and pretend they saw the red flags when, in reality, they helped plant them.

The Bigger Issue No One Wants to Talk About

Beyond all the noise, there is an even bigger problem that no one in the party is addressing. The Democratic Party lacks Black leadership in any meaningful position of power. Where is the Black leader who can actually win an election and command respect on a national scale? Sure, Black women in the House make noise, but where are the Black senators stepping up? Even within the House, the loudest voices are not translating their influence into real leadership.

At the end of the day, the Democratic Party is making the same mistakes they always make. They continue to ignore the real concerns of everyday Americans while pushing empty symbolism and performative activism. Nothing is going to change in politics, corporate America, the military, or healthcare if the same people keep running the same playbook.

They do not need another viral moment. They do not need another social media star. They need leaders who actually lead. Until that happens, they will keep running in circles. When 2028 rolls around, they will have no one to blame but themselves.

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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.

Imitation of Leadership and the Black Leaders Who Abandon Their Own

"I wanted to be white because I thought it was easier." – Sarah Jane

I remember the first time I saw the movie Imitation of Life as a young girl. I couldn’t understand why the mother wouldn’t leave her daughter alone, why she couldn’t just let her be. But as I got older, as I became a mother myself, I understood. The mother, Annie Johnson, couldn’t let go, even as her daughter rejected her—choosing to pass as white in a world that was cruel, violent, and racist, offering the young girl no reward for attempting to disown her Blackness. When the mother finally agreed to step aside, it broke her heart, and she died. But in the end, the daughter, Sarah Jane, came running back, crying out, Mama! Mama!—finally admitting the truth of who she was—a Black woman in a world ruled by whites.

That movie always brings tears to my eyes—not just because the mother died, but because even on her deathbed, her faith in Jesus remained unshaken. The real tragedy was the daughter’s realization—it came too late. She had lost her most important ally on this side of Jordan. It was a moment of reckoning and self-awareness at the same time. Although the ending seemed tragic, there was hope—the young girl had finally accepted who she was. That moment of revelation is something too many people never reach.

That readiness to see the truth is almost nonexistent in today’s culture. Everything seems performative, fake. People are imitating rather than living authentically. Our so-called leaders, whether in politics, corporate America, or even the church, have become imitations of what is deemed politically correct. They align with the illusion of meritocracy rather than the real interests of the Black community. They claim to be fighting for us, but their words are empty. Their actions betray them.

We live in a time when you no longer need light skin to pass. Today, politicians, preachers, and corporate executives with Black faces are passing in a different way—imitating, pretending to be something they are not while actively working against their own community. They adopt the language of activism, wear the mask of representation, but at the first opportunity, they align themselves with those who exploit, displace, and undermine Black people. Like Sarah Jane in Imitation of Life, they are running toward a world that will never fully accept them while turning their backs on the very people they claim to serve.

I don’t propose to be an expert or a philosophical thinker like Daniel Markovits, but his critique of the myth of meritocracy echoes what I’ve witnessed firsthand. The system isn’t about rewarding the most qualified. This system, built on wealth, is maintained through systemic training designed to preserve power.

As Markovits put it:

““Meritocracy blocks Black Americans from opportunity, pretending that fair competition exists while quietly preserving privilege for those who already have it.” – Daniel Markovits (The Meritocracy Trap).”

— Daniel Markovits

This is exactly what we see today. The same voices who claim to uplift Black people are the ones quietly ensuring that we remain at the bottom—living in Section 8 apartments or prison wards. Black leaders who claim to fight for change have become gatekeepers for a system that was never designed to benefit us.

The Sanctuary City Hearing on Capitol Hill

The sanctuary city debate recently reached Capitol Hill, where four Democratic mayors—Eric Adams of New York, Brandon Johnson of Chicago, Michelle Wu of Boston, and Mike Johnston of Denver—were called to testify about how their cities are handling the migrant crisis. These mayors, despite previously championing sanctuary city policies, were forced to admit what many have been saying for years: the influx of illegal immigration is not sustainable, even in cities that once prided themselves on welcoming migrants.

More importantly, with the exception of Mayor Adams, they refused to acknowledge how these policies have devastated Black communities that have long struggled for resources. Instead of addressing the impact, they danced around the issue, avoiding the reality that these policies have hurt the very people they were elected to serve.

The Political Distraction Game

Of all the mayors, perhaps the worst is Brandon Johnson, and it’s no wonder he has a 6% approval rating and is knowingly on his way out of office. What makes Brandon Johnson particularly egregious is his unwavering support for immigrants in his city while showing complete disregard for the Black community that is being displaced.

Not only has he allowed illegal migrants to drain city resources at the expense of Black residents, but he has also allowed them to attend city meetings and openly disparage the Black community—as if they have the right to do so. There are reports of immigrants telling Black residents that they are taking their property and calling them lazy. This perception, of course, is often ignored, but it is far from the truth. Black people have never been lazy. Despite generations of systemic barriers, Black communities have built, contributed to, and sustained these cities long before Johnson took office. Yet, instead of standing up for the people who elected him, Brandon Johnson enables those who have illegally migrated to this country to disrespect and replace the very community he was supposed to protect—with absolutely no apology and no excuse.

He is the epitome of a turncoat, having betrayed the very community that put him in office.

The Imitation of Activism

Now to address Black congressmembers, starting with Summer Lee. Summer Lee is a Democrat who supports policies that work against the Black community and against Israel. She champions abortion rights, prioritizes migrants over American citizens, and aligns herself with far-left ideologies. To say she is not a Soros plant would be a lie. Her loyalty lies with party allegiance, not with the Black community she claims to represent.

During the hearing, Summer Lee argued in favor of sanctuary cities, framing her questions to make it clear that she believes they are necessary—without ever addressing the harm they cause.

Then there’s Ayanna Pressley. Some may have assumed she would have addressed the ways immigration has affected Black communities in her home city of Boston. But she did not.

Instead, she made it clear that rape is committed by more Americans than illegal or undocumented immigrants. The argument is absurd because most crimes are committed by familiarity. At the same time, she ignores the crimes that are committed by people who don’t belong in this nation—crimes committed against U.S. citizens.

Pressley argued to have articles entered into the record that do not address the real issues sanctuary cities create for American citizens. Like many others, she avoids uncomfortable conversations but uses rape as a distraction. She chooses instead to stay in alignment with a party that no longer prioritizes the very people it claims to represent.

Finding the Diamonds in the Rough

In the end, Imitation of Life isn’t just about a movie. It’s about how the world operates. We are all, in some way, both the mother and the daughter. We reject and embrace parts of ourselves over time, learning from experience, growing through struggle. But what we cannot afford to do is imitate leadership that does not serve us.

We need to be intentional about who represents us in politics, in corporate spaces, and in faith communities. We need to stop settling for the most palatable, politically correct versions of leadership and start seeking out the diamonds in the rough—the ones who may not fit the mold but have the real strength to fight for change.

Because if we don’t, we will lose everything. And like the daughter in Imitation of Life, we may realize the truth only when it’s too late.

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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.

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

CEO FOR PRESIDENT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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© 2025 Jacqueline Session. All Rights Reserved.

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

AMERICA AT THE CROSSROADS

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

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

the Fragile State of WESTERN VALUES

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

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

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

the ADOS Legacy AS TOLD BY KENDRICK LAMAR

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt Walsh & the Whitewashing of History

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

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

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

The Absence of an ADOS Champion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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© 2025 Jacqueline Session. All Rights Reserved.

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

China: The Electric City on the Hill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that, is what separates freedom from control.

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

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Resources:

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

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

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

DEI: THE ILLUSION OF EQUALITY

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

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

Who actually benefits from diversity initiatives?

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

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

What if Trump supporters are scapegoating the Black community?

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

DEI’s Corporate Illusion

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

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

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

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

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

The Reality of Corporate Climbing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misinformation on Reparations

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

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

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

Where Do We Go From Here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The choice is ours.