A Revolution is About to Be Televised

This Is Not a Transaction—It’s a Heist

This Is Not a Transaction—It’s a Heist

I wasn’t disconnected.
I was conditioned.

→ To see my Black Card as an optional membership, not an inheritance.
→ To believe that belonging had prerequisites.
→ To think that if I didn’t struggle the same way, if I didn’t relate the same way, then maybe my Black Card wasn’t fully activated.

So I played the game…

• I monitored my balance.

• I let them dictate my credit limit.

• I rarely tested its limits in public.

Because you never know when, where, or how they’ll decide to run your credit—until the day they decline the charge.

I wasn’t about to fuck around and find out.

It catches up with you eventually.

One day, you check your statement.
One day, you realize your balance was never negative.
One day, you realize the debt was never yours to begin with.

And when you get that swift kick to the cooter?

That’s the moment your New Negro Era begins.

"You picked the right time, but the wrong bitch"—or whatever Kendrick said.

---

BLACK-ISH

I had access.
I had education.
I had privilege.

What I didn’t have? A solid identity.

I knew I was Black.
But I didn’t feel Black.

I was “smart, but socially immature.”
I was “articulate, but SO loud.”
I don’t “look Black.”
I don’t “sound Black.”
I don’t “act Black.”

So now my kid brain has to figure out:

What the fuck makes you Black??

Because of that, I thought I didn’t deserve to be Black.

Even worse, I grew up believing my “Black”—
the kind that didn’t always have to worry about blatant discrimination,
the kind that let me believe “you don’t act Black” was a compliment instead of an erasure—
made me feel accepted, and that somehow made me… better?

What it really made me?

A little bitch.

I don’t know if I leaned into it because I wanted to or because I had to.

But I was a kid—I didn’t know any better.

Because if I didn’t feel like them, if I didn’t fit into what Black was supposed to be, then what was I?

---

YOU’RE BLACK?

New Mexico was the first place where diversity wasn’t a buzzword.
It just was.

I was still one of the few Black kids.
But for the first time? That didn’t feel like a problem I had to solve.

Don’t get me wrong—the jokes were still there.

The “You’re Black?” response gets real old, real quick.

But at least it’s easy to ignore when it’s a joke.

Imagine having to explain basic genetics to a white kid who swears you have to be mixed because their only reference for Blackness is the cast of Family Matters—
(and sadly, so is yours!)

---

AN OREO BEFORE THEY HAD FLAVOR

So yeah, it was mostly just a joke.
A throwaway line.
A persona.
A script.

Until I blinked and realized—I had been playing the role for years.

And it shaped me more than I realized.

(Much like all the lies pushed by the agenda, but I digress #iykyk)

And now?

I wasn’t sure if I had chosen it
or if it had been chosen for me.

What I did know? I had gotten really good at it.

And here’s the thing about jokes:

They have expiration dates.

When the joke’s not funny—you’re just the punchline.

---

MORE LIKE “LACK” HISTORY, AMIRITE?

I never let myself learn Black history because I never thought it was mine.

I figured I’d get to it in February.
Then February came and went, as did my interest.

I’m sure the stories were inspiring, but I was undiagnosed and bored.

Dennis Reynolds said it best:

"It’s like flipping through a stack of photographs. If I’m not in any of them, and nobody’s having sex, I just… don’t care."

But you can ignore history all you want.

That doesn’t mean it’s gonna ignore you.

---

PASSING ME BY

For every white space that let me in, there was a part of myself I had to check at the door.

The price of being “safe” for white spaces was being unsafe in my own identity.

→ Every time I swallowed a comment.
→ Every time I let a joke slide.
→ Every time I let them say, “You’re not really Black.”

I didn’t see how it was a slap in my own face.

I was unintentionally perpetuating the same stereotype I was subconsciously breaking.

I had no idea.

---

CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF…

Growing up, I thought I could think it, but couldn’t say it.

And obviously, my ass struggles with that.

But I just thought I had to because—manners.

And I always had, in the back of my mind, the disappointment of my mother.

That I didn’t live up to my potential.
That if I didn’t succeed, everything she worked so hard for was for nothing.

And that included being too much.

My mom wished I were more ladylike.
She got a loud-ass tomboy.

My dad wished I’d bring home a Black boy.
Good luck.

Sadly, I grew up chasing white boys because that’s all that was around.

And now?

Ya girl enjoys a bit of a challenge—you know what I mean.

---

I’LL TAKE “THINGS I WISH I KNEW EARLIER FOR $100,” ALEX

I wish I had learned what being Black really meant.

Not just the struggle I saw in Louisiana state history books.
(Yeah, I was doomed.)

Not just the “good Blacks” I heard rumblings of every February.

But all of it.

But who wants to read about struggle and hardships when everyone around you is white and rich?

All that did was reiterate the fact that I was not.

Fuck this bullshit.

White comfort always took priority over my authenticity.

And I let it.

Never again.

For every ‘you’re not like them,’ I got back a ‘Not like us.’

Next up: Turns out, it wasn’t an audition...it was a robbery.