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It’s always the same performance.

A well-educated voice—often cloaked in progressive vocabulary, psychological citations, and historical analysis—appears to “bravely” denounce racism from the safety of an academic perch. The tone is grave. The references are many. And the villains? Clear: Trump, the far-right, the openly racist, the easy targets.

But never themselves. Never their jobs. Never their neighborhoods. Never their proximity to real Black voices they don’t platform. Never their role in systems of polite exclusion and curated suppression.

This is not an attack on scholarship. It’s a critique of who gets to define the narrative.

Because what I read in these long Substack essays—those self-soothing, self-rewarding, self-exalting rituals of liberal guilt—is not truth. It’s not justice. It’s not solidarity.

It’s performance.

You Speak of Racism Like a Disease You Never Caught

You talk about racism like it’s something that other people do. Like it lives in MAGA hats, Mississippi, or the past. Like your gentrification, your silence, your selective platforming, and your refusal to center raw, radical Black voices has nothing to do with the very system you claim to critique.

You call out hate crimes.

You quote peer-reviewed journals.

You cry out about history.

But you will not call out yourself.

You won’t write about:

How you got your job.

Why Black writers like me are pushed to the bottom of the feed.

Why your Substack page gets algorithmic boosts while mine is hidden like contraband.

You quote psychologists. I quote lived experience.

You cite theory. I carry memory.

You frame the problem. I am the problem—according to the very systems you benefit from.

You Think Writing About Racism Means You’re Not Part of It

Let me ask you this:

If I can’t speak about my pain without being flagged, shadowbanned, or ignored—but you can speak about my pain and get applause and subscribers—how is that not supremacy?

If a white liberal writes about the horrors of racism, they’re “brave.”

If I write about it with unfiltered honesty, I’m “aggressive,” “inappropriate,” “too emotional,” or “not productive.”

What does that tell you?

It tells me that even anti-racism, when filtered through the lens of white respectability, becomes a shield to protect your ego—not a sword to destroy injustice.

This Isn’t Just About You. But It Is.

I don’t know you. Maybe you’re not white. Maybe you’ve done some good work. Maybe you think you're helping.

But this needs to be said:

If you’re not directly confronting the systems you benefit from…

If you’re not standing beside the Black voices who speak with the same fire you claim to honor…

If you’re not risking your comfort…

Then all you’re doing is rearranging the furniture inside the master’s house while calling yourself an architect of revolution.

Don’t Talk About Us. Talk to Us. Better Yet—Step Aside.

I’ve seen more opportunity in the damn U.S. military than in the writing world of so-called progressives. I’ve seen more sincerity in poor Southern towns than in liberal NYC cafes.

You people will write dissertations about how white supremacy harms the world—but never give the mic to the Black man who lives it, breathes it, and fights it every day.

We are not here to be your subject matter.

We are not your trauma porn.

We are not your thesis.

We are here to tell our story. And we don’t need you to “interpret” it for us.

Stop taking up space that isn’t yours.

Just imagine this if there wasn't a white person around to feel pitiful for us. Your counterparts would have eradicated us ages ago. The only reason we're alive to watch this bullshit. We're in is because of the pity that you guys seem to have for us.

Let me be real with you—if it weren’t for the few white people who felt pity for us, your counterparts would’ve wiped us out a long time ago. Don’t get it twisted. The only reason we’re still here to witness this nightmare is because enough of you decided we were worth sparing—not uplifting, not empowering, just sparing.

Our existence has been reduced to your mercy. You didn’t save us out of justice. You saved us out of guilt. And you built a world around that guilt, called it progress, and expected us to be grateful.

I say this with sincerity,

Fuck you and your “merit”.

You wrote a piece to white people, for white people in a way that asks absolutely nothing of white people, except applause. Nice one professor.

I’d bet money the only time you actually engage with Black people is when they fit a version of Blackness that still makes you feel in control. Black feminist women. Queer Black men. Basically, the ones who dont bother to challenge your comfort—because they want more than anything—proximity to it. That’s not allyship. That’s curation. You don’t seek out Black voices—you seek out Black compliance.

Look, I get that your article is about Trump’s racism and the bigotry of the people who support him. That part’s not hard to see. But liberals like you always pull this move—pointing fingers at the far right while pretending your own hands are clean. And the truth is, you're often worse. Because while the Trump types stay at a distance, you move into our neighborhoods. You smile, you wave, and you ruin everything. You study us like a science project. You track us like case studies. You keep close, so you can make sure the machine runs just how you like it. You gentrify, displace, and destabilize—and you call it progress. I can avoid a right-wing racist. I can't avoid you.

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