There's something sacred — almost ecclesiastical — about the applause that rises from a golf gallery. It doesn't shout; it swells. It is measured, deliberate, and ceremonious—a ritual of approval rather than a burst of excitement. When Rory McIlroy finally completed his long quest for a Masters title this past Sunday at Augusta, the crowd gave him that ceremonial crescendo. "Rory! Rory!" they chanted as if the green jacket had been tailored for this very moment.

And perhaps, in the American sporting imagination, it had.

Let me be clear: Rory's victory is one for the ages. His journey — from the modest town of Holywood, County Down, in Northern Ireland, where his father bartended and scrubbed floors to fund his son's passion — is both poignant and praiseworthy. It is a tale stitched with sacrifice and steeped in perseverance. That kind of story should be celebrated.

But even as I joined the chorus of admiration, I found myself listening to a different rhythm — one quieter, more revealing. It was the rhythm of the applause itself. Not just that it happened, but how it happened: effortlessly, unquestioningly, as though the gallery had simply been waiting to give him his due.

And that's the thing about applause. It isn't just about performance. It's about permission.

In many ways, McIlroy represents the kind of outsider America loves to embrace—not because he defies the mold but because he quietly fits inside it. His foreignness does not rattle sensibilities; it soothes them. His ascent does not threaten our narratives; it affirms them. He is, in essence, the palatable other—a man whose difference is dignified, not disruptive.

But I invite you — this week, as the interviews roll in and the sports columns fill up — to look and listen. Pay attention. See if a single op-ed emerges wondering aloud why this coveted green jacket, stitched into the fabric of American legacy, now rests on the shoulders of a man born across the Atlantic. Check if any policy-makers, those ever-concerned with fairness and foreign interference in domestic institutions, issue statements questioning non-American participation in what is, after all, a U.S.-based league. Ask yourself whether any major sports outlet dares to suggest that an American-born golfer was overlooked or edged out by someone who didn't carry the red, white, and blue in their citizenship paperwork.

You won't hear it. You won't read it. Because this is not that kind of foreignness. This isn't the kind that provokes scrutiny. It's the kind that slides in quietly, skillfully and aligns so neatly with comfort that no one even notices the door opening — or the applause already waiting on the other side.

That's what McIlroy's win reveals, not about him — but about us. About the elasticity of celebration when certain boxes are checked, and others are not. We are told that golf is the sport of meritocracy, a gentleman's game where talent alone determines who rises. But the game — like all — is played on terrain shaped by access, legacy, and class. Rory's father worked multiple jobs, yes, but those jobs funded golf lessons. His mother worked night shifts, yes, but those shifts created opportunity, not just subsistence.

In America, far too many families use those extra jobs simply for survival—not sport, not legacy-building, just rent.

The way applause functions in these moments tells us everything we need to know about whose stories are embraced and whose are interrogated. Rory was never asked to explain his presence on that course. No one wondered aloud if his win came at the expense of someone more "American." There was no resentment, no shadow of suspicion trailing his triumph. His excellence was accepted as inevitable — perhaps even overdue.

But others, when they rise, often find that success must be defended, not simply enjoyed. A young Latina admitted to a prestigious university is asked whether she "really earned it." A Black CEO is suspected of being a "diversity hire." A first-generation immigrant professor is scrutinized for her "politics" before her scholarship. For them, applause arrives late — if at all — and only after credentials are proven, and re-proven, and proven again.

Golf, as a sport, does not escape this. It is one of the most class-bound pursuits in American life. Entry into its upper tiers is not merely a matter of talent — it's a matter of cost, of exposure, of knowing the right people and speaking the right cultural language. It's a game of whispered codes and unspoken prerequisites. And so, when someone like Rory steps onto the green, he may be foreign, yes — but he is familiar.

He carries no cultural discomfort. No accent of dissonance. He is not here to challenge the institution — he is here to adorn it.

And so we clap.

We clap because it feels safe. We clap because the narrative demands it. We clap because, in Rory's win, we see the myth of meritocracy validated — the idea that talent always rises, that hard work is its own reward, and that success is colorless, borderless, and pure.

But applause is not pure. It is conditional.

What we witnessed at Augusta was not just a celebration of excellence—it was a case study in acceptance, a reflection of how quickly some are embraced and how others remain in the waiting room of public legitimacy.

None of this is to deny McIlroy his moment. His victory is real. His work is undeniable. His story is worth telling.

But the question remains: Would the applause have been as swift, as full, and as unburdened if the victor's name had been unfamiliar, his background uncomfortable, his presence unexpected?

That is the examination. That is the challenge.

Because, in the end, applause is not just a sound. It is a system. And some people inherit the echoes long before they take the swing

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​This week, Ohio Governor Mike DeWine and Lt. Governor Jim Tressel issued an urgent call: prepare for spring floods. Batten down the hatches. Charge the flashlights. Clear your gutters. There’s a storm coming—and it could be devastating.

But while the weather watches rolled in from the National Weather Service, another kind of flood—a man-made one—was already pouring through our state: a surge of political regression sealed with a signature and a smile.

On March 28, Governor DeWine signed Senate Bill 1 into law, banning diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs at Ohio’s public colleges and universities. It wasn’t a surprise, but it was still a gut punch. And it wasn’t just the policy that stung—it was the performance.

There they were in the commemorative photo: DeWine, Tressel, Speaker Huffman, Rep. Young, Sen. Cirino, and Rep. Williams, all grinning like they’d just unveiled the next generation of school reform. But instead of investing in the future, they undermined it. That piece of paper they proudly held up? It doesn’t protect students. It isolates them.

Full disclosure: I’m not an outside commentator watching from the coast or pontificating from a podcast studio. I’m an Ohioan—born and raised in the capital city. As someone who has dedicated their life to education and equity, I know this moment hits hard. It’s not just about policy; it’s personal. It’s about my neighbors. My students. My children’s classmates. It’s about a vision for Ohio rooted in openness, not fear.

DEI is not about special treatment. It’s about fair treatment. It’s about making sure that students from every walk of life—Black, brown, first-gen, immigrant, queer, disabled, rural, urban, and yes, even conservative—feel like they belong, that they matter, and that they have a shot.

DEI programming isn’t some elite ideology cooked up in academic labs. It’s the reason a first-generation student walks into a classroom and doesn’t immediately walk out. It’s the reason a trans student feels safe on campus. It’s why a Muslim student can attend a school where their religious holidays are acknowledged, not erased. DEI is often the quiet safety net—the assurance that someone sees you and has your back.

But instead of expanding those opportunities, this bill shrinks them. It sends a loud message: “We don’t want to discuss differences, we don’t want to acknowledge inequity, we don’t want to make room for you.”

To my conservative neighbors, I get that this all might sound like an overreaction. You hear “DEI” and think of checklists, quotas, and a bloated bureaucracy of buzzwords. Maybe you’re tired of hearing that the system is broken when you feel you’ve played by the rules your whole life. I hear that frustration. I even respect parts of it.

But let’s get one thing straight: DEI isn’t about guilt-tripping anyone. It’s about leveling the playing field. It’s not about vilifying history—it’s about telling the whole story. And it’s not about excluding people who disagree—it’s about creating space for respectful disagreement and growth.
So, no, DEI isn’t a threat to education. It’s a lifeline.

And this new law doesn’t protect students from harm—it protects institutions from accountability and shields systems from the very conversations they need most.

What makes this especially painful is the presence of Lt. Governor Jim Tressel in that photo. Tressel—once a beloved college coach and university president—knows what it means to mentor students, foster belonging, and lead. Governor DeWine has, at times, positioned himself as a voice of reason within his party. These are not men without a moral compass, which is why, frankly, I expected better.

I didn’t expect radical resistance, but I did hope for thoughtful leadership. Instead, what we got was a gesture—a safe political play that scores points with national talking heads while eroding the actual experiences of Ohio students.

And let’s be clear: this is not what most Ohioans asked for. We asked for better schools, more affordability, safer campuses, and honest dialogue. Instead, we got culture war fireworks—performative wins over principled stands.

The cost? An entire generation of students who now face a college landscape are less prepared to serve them, less open to hearing them, and less interested in fighting for them.

But here’s what they didn’t anticipate: we’re not done. Not even close.

Ohio’s educators, DEI practitioners, and students will keep showing up. We’ll still mentor, advise, and advocate. We’ll build unofficial support networks, whisper encouragement during office hours, and pass along the wisdom and belonging that no policy can entirely ban.

You can outlaw an office. But you can’t outlaw empathy. You can defund a department. But you can’t defund dignity. The human spirit is not as easy to erase as a line of text in legislation.

To the students feeling alienated by this law—please hear this: you are not alone. You are not too much. You are not a burden. You are essential to the future of this state and this nation.

To the parents wondering what kind of world their child enters—I’m with you. And I promise there are still good people fighting to improve it.

To my fellow Ohioans across the aisle: let’s have the tough conversations. Let’s debate. Let’s question systems. But let’s also agree that progress requires inclusion. That education means more than just memorization—it means understanding. And that no student should be asked to shrink themselves to fit into an outdated mold.

Because let’s face it—Ohio’s future will look more like a mosaic than a mirror. And that’s not a problem to solve. That’s a strength to celebrate.

And if this ban is supposed to silence us, it’s already failing. The conversations are still happening—in the dorms, dining halls, Zoom calls, student groups, hallway heart-to-hearts between faculty and students, and in every space where people still care more about justice than comfort.

We are many. We are louder than one bill. We are more enduring than one governor’s legacy.
We’ve weathered storms before in Ohio. And each time, we’ve come back stronger—not because of the policies handed down, but because of the people who stood up.

So here’s our sandbag: truth. Our pump: solidarity. Our shelter: each other.
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We don’t need permission to build a better future—we need each other to believe it’s still possible.


If this piece resonated with you, stirred something in you, or made you stop and think—let’s keep the conversation going.
Follow, support, and grow with me on Substack at The Introvert’s Revolt—a space for bold essays and reflections on equity, culture, community, and unapologetic truth-telling from the heart of Ohio.👉 iamjuunia.substack.com
Because some storms need more than an umbrella—they need a voice. Yours and mine.

Every March 17th, America turns emerald green. Cities dye their rivers, businesses churn out shamrock-themed promotions, and bars overflow with revelers toasting with pints of Guinness. St. Patrick’s Day—once a solemn religious observance—has become an unabashedly festive, even rowdy, celebration of Irish heritage. But as I watch my fellow Americans clad in Kelly green, pinching those who neglect to participate, I cannot help but wonder: How does a nation that is systematically legislating against diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) so wholeheartedly embrace this cultural holiday?

The contradiction is as striking as it is telling. Today, as America sips green beer and shouts “Sláinte!,” state legislatures across the country are dismantling DEI programs in universities, rolling back protections for marginalized communities, and resisting policies that foster cultural understanding. If diversity is to be celebrated, it must come with a pint glass and a lucky four-leaf clover.

The Irish in America: A History of Exclusion and Inclusion
To understand the paradox of America’s embrace of St. Patrick’s Day, one must first acknowledge that Irish immigrants were not always welcomed with open arms. The narrative of the Irish in America is not one of unbroken luck but of struggle, resilience, and eventual assimilation.

In the mid-19th century, Irish immigrants—many fleeing famine and poverty—arrived in America in droves, only to be met with hostility. Signs that read “No Irish Need Apply” dotted shop windows, and political cartoons caricatured the Irish as lazy, drunken, and violent. The Irish were viewed as a racial underclass, distinct from the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant elite that dominated American society.

Yet, over time, the Irish navigated the complexities of the American melting pot, assimilating into the broader cultural and social fabric in ways that granted them full acceptance within the mainstream. Through political organization, religious alignment with Catholic institutions, and military service, they transitioned from being seen as outsiders to becoming an integral part of the American identity.

The Myth of Irish Luck and the Realities of Selective Inclusion
While seemingly complete, America’s embrace of the Irish is a lesson in selective inclusion. It is easy to celebrate a culture when it is no longer seen as a threat—when it has been sufficiently diluted, commercialized, and palatable for the dominant culture. St. Patrick’s Day, in this regard, is a perfect example of how America prefers its diversity: festive, marketable, and non-threatening.

The same country that paints its streets green every March is actively dismantling DEI programs that seek to create pathways for historically marginalized groups. Florida, Texas, and other states have passed legislation to defund DEI initiatives in higher education, arguing that they promote “division.” Yet these same states enthusiastically embrace cultural celebrations—so long as they are conveniently depoliticized and stripped of any substantive discussion of history, oppression, or ongoing disparities.

Perhaps St. Patrick’s Day has survived because it is seen as harmless. There is no broader demand for Irish reparations, no systemic effort to uplift disenfranchised Irish communities, and no national reckoning with anti-Irish discrimination. It is a holiday that allows for cultural expression without requiring cultural accountability. It is a celebration without a movement.

What America Gets Wrong About Culture
If America were indeed a nation that embraced diversity, it would not require a pint of Guinness to engage with a culture. The Irish, like every ethnic group, bring more to the table than beer and bagpipes. Their history includes literature, labor organizing, religious resilience, and political activism. Yet, on St. Patrick’s Day, the richness of Irish culture is distilled into a commercialized spectacle that reflects a broader American tendency to embrace the surface while rejecting the substance.

This is the same country where Cinco de Mayo is an excuse for tequila-fueled parties but where Latino communities face voter suppression and xenophobic policies. It is the same country where Lunar New Year is celebrated with dragon parades but where Asian Americans are scapegoated for pandemics and attacked in the streets. It is the same country that embraced “Black Panther” at the box office but refuses to teach Black history in schools.

This pattern reveals America’s discomfort with authentic multiculturalism. We love culture when it is fun, performative, and safe. But we reject it when it challenges us, forces us to confront injustice, or demands systemic change.

A Call for Authentic Inclusion
If America truly wants to celebrate diversity, it cannot do so selectively. It cannot embrace the Irish on March 17th while dismantling DEI programs on March 18th. It cannot paint itself green while simultaneously whitewashing history. True diversity means acknowledging the full scope of a people’s experience—the struggles alongside the successes, the oppression alongside the celebration.

St. Patrick’s Day should not be an exception to our national discomfort with race, ethnicity, and culture. Instead, it should be a model for what is possible: a moment when America comes together to honor a heritage. However, it must be done with depth, respect, and the same commitment to equity that DEI programs strive to achieve.

So, as you raise your glass today, ask yourself: What would it mean if we celebrated all cultures—not just when it is convenient or profitable, but because we believe that every culture, history, and identity deserves to be seen, honored, and included?

That, perhaps, would be real luck.

A sickle hangs above my head.

It sways—not with the rhythm of my own making but with the turbulent winds of our social climate. A sickle sharpened by shifting political tides, institutional cowardice, and the increasingly emboldened backlash against diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI). I wake up knowing that with every news headline, every legislative proposal, and every reactionary boardroom decision, the rope frays just a little more. The question is no longer if it will fall but when—and how much it will cut before it does.
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I have watched colleagues fall. Some were severed from their jobs in a swift, corporate culling of DEI departments; others were left dangling, their positions eliminated under the guise of restructuring. The rest? Many have jumped—abandoning the profession altogether, seeking safety in fields where their convictions will not cost them their livelihood. DEI has become the low-hanging fruit of an administration eager to appease disillusioned majorities, and we, the professionals who champion the work, have become easy targets.

Yet, here I stand. A survivor. But surviving is not the same as thriving. There is guilt in watching others fall while I remain. I am guilty of knowing that my paycheck still comes while others have been stripped away. Guilt in witnessing the institutional abandonment of a movement that was deemed indispensable only a short time ago. Guilt, too, in feeling afraid.

And I am afraid.

I feel the sickle above me when I read newspapers that detail yet another organization dismantling its DEI program, capitulating to political pressure or financial expediency. I feel it when I log onto social media and see vitriolic rhetoric framing DEI as a societal ill rather than a moral imperative. I feel it when I hear the news and recognize the growing coalition of lawmakers seeking to legislate us out of existence. Fear is a heavy burden, but an even heavier companion is doubt. I wonder, more often than I care to admit if I have chosen the wrong profession at the worst possible time.

But then I remember: I did not choose DEI as a career. I decided it was a calling.

There is a reason I am here at this precise moment in history. DEI was never meant to be a comfortable field, or one shielded from attack. It is, by its very nature, disruptive work, work that challenges the very foundations of exclusion, inequity, and systemic injustice. History has taught us that when power is challenged, it does not simply yield—it retaliates.

The sickle above me is not new. The same sickle hung above abolitionists in the 19th century, civil rights leaders in the 1960s, activists, educators, and truth-tellers in every era where progress met resistance. It is wielded by those who fear change, mistake equity for oppression, and would rather preserve the status quo than confront its failures.

I cannot control the sickle. I cannot dull its blade nor slow its descent. But I can control what I do while I stand beneath it.

I can speak, even when silence feels safer. I can persist, even when retreat seems rational. I can mentor, organize, educate, and build, even when the structures around me crumble.

And I can prepare.

The reality is that the era of unchecked corporate DEI expansion is over. The floodgates of 2020 have closed, and what remains is the reckoning—who is here for the long fight, and who was merely passing through when the climate was more forgiving? What remains, too, is the imperative to adapt. If history has taught us that power retaliates, it has also taught us that movements evolve. Even when institutions abandon DEI, people do not. Equity and inclusion do not live in departments, job titles, or budgets—they live in the work, communities, and collective action.

So, I remain. Not because I am fearless but because I refuse to be paralyzed by fear. Not because I believe the path ahead is certain, but because I know my journey has meaning. Not because I do not see the sickle above my head but because I refuse to let it silence me before it falls.

And if it falls—when it falls—I will not regret standing where I stood.

For I was made for this time. Right here. Right now.

Ohio State University’s recent decision to close its Office of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) is not just an administrative shift—it is a statement. As an Ohio native and a former DEI professional at OSU, I feel the weight of this decision acutely. It reflects a broader pattern in higher education: prioritizing politics and financial considerations over the well-being of marginalized students and faculty.

At the same time that OSU revels in its latest national football championship—earned mainly through the efforts of Black athletes—it is stripping away the infrastructure meant to ensure long-term success and equity for those same individuals. This contradiction is glaring. Institutions like OSU thrive on the talent of Black athletes, using their names, images, and achievements to drive billions in revenue, yet turn their backs on maintaining support systems that foster inclusion and belonging.
The university justifies the closure of its DEI office with budget constraints and compliance with state policies. However, this reasoning falls flat when considering OSU’s immense financial resources. If the issue were purely economic, why not cut areas that do not directly impact the retention and success of underrepresented students? Diversity work is often treated as an expendable luxury rather than a fundamental part of the institution’s mission.

This decision sets a dangerous precedent. It signals to universities nationwide that diversity commitments can be discarded under the correct political and financial pressures. More concerning, it sends a message to students of color and other marginalized communities that their voices and experiences are not a priority. The impact of this move will be felt far beyond OSU’s campus, reinforcing barriers to access, representation, and equity in higher education.

For decades, DEI offices have provided a crucial support system for students navigating the systemic challenges of higher education. These offices offer mentorship, advocacy, and programs that help students succeed academically and ensure institutions remain accountable to the communities they serve. Dismantling these structures leaves students vulnerable to the forces that DEI initiatives were designed to counter—discrimination, exclusion, and inequity.

For student-athletes, particularly those in football and basketball, the power of choice has never been greater. Now, in the era of Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL), you have a new level of influence in determining where to take your talents. However, NIL money should not be the only consideration. Universities that genuinely value their athletes invest in them beyond their playing years. A university willing to sever ties with DEI while parading its athletes for financial gain is not making a long-term investment in their well-being—it is extracting from them for short-term profit.

You can choose where you commit your time, talent, and future. However, I do not ask you to lead this fight today. You are needed for the long-term battles that will surely come. You should recognize the historical moments unfolding before you—learning from them, preparing for them, and remembering that history will judge the choices made in such times. The institutions you align yourselves with should reflect your values, not just offer financial incentives that ultimately do not secure your future beyond athletics.

This is not just about prospective recruits but also about the athletes who have already worn the scarlet and gray. OSU frequently highlights its legendary players, featuring them in commercials, halftime shows, and promotional campaigns. But where are these players now? Will they speak up? If OSU is so proud of its legacies, those athletes should feel compelled to hold their alma mater accountable.

A trophy or championship ring should not be able to buy silence. The university banks on its former athletes remaining grateful, staying quiet, and allowing themselves to be used as branding tools. However, authentic leadership means recognizing when gratitude must give way to accountability. If OSU is willing to celebrate an athlete’s accomplishments, it should also be willing to listen to their concerns about equity and fairness.

To the Black male athletes who have carried OSU’s athletic success on their backs—this is your moment to take a stand. We know who you are; we have chanted your names in Ohio Stadium, St. John Arena, and the Schottenstein Center. You have already proven your strength and resilience on the field and court, but true greatness extends beyond sports. Your voices can influence real change, and your platform is powerful enough to demand answers from an institution that has benefited from your success.

I want to be clear that I am not dismissing the voices of women athletes in this call to action. The Ohio State University has a rich history of women athletes who have donned the scarlet and gray and competed at the highest levels. Their contributions, achievements, and leadership have played an integral role in shaping OSU’s athletic legacy. However, historically, the celebration and promotion of male athletes—particularly in football and basketball—have disproportionately fattened the pockets of both the university and the male athletes themselves. To whom much is given, much will be required. Male athletes, especially those in revenue-driving sports, have been given more visibility, financial opportunities, and influence. It is now time to use that influence for something greater than personal gain.

At the same time, I want to make it abundantly clear that I am not placing the responsibility of this DEI change on the shoulders of Black male athletes. I expect the university did not consult with many of you before making this decision. Despite breaking records, elevating OSU’s profile, and bringing in millions, the same record tune of exclusion from decision-making still plays on repeat—at this university, within this state, and across this nation. Still, with your platform and influence, you bear a responsibility to speak up and say something.

The cost of silence is high. The stakes extend beyond personal legacy for OSU’s football and basketball alums. Staying quiet allows the university to continue marketing its image, selling its success story, and using its past contributions to promote a future that is not inclusive. When institutions see no resistance, they continue down the path of erasure and exclusion. OSU is making decisions that impact real lives, and it is time for those who built the program’s reputation to demand that the university align its actions with its rhetoric.

Some may wonder if speaking out makes a difference. It does. In athletics, every point counts, and every play matters. The same applies here. Your words, stance, and decision to step forward can shift the trajectory of this conversation. You are too great to sit on the sidelines while your community faces systemic exclusion. This is your fight. This is your time. This is overtime; while we may be down, we are not out.

OSU’s decision to dismantle its DEI office is more than a policy shift—it is an abandonment of core values that define a truly remarkable institution. While the university continues to enjoy athletic success, it simultaneously erodes the principles of diversity and inclusion that should guide its future.
Former athletes, your voices are needed now. You have built the stadiums, filled the seats, and elevated OSU’s brand to national prominence. Now, use that same power to call for justice. If your university could benefit from your athletic greatness, it should also respect your right to demand fairness and accountability.

Higher education is at a crossroads. The choices made now will define the future of DEI in universities nationwide. Will institutions like OSU uphold their commitments to equity, or will they allow political pressures to dismantle decades of progress? The answer to that question is not just in the hands of university administrators—it is in the hands of those who refuse to let their voices be silenced.
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The fight for equity is not over. It never has been. And as long as there are voices willing to stand up, it never will be.

​Donald Trump's White House Black History Month event is the latest example of political performance dressed up as community engagement. With a guest list featuring Kodak Black, Boosie Badazz, Rod Wave, Tim Scott, and Tiger Woods, it's clear that this wasn't an event to celebrate Black history. It was an event to posture Black loyalty—a calculated effort to frame Trump as a friend to the Black community. At the same time, his administration simultaneously works to dismantle Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs nationwide.

Let's be clear: if the Trump campaign indeed sought to honor Black history, we would have seen an invite list featuring Black scholars, educators, community leaders, activists, and everyday Black Americans who are the backbone of this country. Where were the Black public school teachers who, despite limited resources, continue to educate the next generation? Where were the Black small business owners navigating systemic hurdles to build generational wealth? Where were the Black medical professionals fighting against health disparities that disproportionately impact our communities? Suppose this event was about celebrating Black history. In that case, these individuals should have been at the center—not a handpicked selection of entertainers and athletes with loose political affiliations and past transactional relationships with Trump.

America is a celebrity culture, uplifting those we see as beautiful, better, and bold. We are conditioned to understand that there is a gate to privilege and that we should never press on to the unattainable invite. This event is yet another example of that conditioning at work. The messaging behind this spectacle is loud and clear: when politicians engage with the Black community, they do so through the lens of entertainment, not intellect. This isn't new. Black artists and entertainers have long been leveraged for political optics, while Black academics, educators, and grassroots organizers are often left out of the conversation. This is classism disguised as engagement, where those deemed most palatable or popular are invited to the table. At the same time, the working-class Black Americans who shape this country's history are conveniently ignored. The everyday Black Republican, the Black voter who has been told that their voice matters, was left out of this invitation list, as they always are. This wasn't a celebration of history but a transaction for political gain.

The inclusion of Kodak Black, in particular, is telling. Trump granted him clemency in 2021, and this invitation is a political debt being repaid. It's the same transactional politics we saw when Kanye West donned a MAGA hat in the Oval Office or when Ice Cube's "Contract with Black America" was opportunistically co-opted during the 2020 election cycle. The underlying message is that celebrity affiliation matters more than systemic solutions.

Meanwhile, on the policy front, Trump and his allies are actively engaged in an all-out assault on DEI initiatives. Across the country, conservative lawmakers are dismantling programs that address racial disparities in education, healthcare, and employment. States like Florida and Texas have slashed DEI funding, banned race-conscious curricula, and made it increasingly difficult to discuss systemic racism in schools and workplaces. These policies disproportionately harm the same Black Americans who were noticeably absent from the guest list.

Economic disparity continues to widen in America, where the top 10% of earners control nearly 70% of the country's wealth, while the bottom 50% own just 2.5%. The median Black household income remains significantly lower than that of white households, and wealth accumulation remains an uphill battle due to centuries of systemic inequities. The middle class is not the upper class, yet political rhetoric often tries to merge the two as if they experience the same economic reality. The Black and white working class continues to struggle for upward mobility. At the same time, those in power handpick representatives from the celebrity elite to serve as spokespeople for an entire race.

But let's not pretend that this problem is exclusive to Trump and the Republican Party. Political tokenism runs deep in both major parties. Too often, Black Americans—mainly working-class and middle-class Black voters—are reduced to pawns in a political chess game, used when convenient and ignored when it's time for real change. Democrats, too, have often leaned on cultural icons to win favor while neglecting the Black communities that overwhelmingly support them at the polls. Neither side is blameless. Neither side has fully addressed the economic and social disparities that persist long after the cameras and campaign rallies are gone.

This contradiction—the public embrace of Black culture while undermining Black progress—is a political strategy we've seen before. It's the same playbook that celebrates Black athletes when they're winning championships but vilifies them when they kneel in protest. It's the same logic that loves Black music but ignores Black pain. It's why entertainers are welcome at the table, but educators, policy experts, and grassroots leaders are pushed aside. We, the Black community, are too often treated like puppets, only used when politicians need a prop to wave in front of the cameras. And just like puppets, they only remember us when they need a hand up our—you know what.

Black history is not a stage for political theater, a transactional tool for securing votes, or a PR stunt to repair the fractured relationship between Trump and Black America. If Trump and his administration were serious about honoring Black history, they would invest in policies that uplift Black communities rather than dismantle the very structures designed to ensure racial equity.
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Black America deserves better than a spectacle disguised as support. The working-class Black Republicans who weren't invited—the teachers, the nurses, the community organizers—should take note: this event was never about celebrating Black history. It was about posturing Black loyalty. And if there's anything history has taught us, genuine support is measured by action, not by photo ops with rappers and athletes. Political allegiance should not be transactional, and Black America should not be content with being used as a seasonal campaign strategy. We deserve policies that work for us, not just a parade of familiar faces on a White House guest list.

My grandmother was an opinionated woman. Strong-willed. Firm in what she believed. If you asked her, she was right about most things, and she wouldn’t hesitate to tell you so. But here’s the thing—she was also wise enough to understand that while she held her convictions close, most things don’t matter as much as we think they do.

She knew that being “right” wasn’t always the most important thing. What mattered more was how you treated people, how you made them feel, and how you carried yourself in a world full of differences. She had a GED and worked as a teacher’s aide in the local school, teaching neighborhood kids to read. She didn’t need a degree to understand what so many people today seem to miss: that the way we engage with those who think, live, and believe differently than we do is the real measure of who we are.

When she was dying, her house became a revolving door of visitors—people from every background, every race, every walk of life. One of them was her postwoman, a woman of a different ethnicity, a different faith, and a different age. And yet, over the years, my grandmother made space for her in the same way she did for so many others.

She didn’t just exchange pleasantries at the mailbox. She invited her inside. Sometimes they sat at the kitchen table, sharing conversation over a cup of coffee. Other times, my grandmother would simply listen, offering words of encouragement and, if needed, a prayer. Their lives, their backgrounds, and their experiences couldn’t have been more different, but none of that ever mattered. What mattered was the connection they shared—the understanding that even with their differences, they could show up for each other.

She never cared whether you thought like her. She cared that you were okay.

The Myth of Agreement
Somewhere along the way, people got it twisted. Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) isn’t about making everyone agree. It’s not about turning the world into one big echo chamber where we all think alike and never have to feel challenged. That’s not only unrealistic—it’s unnecessary.

We’ve convinced ourselves that if someone doesn’t share our views, they must be against us. That difference automatically equals division. But my grandmother’s life told a different story. She didn’t need to agree with you to respect you. She didn’t need to see the world exactly as you did to sit with you, talk with you, or invest in your well-being.

Welcome to humanity, where opinions matter, perspectives differ, and agreeing with someone 100% of the time is impossible. And honestly, that’s a good thing.

The truth is, we don’t need to agree on most things. If we can find even a couple of things to stand on together, that’s enough to build something real. And in the grand scheme of life, opinions shouldn’t be the foundation we build our society upon. That’s reserved for truths. And there’s a difference.

People Change, Not Just Opinions
I have my opinions. You have yours. And that’s fine. But here’s something we forget—opinions don’t change. People do.

We like to act like our beliefs are set in stone, like once we form an opinion, it’s locked in forever. But if that were true, we’d all still be the same people we were ten years ago. We’d never grow, never evolve, never learn from life.

My grandmother understood that. She knew that time, experience, and relationships could shift perspectives. Not because someone was forced to change, but because life has a way of shaping us in ways we never expect.

The real problem today isn’t that we disagree. It’s that we’ve stopped listening. We’re so caught up in proving our point that we’ve lost sight of the person standing in front of us. But my grandmother? She didn’t need you to agree with her. She just needed you to know you were seen, that you mattered, and that even in your differences, you deserved respect.

Meeting with Mindfulness
People love to say, “We just need to meet in the middle.” But maybe that’s not the answer. Maybe what we really need is to meet with mindfulness.

My grandmother didn’t spend her life trying to force her beliefs on people. She spent it making space. She created room for conversation, for connection, for understanding. And she did it without compromising who she was.

If you agree with my blogs, great. If you don’t, great. That’s the beauty of it. The goal isn’t to change your mind or force you into my way of thinking. The goal is to create space for different voices, knowing that those voices—whether they align with mine or not—matter.
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DEI isn’t about sameness. It’s about honoring what makes us different while never losing sight of what connects us. And if my grandmother—a woman with a GED, a heart full of love, strong opinions, and an open seat at her kitchen table—could model that, then surely, we can too.

For years, conservatives have warned that immigrants are coming to take your job. They have pushed the idea that brown-skinned, Spanish-speaking, undocumented workers are the greatest threat to American employment. But the irony—the bitter, undeniable irony—is that it’s not immigrants taking your job. It’s the Trump administration.

Since taking office, President Donald Trump, now worshiped as a near-deity within the Republican Party, has gutted the very workforce that keeps America running. His administration has aggressively slashed federal jobs, downsized entire agencies, and pushed policies that prioritize billionaire tax breaks over worker protections. In 2019 alone, his administration eliminated nearly 20,000 federal jobs, from the Environmental Protection Agency to the Department of Agriculture. These were jobs held by everyday Americans—teachers, social workers, engineers, and scientists—people who dedicated their lives to public service.

And yet, his most fervent supporters don’t seem to notice.

Trump demands absolute loyalty from his base, but he offers them none in return. The very people cheering for him at rallies—blue-collar workers, rural farmers, middle-class government employees—are the ones he is throwing under the bus. His administration has waged war on unions, underfunded public education, and gutted crucial labor protections. His economic policies have benefited only the wealthiest, leaving everyday Americans—Democrats, Republicans, and independents alike—struggling to keep up.

The conservative narrative about job loss has always relied on fear. Immigrants are the perfect scapegoat: they are “other,” they speak different languages, they come from different cultures. The truth, however, is far more damning. Study after study has shown that immigrants do not steal jobs from American workers. In fact, they help sustain entire industries—agriculture, construction, healthcare—by taking on jobs that many Americans won’t or can’t do. They contribute billions in taxes and are vital to the economy.

Meanwhile, it is Trump’s government that has been erasing jobs.

Under his watch, coal jobs have not returned. Manufacturing jobs have continued to vanish. Factory closures have left entire towns without economic lifelines. The federal hiring freeze Trump instituted early in his presidency stifled job opportunities for thousands of Americans. Agencies like the EPA, already underfunded, have been hollowed out, leaving fewer people to monitor pollution and protect public health. The Department of Agriculture was gutted, slashing research funding and pushing scientists to resign in droves.

This isn’t about partisan politics. It’s about the reality that working-class Americans—whether they wear MAGA hats or Bernie Sanders pins—are all getting played. Whether you’re a Democrat in Chicago, an independent in Pennsylvania, or a Republican in Kentucky, these job losses affect you. They affect your children’s schools, your local hospitals, your ability to access essential services. They make life harder for everyday Americans while billionaires reap the benefits.

And yet, Trump’s base remains devoted. He has built a movement that runs on grievance, fear, and blind allegiance. He tells his supporters that immigrants and “the radical left” are the problem, even as he decimates their communities with policies designed to benefit only the wealthiest elite. He demands unwavering loyalty, but he will never return it.

The next time someone rants about immigrants taking jobs, ask them: Did an immigrant shut down your factory? Did an immigrant cut funding to your child’s school? Did an immigrant lay off thousands of federal workers? No. That was Trump’s administration.

The real threat to the American worker isn’t the immigrant trying to build a better life. It’s the president who demands loyalty while giving nothing back.

Bill Maher is at it again. This time, the HBO host and self-proclaimed champion of “common sense” is celebrating the NFL’s decision to remove the "End Racism" slogan from the end zones of Super Bowl LIX. His argument? That the message was ineffective and only served to further entrench racists in their views. “If I am a racist, it’s just gonna make me more of a racist,” he said, as if slogans—mere words on a field—were ever meant to be the singular force that eradicates centuries of systemic oppression.

Joining him in the chorus of smug derision was Florida congressman and Trump lackey Byron Donalds, who chuckled along with Maher, mocking the very idea that the NFL would dare make such a statement in the first place. Donalds, a Black man who has all but auctioned off his integrity to the orange-skinned devil himself, continues to prioritize appeasement over principle, willingly playing the role of the “good conservative Black man” who affirms white comfort at every turn. His casual dismissal of the phrase “End Racism” is no surprise—his political career depends on his refusal to acknowledge its necessity.

But Maher, a man who built his career on sharp wit and supposedly unfiltered truth-telling, should know better. His arrogance drips through every word, as if his own personal indifference to the phrase renders it useless to the rest of society. Maher, of all people, should understand the power of messaging. After all, he’s an entertainer—a man whose entire career hinges on the ability to craft language that influences, provokes, and shifts public perception. It’s ironic, then, that he dismisses the significance of words when they serve a cause he’d rather ignore.

The Old Dog, The Old Tricks, and the Absent Mirror
Bill Maher, at this stage in his career, reminds me of an old dog who refuses to learn new tricks. More than that, he’s the kind of man who resists new mirrors—ones that might force him to reflect on his own complicity in the very things he derides. The assumption that a slogan like “End Racism” is useless simply because it doesn’t change his mind—or the mind of someone already committed to racism—betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of why these messages exist in the first place.
Let’s be real: If you’re a white man in his late sixties who still needs to be convinced that racism is a problem, an end-zone slogan was never going to be your Damascus road conversion. But what about the young Black child in the stands, watching players who look like him take the field in a league where their labor is valued, but their voices are often silenced? What about the high school athlete—Black, white, or otherwise—who sees that message and internalizes it as a fundamental truth rather than an empty corporate gesture?

Maher’s mistake is assuming that change must always be immediate, that if a single phrase doesn’t dismantle white supremacy overnight, it must be pointless. This is the same logic that fuels voter suppression efforts, the same defeatist rhetoric that tells marginalized communities not to bother fighting for progress because progress isn’t instant.

Performative? Maybe. But Useless? No.
I won’t pretend that the NFL’s “End Racism” campaign was some radical act of justice. It wasn’t. Like much of corporate America’s post-George Floyd reckoning, the phrase was easy to paint onto the field, easy to market, and easy to remove once the political winds shifted. But dismissing it outright—especially on the grounds that it might offend racists—is a dangerous argument wrapped in faux pragmatism.

Would I have preferred to see the NFL take a bolder stand? Absolutely. I would have loved to see the league make a commitment to hiring more Black executives, ensuring that Black quarterbacks are judged by their talent rather than outdated racial biases, or investing in the very communities from which it pulls its talent. But just because a slogan isn’t the revolution doesn’t mean it holds no value.
Maher, with all his self-satisfaction, misses this completely. He operates from the privilege of never having needed a slogan to affirm his humanity. The same man who once supported progressive ideals now scoffs at even the smallest symbolic gestures, not because they don’t work, but because they make him uncomfortable. And perhaps that’s the real issue here—not whether the slogan was effective, but whether men like Maher simply resent being reminded that racism isn’t some long-forgotten relic of America’s past.

Byron Donalds: Selling His Soul for Relevance
As for Byron Donalds, his eagerness to join Maher in ridiculing the campaign is just another example of his long history of political posturing. Donalds, a man who should understand the power of representation and messaging, chooses instead to serve as a mouthpiece for the very structures that keep people who look like him marginalized. Whether it’s defending the gutting of affirmative action, dismissing systemic racism, or cozying up to a man who built his political career on racist rhetoric, Donalds has shown time and time again that he is more invested in the approval of his conservative white base than in the well-being of his own community.

His joke about the NFL’s slogan wasn’t just cringeworthy—it was predictable. Men like Donalds are always willing to downplay racism when it benefits them politically. He is a convenient puppet for a party that needs Black faces to justify their regressive policies, a willing participant in the charade of racial progress while actively opposing it at every turn.

The Next Generation is Watching
Whether Maher and Donalds like it or not, change is slow, generational, and often starts with symbols. It starts with a child asking their parents why the words “End Racism” were painted on the field. It starts with a coach using that moment to have a real conversation with his players. It starts with a young athlete realizing that their presence on that field is part of a larger struggle for visibility, equality, and respect.

The NFL’s slogan wasn’t for Maher. It wasn’t for Donalds. It wasn’t for the men who already have their minds made up, who clutch their pearls at the suggestion that they should reflect, grow, or—God forbid—acknowledge that racism still exists. It was for the people who are still shaping their worldview. For them, seeing a simple phrase on the field could plant a seed that grows into something more powerful, something actionable, something that men like Maher and Donalds will never fully understand.
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So while the NFL’s slogan may have faded from the end zones, the conversation it sparked remains. And if a simple phrase was enough to unsettle men like Bill Maher and Byron Donalds, perhaps it was more powerful than they’re willing to admit.