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.
 

If I were on Jeopardy! and Alex Trebek (rest in peace, legend) posed the question, “This Black athlete played golf last week with President Trump,” I wouldn’t even hesitate.

“Who is Tiger Woods?”

Not because I’m a genius—this isn’t Final Jeopardy material—but because I know option #2, Herschel Walker, wouldn’t have made it inside that golf club. Not because he’s Black, mind you. It’s because he would still be outside trying to figure out how to escape the rotating doors at the entrance.

Now, I don’t begrudge a man for picking up a few rounds of golf. If golf is your thing, play your 18, enjoy the fresh air, and whisper sweet nothings to your putter all you want. But when I see Tiger Woods teeing up with Donald J. Trump, I don’t see a casual weekend outing. I see a man who has spent his entire career playing the longest game of "Don’t Rock the Boat" known to mankind.

Tiger, we see your stripes.

For years, Tiger Woods has been moonwalking around race like a man who’s trying to step over a subway puddle in brand-new Jordans. Every time he’s asked about his Blackness, he sidesteps it like it’s Shaq in a free throw contest. He prefers “Cablinasian,” his custom blend of Caucasian, Black, Indian, and Asian. It’s like he took a 23andMe test and decided to be all of them at once—except the Black part, which seems to be on clearance sale every time he’s asked about it.

And I get it. Some people just want to play their sport and go home. But Tiger Woods isn’t just any athlete. He’s a cultural symbol, whether he likes it or not. He is the first Black golfer to dominate a sport built on exclusion, where the closest Black folks usually got to the course was caddying. And yet, the man who broke barriers has spent decades pretending the barriers never existed.

Now, people might say, “Oh, come on, it’s just a game of golf!” And I’d agree—except this isn’t just any game, and this isn’t just any playing partner.

This is Donald Trump. A man who called Black athletes like LeBron James and Colin Kaepernick “dumb” and “sons of b******” for daring to speak out on racial injustice. A man who couldn’t stop talking about “very fine people on both sides” when Nazis were literally marching with tiki torches. 

And yet, Trump has nothing but love for Tiger Woods. Because Tiger does the one thing Trump loves in a Black athlete: he stays quiet. He doesn’t kneel, he doesn’t tweet, he doesn’t call out injustice. Tiger Woods is the dream—an elite Black athlete who doesn’t make the elite uncomfortable, and not just because their daughters aren’t waitresses. 

I remember when he got the Presidential Medal of Freedom from Trump in 2019. That wasn’t just an award. That was a loyalty badge. That was Trump saying, “You’re one of the good ones.”

Because here’s the thing—Trump doesn’t like Black athletes. He likes obedient Black athletes. The ones who smile, shake hands, and avoid using words like “oppression” or “systemic racism” unless it’s in reference to missing a putt.

It’s like that one scene in Django Unchained where Samuel L. Jackson’s character looks at Django, looks at the white folks, and then back at Django, confused. That’s how a lot of us feel watching Tiger out here golfing with Trump like it’s a father-son outing.

Golf has never been a neutral sport. It’s a game that, for most of its history, kept people like Tiger Woods out. The Augusta National Golf Club didn’t even admit Black members until 1990—1990! That’s not even ancient history. That’s the same year The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air premiered. The same year Home Alone dropped. Tiger Woods grew up in a sport that, for a long time, didn’t want him there.

So you’d think he’d have some perspective on what it means to be a trailblazer. But nah, Tiger has chosen a different route. He’s chosen silence.

Some might argue that’s his choice, and they’re right. He doesn’t owe us speeches or activism. But let’s be real—his silence is louder than any speech could ever be. And in 2025, when America is at a cultural crossroads, silence is not neutrality. Silence is complicity.

Tiger Woods doesn’t have to be Muhammad Ali. He doesn’t have to be John Carlos raising his fist. But he should at least acknowledge the game he’s playing—both on and off the course. Because history remembers those who stood for something. And it also remembers those who tried to blend in until the tide turned against them.
 

​J.D. Vance’s recent comments about rehiring a former DOGE staffer who resigned over racist social media posts reveal a glaring truth in America: wealth and privilege serve as a perpetual shield for white men, granting them an extended childhood well into adulthood. When Vance defended his former staffer, Marko Elez, by suggesting, “People make mistakes, and we shouldn’t be in the business of canceling young kids,” he wasn’t referring to an actual child. Elez is a 25-year-old man who held a well-paying government job. In any other context, someone of his age and stature would be expected to take full accountability for their actions. But in the Neverland of affluence, responsibility is often optional. Even more damning, Elez’s racist comments, which included amplifying white nationalist rhetoric and espousing bigoted views on social media, weren’t made when he was a teenager—they were made just last year. He was not a 'kid' making youthful mistakes; he was a fully grown adult who knew exactly what he was doing.

Elez’s presence in the government underscores how deeply embedded privilege can be. As a software engineer working within the Treasury Department as part of Musk’s DOGE effort, Elez was responsible for overseeing cost-cutting measures and fraud detection. Despite his racist social media activity—where he promoted eugenic immigration policies, called for repealing the Civil Rights Act, and proudly declared himself racist before it was “cool”—he was still granted access to one of the most sensitive financial systems in the country. His resignation was only secured after public exposure, yet even then, Vance and his supporters pushed for his redemption, as if his hateful views were merely a youthful indiscretion rather than a dangerous ideology.

Vance, once a self-styled champion of working-class Ohioans, has abandoned his 'hillbilly' roots and the days of sipping on well water, now fully immersed in the political machinery he once decried. His comments are merely the icing on the cake, as Elon Musk welcomed Elez back into the fold, and Donald Trump offered his stamp of approval. Their actions are abhorrent, yet unsurprising. Their lack of character is as deep as their cash flow, even if it is new money, as in Vance’s case. This is not just a Republican issue—Democrats live in Neverland too. Bill Clinton might as well have struck up permanent residence there, evading accountability for years under the guise of charm and political savvy. The issue is not strictly partisan; it is a reflection of how wealth insulates individuals from consequences, allowing them to operate above the standards imposed on ordinary Americans.

For the privileged, youthfulness is not simply a matter of age—it’s a socioeconomic construct. Affluent men are given the grace to be “kids” for as long as they need to be, regardless of their financial independence, job status, or political power. This luxury allows them to make mistakes, receive forgiveness, and re-enter the fold without lasting consequences.

This phenomenon extends beyond Elez and is best exemplified by former President Donald Trump, a man who has lived his life as America’s oldest adolescent. Trump’s petulance, impulsive decision-making, and constant need for validation are attributes one might associate with a privileged teenager rather than a world leader. Yet, his childish antics—insulting opponents with schoolyard taunts, refusing to accept electoral losses, and throwing public tantrums—are frequently dismissed, even admired, because of his wealth. Rather than being treated as an unhinged elder statesman, he is granted the leeway to behave like a spoiled child who has never had to face the full weight of his actions.

This is the ultimate power of wealth: it doesn’t just shield its possessors from consequences—it grants them the illusion of eternal youth. In a country where youthfulness is prized, where people spend billions on cosmetic procedures and skincare regimens, nothing can turn back the clock more effectively than money. Wealth is better than Botox. While ordinary Americans—especially those from marginalized backgrounds—are forced to grow up quickly, take on responsibilities, and navigate life with minimal safety nets, the wealthy can afford to exist in a state of prolonged adolescence.

However, this privilege of eternal boyhood is rarely extended to women, even those of economic means. Affluent women are still expected to maintain decorum, bear the burden of responsibility, and face public scrutiny when they step out of line. A wealthy man can claim youthful ignorance after making racist comments, yet a woman—whether rich or poor—faces real consequences for far less. Women in politics, business, and media often find that their mistakes are not met with second chances but with career-ending backlash. Social media has become an unforgiving space where women, regardless of privilege, are held to rigid standards of behavior. Their missteps, whether real or perceived, often come with swift and permanent repercussions.

For poor people and many minoritized populations, the concept of extended adolescence is a fantasy. Black and brown kids are often treated as adults long before their time, subject to harsher school discipline, over-policing, and societal expectations that demand they “know better” despite their circumstances. Immigrant children, many of whom serve as translators for their parents and take on adult responsibilities at an early age, do not get to be kids past childhood. They are expected to contribute, work, and assimilate into American society without the luxury of youthful indiscretions.

For many Americans, childhood ends the moment survival becomes the primary concern. Working-class families do not have the luxury of mistakes; one financial misstep can lead to homelessness, one criminal record can derail an entire future. There are no billionaire safety nets, no political allies eager to grant second chances. Poor people don’t get to be kids past childhood because society demands they grow up and fend for themselves. But if you are a wealthy man of a certain privilege, the world will extend your adolescence for as long as you need—whether you’re 25 like Elez, 45 like Vance, or 77 like Trump.
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J.D. Vance’s comments are more than just a political maneuver; they expose a broader truth about who is allowed to stumble, to fail, and to recover in America. The Neverland of wealth and privilege remains exclusive, a place where the privileged never truly have to grow up, while the rest of us are forced into adulthood before we even reach adolescence.