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.
0 Comments
The Neverland of Privilege: J.D. Vance, Elon Musk, Pres. Trump, and the Luxury of Eternal Boyhood2/12/2025 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 white 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 white 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. If Elez had been Black, brown, or an immigrant, he would not be a “kid” in Vance’s eyes—he would be a fully accountable adult, likely deemed unfit for any second chances. 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 white 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 people of color, 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 white man, 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. 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 whiteness 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. In discussions about economic hardship, much attention is given to short-term fluctuations in the cost of living, such as the price of eggs. While these concerns are valid, they often serve as distractions from more significant systemic issues that shape economic opportunity, financial security, and access to essential services such as education and healthcare.
One pressing issue is the potential restructuring of the Department of Education. If such changes were implemented, they could disproportionately impact communities that rely on federal support. Students with special needs, those with Individualized Education Programs (IEPs), and students from underfunded school districts would face even greater challenges in accessing quality education. Despite these serious implications, public discourse often remains fixated on immediate financial concerns rather than long-term policies that will affect generations to come. Economic inequality is not an isolated problem—it is embedded in a system that prioritizes wealth accumulation for those already in positions of power. Middle-class and lower-income families continue to experience financial strain, not simply because of inflation or the rising cost of basic goods, but due to a broader structure that favors those with access to capital and long-term investments. Those with economic influence do not simply worry about affording groceries; they own the systems that determine market prices and dictate economic trends. There are two perspectives on financial resources: consumption and production. This distinction follows socio-economic lines, dividing those who purchase goods from those who profit from their production. While the majority of people are concerned with how much they pay for daily necessities, those with financial power focus on acquiring assets that generate continuous returns. Simply put, while many debate the affordability of a carton of eggs, those in positions of influence control the industries that dictate these prices and ensure their wealth continues to grow. This pattern is not unique to one country or political leader; it is a global phenomenon. Throughout history, leaders have strategically directed public attention toward temporary crises while advancing policies that consolidate economic and political power. Whether through economic downturns, national security concerns, or policy debates, the public is often engaged in discussions about immediate frustrations, while structural changes that reshape financial and social landscapes occur with little scrutiny. Wealth is built and maintained through ownership—of land, businesses, stocks, and political influence—rather than through wages or temporary economic relief measures. While many struggle with daily financial pressures, those with long-term economic influence accumulate assets that allow their wealth to compound over time. This disparity ensures that economic mobility remains out of reach for many, while wealth remains concentrated among a select few. The consistent pattern of economic distraction makes it difficult to engage in meaningful discussions about systemic change. While public focus remains on short-term financial concerns, policies are enacted that further entrench economic divides. Funding for education, healthcare, and social services is reduced, making upward mobility increasingly difficult for those already struggling. The long-term consequences of these decisions far outweigh the immediate challenges posed by rising grocery prices, yet they receive far less public scrutiny. As discussions around economic issues continue, it is essential to shift the conversation toward long-term systemic solutions rather than temporary financial concerns. Who benefits from the current system? How can economic policies be structured to promote equitable growth rather than wealth consolidation? These are the questions that must be prioritized to create meaningful change . A well-informed public must look beyond immediate frustrations and recognize the broader economic forces at play. Focusing solely on short-term financial pain obscures the larger issue: a system that prioritizes profit over people. By understanding these dynamics, individuals can advocate for policies that promote economic equity rather than perpetuate cycles of financial struggle. Stay informed. Engage with the larger conversation. Recognize the structural issues that shape economic opportunity, and push for systemic change rather than temporary relief. As a Black man in America, the phrase "Make America Great Again" has always felt like a punchline to a cruel joke. It oozes nostalgia for an era that was only "great" for those who didn’t have to fear Jim Crow, racial terrorism, or the so-called "gentile South" that was anything but gentle to people who looked like me. The ghosts of a past where Klan hoods and burning crosses were the norm still linger in the air. There isn’t much before 2003 that I’d personally care to revisit, yet here we are in 2025, dealing with the same struggles my ancestors endured—struggles that have only been exacerbated by President Donald Trump, a man whose only mission seems to be padding his wallet while ensuring DEI is dead on arrival.
I know where you stand, Mr. Trump, on people like me. I am a Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) professional—yes, one of those people you and your allies decry as ruining the country, as though the pursuit of a more inclusive and equitable America is somehow an existential threat. I get it. You and your inner circle view DEI as an unnecessary burden, a concession to those who should, in your eyes, simply toughen up and accept their place. Fine. We can let bygones be bygones on that front because, frankly, there is a bigger issue at hand. While I will never be a Trumper, I am willing to extend a challenge. If you, the self-professed genius and business mogul, truly believe you can make America great again, start with something that should be within your wheelhouse—an area where you claim to have expertise: entertainment and business. If you’re truly about restoring greatness, let’s begin by fixing something that is actually worth making great again. Fix the NBA All-Star Game. Or as we’ll call it, for branding purposes—Make NBA All-Star Game Great Again (MNBAAGGA). Sure, it doesn’t roll off the tongue, but hey, it might look good on a hat. I grew up watching the NBA at its peak, when the league felt alive with intensity, competition, and showmanship. I remember the gravity-defying artistry of Michael Jordan and Dominique Wilkins in the dunk contest. I remember when the All-Star Game wasn’t just a glorified scrimmage but a battle of the league’s best, playing with pride, representing their conferences, and competing as if it mattered. That game is gone now, replaced with a dull, uninspired exhibition where defense is nonexistent, dunks are routine, and nobody seems to care. The Dunk Contest, once the highlight of All-Star Weekend, has become a cringe-worthy affair, populated by role players because true superstars refuse to participate. Back in 2012, Dwyane Wade broke Kobe Bryant's nose during the NBA All-Star Game in Orlando, Florida. The incident remains the only flagrant foul in All-Star Game history. Bring back the broken noses. That’s competition. That’s fire. I know you’ll love this, Mr. Trump—bring back the intensity, the will to win at all costs, the true competitive spirit of the game. Bring back the kind of edge that Larry Bird displayed while winning the 1988 three-point shooting contest. Now, according to famed sports commentator Skip Bayless, Bird allegedly used the "n-word" when addressing his Black competitors before the contest. That’s not the kind of edge we need. What we do need is the hunger, the grit, the fire that makes sports compelling—minus the racism. This should be an easy call for you, a no-brainer, a layup in the name of "competition." And while we're at it, bring back Marvin Gaye putting some oomph into 'The Star-Spangled Banner.' Make the Anthem Sexy Again (MASA). If we’re talking about showmanship, this is it—because nothing screams patriotism like sultry vocals and a groove that could make even the most stoic flag-waver tap their foot. Ah yes, the NBA’s most unintentional DEI hire—Jason Williams—gracing us with the 'White Chocolate' elbow pass during the Rookie Game. Bring back that flair, that showmanship, that pure basketball artistry that made us all drop our jaws in amazement. The all-star game desperately needs that energy today. If you are truly the business mastermind you claim to be, you should recognize that the NBA All-Star Game is a brand in crisis. Viewership has plummeted, and fans like myself—who once reveled in the spectacle—now watch with indifference. The game lacks stakes, lacks heart, and most importantly, lacks the competitive fire that once defined it. You want to show America what true leadership looks like? Fix this. Here’s how:
The All-Star Game, at its best, embodied the spirit of competition, the thrill of athletic excellence, and the beauty of a well-played game. It was a spectacle that inspired kids to dream, that showed the world basketball at its highest level. Fixing it may not solve America’s deepest problems, but it would be a small testament to your ability to restore greatness where it has been lost. So, Mr. Trump, if you really want to prove yourself as the business tycoon you claim to be, take this challenge. Show us that you can at least make the NBA All-Star Game great again. Because if you can’t even accomplish that, your claims of making America great again will remain just another empty promise. MNBAAGGA. Put it on a hat, slap it on a T-shirt, and see if you can bring back something that actually deserves to be great again. I’m waiting. |
AuthorSon. Husband. Father. Uncle. Mentor. Friend. Archives
February 2025
Categories |