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.
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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. Patriotism is a complex emotion. It is an expression of love and loyalty to one’s country, but it also demands a reckoning with the contradictions that shape a nation’s history. Nowhere is this complexity more evident than in the story of the Boston Tea Party—a moment celebrated as an act of defiance and courage, yet one deeply intertwined with appropriation, exploitation, and erasure.
On a cold December evening in 1773, the Sons of Liberty, dressed as Native Americans, stormed British tea ships and dumped their cargo into Boston Harbor. This audacious act of rebellion is etched into the annals of American history as a foundational moment in the fight for liberty. Yet, as a Black man living in America in 2025, I find myself grappling with the contradictions embedded in this event and what it means for our understanding of patriotism. The freedom of our nation is a story of rebellion and courage, but it is also a story of appropriation—of using the identities of others to mask our flaws and advance our cause. Patriotism and the Masks of Liberty When the Sons of Liberty disguised themselves as Native Americans, their intent was both practical and symbolic. In the tight-knit community of 18th-century Boston, the costumes provided anonymity. But they also sent a powerful message. By dressing in what they perceived as “Indian dress”—painting their faces with soot, donning wool blankets, and wielding hatchets they called tomahawks—they sought to sever their connection to Britain and forge a new identity as “Americans.” Yet, this act of symbolic defiance was built on the appropriation and objectification of Indigenous peoples. The Sons of Liberty didn’t dress as Native Americans out of respect or solidarity. Instead, they reduced Native identity to a caricature, exploiting it to convey their rebellion while erasing the real struggles of Indigenous communities who were already facing displacement and violence at the hands of colonial settlers. This is where patriotism becomes complex. While the Sons of Liberty’s actions were undeniably courageous, their use of Native imagery reveals a troubling hypocrisy. They fought for liberty and self-determination but denied those same rights to others, appropriating Indigenous identity without regard for its deeper meaning. Freedom for Some, Erasure for Others The Boston Tea Party highlights a pattern that has persisted throughout American history: the ideals of liberty and justice are often proclaimed loudly, but their application has been selective. The Sons of Liberty’s vision of freedom did not include Native peoples, enslaved Africans, or women. These groups were excluded from the promise of “liberty and justice for all,” even as their identities, labor, and cultures were exploited to build the very foundations of this nation. Patriotism, then, must contend with these contradictions. It is not enough to celebrate the courage of the Sons of Liberty without also acknowledging the harm their actions caused. Their rebellion laid the groundwork for a nation that would become a beacon of freedom, but it also perpetuated patterns of exploitation and erasure that continue to shape the lives of marginalized communities today. The Complexity of Patriotism Today In 2025, the complexity of patriotism remains as relevant as ever. As a Black man, I love this country and its ideals, but I also see how far we are from fully realizing them. The rhetoric of freedom and justice often masks the systemic inequalities that persist. Just as the Sons of Liberty used Native identity as a disguise, modern institutions often cloak inequity behind the language of progress and inclusion. Patriotism requires us to grapple with these contradictions. It is not blind allegiance to the myths of our past but a commitment to understanding and addressing the truths they obscure. True patriotism demands that we honor the courage of rebellion while also confronting the harm it has caused. It asks us to love our country enough to hold it accountable and to work toward a future that lives up to its highest ideals. Reckoning with the Past, Reimagining the Future The story of the Boston Tea Party is one of rebellion and courage, but it is also a story of appropriation and erasure. By confronting this complexity, we can begin to reimagine what patriotism looks like in America. It is not about choosing between pride and critique but about embracing both—the pride in what we have achieved and the critique that drives us to do better. If we are to honor the legacy of the Sons of Liberty, we must expand their vision of liberty to include everyone. Patriotism in 2025 must be a force for inclusion, not exclusion; a celebration of diversity, not a mask for erasure. Only by reckoning with the full complexity of our history can we build a nation where liberty is not a privilege but a reality for all. The Boston Tea Party reminds us that freedom is worth fighting for, but it also challenges us to ask: Freedom for whom, and at what cost? That is the question patriotism must answer—not just in 1773, but today and for generations to come. I had a fantastic experience speaking on "The Art of Building Community" at the Tyson Cultural Arts Center as part of their "Conversations and Coffee" series. It was an honor to share insights on fostering meaningful connections, and I’m grateful to everyone who participated, both in person and online. Special thanks to the Tyson Cultural Arts Center for the invitation and the warm welcome! As I write this, I am struck by the weight of time. Turning 40 is a significant milestone that feels both monumental and deeply personal. It’s a moment to reflect on the past, grapple with the present, and dream about the future.
The journey to this point has not been easy. I have battled depression and anxiety the last couple of years, formidable foes that have shadowed many of my days. There were times when the darkness felt overwhelming, and finding the will to live seemed like an impossible challenge. It’s hard to articulate the depth of these struggles, but they have shaped me in both painful and profound ways. Amid this battle, I have learned to appreciate the present moment. Each day is a gift, a chance to connect with my family, laugh with friends, and find joy in the simple things. I’ve realized that life is not about grand achievements or the flawless execution of our plans; it’s about small, everyday victories. Like getting out of bed on a particularly tough day, or managing to have a good laugh despite the circumstances. It’s about waking up and choosing to keep going, even when it feels impossible. Finding the will to live has been a journey of its own. It has meant reaching out for help, embracing vulnerability, and allowing myself to be supported by those who love me. It has meant acknowledging my pain and permitting myself to heal. Through this process, I have discovered a strength I never knew I had—a resilience that comes from facing my demons and refusing to let them define me. This strength is not about being invincible, but about being able to get up after every fall, to keep moving forward despite the pain, and to find hope even in the darkest moments. As I look towards the future, I am filled with hope. I see a path that is not yet fully clear but one that is lined with possibilities. I see opportunities for growth, love, and joy. I see a life that, despite its challenges, is worth living. This hope for the future is what keeps me going, and I hope it can inspire you to see the potential in your own journey. Turning 40 is a reminder that life is a journey, not a destination. Each step, no matter how small, is a testament to our resilience and capacity for renewal. I am deeply grateful for the lessons I have learned, for the support I have received, and for the chance to continue this journey with a heart open to the future. The support I've received has been invaluable, and I hope you can find similar support in your own journey. As I embrace this new decade, I carry with me the wisdom of the past, the appreciation of the present, and the hope for the future. Here’s to turning 40, fighting the battles within, finding the light in the darkness, and living a life rich with meaning and purpose. Life is experienced. Fashion is expressed. People are free. Black is beautiful. And that ain't changin'. The End. Freedom isn't truly free. However, silence costs a lot more. In winter 2020, I wrote this letter and submitted it to an employee-led newsletter that expressed staff concerns to the organizational leadership of the company that I worked for. Although I respected the organization and its leadership, I needed more. The year 2020 saw many people, including myself, protest the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, and Breonna Taylor. Many in America learned that their voices, much like Black lives, matter. As one of the few people of color in my job position, I felt that I had a responsibility to speak up, and not shut up, during pivotal moments where the fire of change could be stoked responsibility, yet passionately. So, I did, and without the convenience of anonymity. I am proud of this letter as it showed that I was, and still am, a leader with a voice that speaks of hope, accountability, empowerment, and social change. Freedom isn't truly free. However, silence costs a lot more...and that's a lump sum that I will never again be willing to pay. Happy BHM. ________________________________________________________________________________________ Dear Admin, I am writing you this letter in response to the All-Staff Town Hall: Matters of Race. I was disappointed to hear that CML employees aren’t permitted to wear clothing in support of Black Lives Matter because of the discomfort it could cause some and BLM’s perceived political affiliation. As an African-American who lives in a state of perpetual pain in this nation, it saddens me to learn that a visual representation of my life draws the ire of some, especially when considering the historical atrocities that this nation. However, I would like to explain why I was most disappointed with CML’s neutrality stance shared during the Matters of Race town hall. I have worked at CML for nearly ten years, which is almost a quarter of my life. Although I enjoy my job and am proud of the impact that I have made in the community, I can honestly state that I wonder if my Black life matters to this organization most days that I come to work. I know that my ability to do my job matters to the organization. I know that book circulation numbers matter, as does customer service. However, does my Black life matter to this organization? Does this organization understand that many people of color employed at CML don’t have the opportunity to be “neutral” when it comes to race in this country? As it relates to race, discrimination, diversity, and inclusion, neutrality is a privilege given to those mostly unaffected by the systemic bigotry permeated throughout our nation’s history. An organization that is comfortable having a neutral stance regarding both its internal and public support of Black lives is dangerous for me as an African-American employee. I state that respectfully because I am aware that this organization has made positive gains in dealing with diversity and inclusion matters, which is commendable. However, the very fact that I would say that it is laudable that CML organized an all-staff town hall discussing issues of race shows just how far behind we are as a country and an organization as it relates to race. It seems to be that the acknowledgment of BIPOC (Black and Indigenous People of Color) is viewed as being progressive when it really should be par for the course. Let me state this very clearly about race matters: A STANCE OF NEUTRALITY HINDERS AND DOES NOT HELP BIPOC. This neutrality stance fortifies the continued dominance of the various systems of oppression that harm different minority groups, including people of color. This country is not neutral in its stance concerning race. The evidence is quite clear whom this country systemically favors as a ruling class. Being neutral does not challenge the systems of oppression that have historically perpetuate white supremacy in America. These systems include but aren’t limited to criminal justice, housing, health care, and education, encompassing the library “system” from which this organization is a part. These are the same systems that believe showing support for people of color is taboo and counterculture and threatening to the majority who have benefited from the system itself. In the year 2020, all systems should be challenged, examined, and reformed. Many of these systems have foundations constructed during a time in which neither Black nor all lives mattered. This organization is not exempt from the demand of reformative change through critical examination. In the year 2020, being neutral about race in this country is almost as criminal as being silent. During the All-Staff Town Hall: Matters of Race, a member of the Urban Libraries Council was quoted stating, “If you want the library to issue an opinion on literacy, we have that opinion, but we are not venturing into this space as a library.” This statement is tone-deaf because it whitewashes this nation’s history, denying people of color access to library resources just because of their skin color through the 1960s. By encouraging libraries to remain silent on BLM and other issues surrounding race relations in this country, the system of oppression expands. This Urban Libraries Council member’s statement, though I’m sure well-intentioned, is dangerous, problematic, and yet one that has been repeated throughout this nation’s history as the libraries remain neutral instead of pushing toward progression. In an 1873 dedication speech, Board President John Andrews stated, “Our city council backed by the unanimous vote of the citizens has established and liberally endowed a free library and reading room free to the whole population of the city.” In 1907, Main Library was built with and adopted the phrase ‘Open to All”. While both of these are outstanding achievements in CML’s history, they are also a stark contrast to the social climate. In both 1873 and 1907, Columbus was a city divided along race and class lines. Although I am sure that the library was open to all, it wasn’t inclusive to all due to the social climate. Over 100 years later, BIPOC are still fighting the same oppression system that exists even within our beloved CML. In the year 2020, it’s not enough to be “open for all” when you have the opportunity to be outspoken for all. There is room for neutrality in leadership. However, leadership is also progressive, willing to take a stand, absorb some contact from adversaries, and be a difference-maker instead of making decisions based on the greater good instead of the continued comfort of those historically extended such privilege.
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February 2025
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