Fragments of Hope through a new lens
"The cost of liberty is less than the price of repression."
– W.E.B. Du Bois
Since Donald Trump’s presidential election, I’ve been amazed at how often I hear the claim that Black people are at risk of returning to slavery. While the idea of a literal return to chattel slavery may sound extreme, it reflects a deeper fear rooted in our collective history. This fear persists because slavery, far from being a relic of the past, has evolved into modern forms of exploitation. Across the globe, it exists in stark realities—from the mines of the Congo to the trafficking networks in Mauritania. In the United States, it thrives in more insidious ways. Our prison system incarcerates extraordinary numbers of Black men, exploiting their labor while sustaining a multibillion-dollar industry built on punishment and profit.
Recently, I listened to a podcast about Anthony Johnson, a Black man described as “probably” the first slave owner in America. This narrative is sometimes wielded to justify centuries of enslavement, as though one man’s actions could absolve a nation of its systemic oppression. It reminded me of Edward P. Jones’ The Known World, a haunting depiction of a Black slave owner in the antebellum South. Both the podcast and the novel underscore an unsettling truth: racism and exploitation are systems, not isolated acts of prejudice. They endure because they are deeply ingrained in policies, structures, and institutions designed to uphold inequality.
Racism impacts every class of American Blacks. From those living in public housing to those who own homes and land—even those who have achieved financial success and social status—it is clear that no ADOS Black is immune. Smaller organizations profit from low wages, while larger corporations hold back ADOS talent, subjecting them to unfair standards and imposing moral expectations rooted in white cultural norms. The closer one is to what is deemed socially white and acceptable, the better their chances of success.
Meanwhile, the prison system sees young Black boys as pawns in its machinery. Like crude oil, they are extracted, exploited, and used to fuel an industry built on oppression. Both corporate America and the prison-industrial complex reflect a society that thrives on using Black lives as resources while denying their humanity. Just as the prison system profits off incarcerated labor, corporations exploit talent while maintaining a veneer of equity. Together, these systems form an intricate web that sustains systemic racism.
Racism as a Systemic Issue
Racism isn’t just about personal prejudice or isolated events—it’s a system that touches every part of society, from our streets to our workplaces. This systemic nature makes racism harder to see, especially when its mechanisms are disguised as policies, traditions, or even well-meaning initiatives. By understanding racism as a structural force, we can shift the focus away from blaming individuals and toward confronting the systems that sustain oppression.
Yet, confronting these systems requires courage. Silence is not always golden; in fact, silence can be complicity. Too often, we sit quietly, watching another Black colleague face unfair scrutiny, labeled as "unfit," "unprofessional," or "defensive" simply for standing up for themselves. Meanwhile, those who remain submissive are rewarded with survival, a stark reminder of the cost of resistance. This complicity echoes across history—from those who turned a blind eye during slavery, prioritizing profit over humanity, to today’s corporate structures that demand silence in exchange for perceived security.
Specific Examples of Systemic Racism
Sandra Bland’s tragic death is a stark example of how systemic racism intersects with gender. A Black woman with a fiery disposition encountered a white male racist, and the result was explosive—oil and water do not mix. Sandra’s strength and defiance were viewed as threats rather than traits of humanity. Her death in a jail cell is a modern echo of Fannie Lou Hamer, another Black woman with a big voice and an imposing presence. Hamer’s outspokenness intimidated white men so profoundly they saw no humanity as they beat her nearly to death.
But this systemic scrutiny isn’t reserved for the outspoken. It happens even to those who are soft-spoken. We want so desperately to believe the world has changed, but in many ways, it remains the same. This harsh truth should not deter us from standing up for ourselves. Silence is not safety—it is complicity. Pretending racism isn’t happening because it’s not happening to you only allows it to persist. We must reject complacency and speak out, even when it feels like the odds are stacked against us.
The Role of Allies
W.E.B. Du Bois wrote in The Souls of Black Folk about the paradox of white support. While some genuinely sought progress for Black people, others acted out of a need to preserve their own moral image. This distinction remains relevant today. There are allies who genuinely believe in Black talent and work to dismantle oppressive systems, mirroring the white supporters of the Civil Rights Movement. However, allyship can be complicated, as seen in the YSL RICO case. The white defense lawyers seemed to respect their clients in a way that stood in sharp contrast to the Black prosecutors, including Mrs. Love and Mrs. Hylton, who led the prosecution under a Black district attorney. The dynamic underscored a troubling reality: even within systems designed to uphold justice, biases and hierarchies persist, often creating tension among those tasked with navigating these roles.
True allyship demands more than good intentions—it requires action, accountability, and an understanding that privilege can be used as a tool for collective liberation. Allies must move beyond silence and stand beside those who are fighting for equity, even when it is uncomfortable.
Taking a Stand: Courage in Action
Courage can dismantle systems of oppression. The YSL RICO case in Atlanta offers a powerful example. Six defendants stood firm, refusing to accept plea deals that would harm their co-defendants. Their collective resistance ultimately led to not-guilty verdicts for two defendants facing murder charges. To be clear, even the last two defendants had other charges to face, but at least the murder charges were behind them. Their refusal to accept unjust pleas highlighted the power of unity in resisting systemic biases within the justice system.
In organizations, we can take similar action. When we see discrimination, we must document it, call it out, and use the same policies that organizations use against us to hold them accountable. Flooding the system with truth—standing up for ourselves and others—can disrupt the structures that sustain systemic racism.
Circling Back: The Lessons of Anthony Johnson
As I think back to the story of Anthony Johnson, I’m reminded of how narratives shape systems. His story has been manipulated to deflect responsibility for centuries of oppression. But the lesson isn’t about one man’s actions—it’s about the systems that have used stories like his to perpetuate inequality.
If we’ve learned anything, it’s that change requires collective courage, relentless truth-telling, and the refusal to let systems of oppression define us. Whether it’s in prisons, boardrooms, or communities, the roots of racism run deep—but so do the branches of hope.
We have the power to stand, speak, and dismantle. The question is: will we?
