u/TheBloodlineTribune

I’ve been going back through the work of one of our writers for The Bloodline Tribune, a brother who recently passed and whose words feel even heavier now that he’s an ancestor in our archive. One piece that hit me hard is his critique of PBS’s 2013 series “The Abolitionists,” and what he calls the myth of the Great White Hope.

He points out how the film centers white abolitionists like William Lloyd Garrison, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Angelina Grimké, and John Brown, while leaving figures such as Nat Turner, Gabriel Prosser, and Denmark Vesey at the margins. The result is a familiar story line: Black ancestors portrayed as mostly passive sufferers, waiting on white saviors to deliver them, even though historians like Herbert Aptheker documented more than 200 slave revolts in the United States. He reminds us that many white abolitionists opposed slavery as an institution while still believing in Black inferiority, and that their humanitarian stance did not automatically make them allies in the fight for Black autonomy.

He connects this to a larger problem: the way non-Black institutions claim the right to narrate Black history and pick Black heroes. He warns that as time passes, historical memory gets distorted. Just as abolitionist history can be retold to center white figures, hip hop’s legacy could be rewritten to elevate crossover acts over the communities and artists who were actually building political consciousness. He uses sharp examples, like imagining a future documentary that credits someone like Vanilla Ice as the “rap abolitionist,” or misreading gimmick groups like Young Black Teenagers as authentic voices of Black struggle, simply because they were popular at the time.

From there, he brings the conversation home. Django, The Abolitionists, and countless other “Black history” depictions are often framed through non-Black eyes. The risk is that our grandchildren will inherit curated myths instead of hard truths. His answer is clear: Black people must become experts in our own history, the same way other groups refuse to outsource interpretation of their culture. He calls for a “Black By Nature/Conscious By Choice” campaign and sets a concrete goal: raising up 5,000 Black scholars of our history, echoing Public Enemy’s mission to raise 5,000 Black leaders, so that we can defend our story against distortion and teach the next generation from a place of clarity, not confusion.

Bringing this to today’s table, the stakes feel even higher. We’re living in an era of streaming series, content deals, and “representation” wins where Black stories are everywhere, but Black control over how those stories are framed is not guaranteed. A show can feature Black characters and still center white moral authority. A biopic can highlight Black pain and still erase Black organizing and self-determination. Even in hip hop, documentaries and retrospectives can smooth out the radical edges, downplay the political work, and turn struggle into aesthetic.

At the same time, we now have independent Black platforms, podcasts, newsletters, study groups, and digital archives that can do exactly what he was calling for: train ourselves as historians of our own experience. The question is whether we will treat that as a serious collective project, or leave our story in the hands of people whose primary loyalty is to ratings, awards, and comfort.

So I want to hear from folks on here. Where do you see the “Great White Hope” narrative playing out most clearly in how Black history or Black culture is being packaged today. And what would it look like, in practice, to build that 5,000-strong army of Black historians and cultural defenders he was calling for, using the tools and platforms we have in 2026

If you’re willing to share, what’s one story or figure you think has been most distorted or sanitized, and how are you personally working to correct that in your own circles

Tribute- Minister Paul Scott Durham, NC

The Bloodline Tribune

I’ve been going back through the work of one of our writers for The Bloodline Tribune, a brother who recently passed and whose words feel even heavier now that he’s an ancestor in our archive. One piece that hit me hard is his critique of PBS’s 2013 series “The Abolitionists,” and what he calls the myth of the Great White Hope.

He points out how the film centers white abolitionists like William Lloyd Garrison, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Angelina Grimké, and John Brown, while leaving figures such as Nat Turner, Gabriel Prosser, and Denmark Vesey at the margins. The result is a familiar story line: Black ancestors portrayed as mostly passive sufferers, waiting on white saviors to deliver them, even though historians like Herbert Aptheker documented more than 200 slave revolts in the United States. He reminds us that many white abolitionists opposed slavery as an institution while still believing in Black inferiority, and that their humanitarian stance did not automatically make them allies in the fight for Black autonomy.

He connects this to a larger problem: the way non-Black institutions claim the right to narrate Black history and pick Black heroes. He warns that as time passes, historical memory gets distorted. Just as abolitionist history can be retold to center white figures, hip hop’s legacy could be rewritten to elevate crossover acts over the communities and artists who were actually building political consciousness. He uses sharp examples, like imagining a future documentary that credits someone like Vanilla Ice as the “rap abolitionist,” or misreading gimmick groups like Young Black Teenagers as authentic voices of Black struggle, simply because they were popular at the time.

From there, he brings the conversation home. Django, The Abolitionists, and countless other “Black history” depictions are often framed through non-Black eyes. The risk is that our grandchildren will inherit curated myths instead of hard truths. His answer is clear: Black people must become experts in our own history, the same way other groups refuse to outsource interpretation of their culture. He calls for a “Black By Nature/Conscious By Choice” campaign and sets a concrete goal: raising up 5,000 Black scholars of our history, echoing Public Enemy’s mission to raise 5,000 Black leaders, so that we can defend our story against distortion and teach the next generation from a place of clarity, not confusion.

Bringing this to today’s table, the stakes feel even higher. We’re living in an era of streaming series, content deals, and “representation” wins where Black stories are everywhere, but Black control over how those stories are framed is not guaranteed. A show can feature Black characters and still center white moral authority. A biopic can highlight Black pain and still erase Black organizing and self-determination. Even in hip hop, documentaries and retrospectives can smooth out the radical edges, downplay the political work, and turn struggle into aesthetic.

At the same time, we now have independent Black platforms, podcasts, newsletters, study groups, and digital archives that can do exactly what he was calling for: train ourselves as historians of our own experience. The question is whether we will treat that as a serious collective project, or leave our story in the hands of people whose primary loyalty is to ratings, awards, and comfort.

So I want to hear from folks on here. Where do you see the “Great White Hope” narrative playing out most clearly in how Black history or Black culture is being packaged today. And what would it look like, in practice, to build that 5,000-strong army of Black historians and cultural defenders he was calling for, using the tools and platforms we have in 2026

If you’re willing to share, what’s one story or figure you think has been most distorted or sanitized, and how are you personally working to correct that in your own circles

Tribute- Minister Paul Scott Durham, NC

The Bloodline Tribune

When we talk about Gullah Geechee heritage, we are usually drawn to the Lowcountry, the Sea Islands, and the cultural treasures our ancestors preserved. But hidden inside that tapestry is a lesser known story, one that stretches across the Atlantic and ties Gullah Geechee people to the Haitian Revolution in very human, very concrete ways.

Norice Wilkinson: from Haitian revolutionary to Gullah Islander

One of the most striking pieces of this connection is the life of Norice Wilkinson, born in northeastern Saint Domingue, now Haiti, in 1786. Through circumstances that remain unclear, Wilkinson was captured and sold by slave traders during the final year of the Haitian Revolution and brought to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.

Wilkinson was not just any captive. He fought in Toussaint Louverture’s army, witnessed the revolution firsthand, and carried the spirit of freedom with him across the sea. According to his own account, which he shared with abolitionist A F Pillsbury during the last year of the American Civil War, Wilkinson was fluent in French and Spanish and could recite “La Marseillaise,” the French national anthem, which had become a revolutionary anthem in Haiti.

His story is a living testament to how the Haitian struggle for freedom did not just inspire people from afar. It physically brought Haitian fighters into Gullah Geechee spaces, where they helped shape the cultural mosaic of the region.

Tracing the language: Katie Brown’s family memory

Wilkinson’s story is not the only thread. Continued research reveals echoes of Caribbean language in Gullah Geechee families.

Katie Brown, great granddaughter of the Muslim scholar Bilali Muhammad, once shared that her grandmother, Margret, used to say “deloe” for water and “diffy” for fire. These terms closely resemble the French phrases de l’eau, water, and du feu, fire, and align with French based Creole languages spoken throughout the Caribbean, including Haiti.

This linguistic survival hints at Caribbean, possibly Haitian, roots inside the Gullah Geechee community. It shows how language, even in fragments, carries deep ancestral memory and serves as quiet evidence of migration, mixing, and resilience.

Family relics from Santo Domingo

Additional evidence of Haitian Caribbean ancestry surfaces in heirlooms and oral traditions. One remarkable account describes an elderly man living in poor circumstances who inherited objects passed down from his grandfather, a man who came to the United States from Santo Domingo in the West Indies.

Among the objects were old coins, a pistol, and a pocketbook made of shells clamped with metal bands. The most significant item was a carved stone fig, crafted with skill and carried as a protective charm by his ancestor.

Although the exact origin of the fig remains

unknown, it stands as a cultural artifact linking this family’s lineage to the Caribbean and possibly to African spiritual practices carried through Haiti. It offers tangible proof that migrants brought not only language and revolutionary ideas but also sacred objects, family traditions, and ancestral memories that continued to live in Gullah Geechee homes.

More than inspiration: a shared fight for freedom

The Haitian Revolution was more than a distant spark. It became a beacon of possibility. Haitian fighters, culture, and language physically entered the Gullah Geechee world, shaping it in ways we are still uncovering.

Scholars like Matthew J Clavin, in Toussaint

Louverture and the American Civil War: The Promise and Peril of a Second Haitian Revolution, show how Americans, Black and white, were intensely aware of Haiti’s impact. Gullah Geechee people, many of whom lived in and around key port cities like Charleston, would have been at the crossroads of that information, trade, and migration.

A living connection

The Gullah Geechee and Haitian connection is not just a historical footnote. It is part of a living story. It reminds us that the African diaspora is not confined by borders. It is a braided lineage of language, resistance, artifacts, and memory that traveled across waters and left footprints on these shores.

As we keep exploring these links, we honor those who, like Norice Wilkinson, carried revolutionary fire with them. And we preserve the stories of families like Katie Brown’s and the unnamed man whose family treasures still hold keys to diasporic history.

— Dominique Holiday

The Bloodline Tribune Magazine

When we talk about Gullah Geechee heritage, we are usually drawn to the Lowcountry, the Sea Islands, and the cultural treasures our ancestors preserved. But hidden inside that tapestry is a lesser known story, one that stretches across the Atlantic and ties Gullah Geechee people to the Haitian Revolution in very human, very concrete ways.

Norice Wilkinson: from Haitian revolutionary to Gullah Islander

One of the most striking pieces of this connection is the life of Norice Wilkinson, born in northeastern Saint Domingue, now Haiti, in 1786. Through circumstances that remain unclear, Wilkinson was captured and sold by slave traders during the final year of the Haitian Revolution and brought to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.

Wilkinson was not just any captive. He fought in Toussaint Louverture’s army, witnessed the revolution firsthand, and carried the spirit of freedom with him across the sea. According to his own account, which he shared with abolitionist A F Pillsbury during the last year of the American Civil War, Wilkinson was fluent in French and Spanish and could recite “La Marseillaise,” the French national anthem, which had become a revolutionary anthem in Haiti.

His story is a living testament to how the Haitian struggle for freedom did not just inspire people from afar. It physically brought Haitian fighters into Gullah Geechee spaces, where they helped shape the cultural mosaic of the region.

Tracing the language: Katie Brown’s family memory

Wilkinson’s story is not the only thread. Continued research reveals echoes of Caribbean language in Gullah Geechee families.

Katie Brown, great granddaughter of the Muslim scholar Bilali Muhammad, once shared that her grandmother, Margret, used to say “deloe” for water and “diffy” for fire. These terms closely resemble the French phrases de l’eau, water, and du feu, fire, and align with French based Creole languages spoken throughout the Caribbean, including Haiti.

This linguistic survival hints at Caribbean, possibly Haitian, roots inside the Gullah Geechee community. It shows how language, even in fragments, carries deep ancestral memory and serves as quiet evidence of migration, mixing, and resilience.

Family relics from Santo Domingo

Additional evidence of Haitian Caribbean ancestry surfaces in heirlooms and oral traditions. One remarkable account describes an elderly man living in poor circumstances who inherited objects passed down from his grandfather, a man who came to the United States from Santo Domingo in the West Indies.

Among the objects were old coins, a pistol, and a pocketbook made of shells clamped with metal bands. The most significant item was a carved stone fig, crafted with skill and carried as a protective charm by his ancestor.

Although the exact origin of the fig remains

unknown, it stands as a cultural artifact linking this family’s lineage to the Caribbean and possibly to African spiritual practices carried through Haiti. It offers tangible proof that migrants brought not only language and revolutionary ideas but also sacred objects, family traditions, and ancestral memories that continued to live in Gullah Geechee homes.

More than inspiration: a shared fight for freedom

The Haitian Revolution was more than a distant spark. It became a beacon of possibility. Haitian fighters, culture, and language physically entered the Gullah Geechee world, shaping it in ways we are still uncovering.

Scholars like Matthew J Clavin, in Toussaint

Louverture and the American Civil War: The Promise and Peril of a Second Haitian Revolution, show how Americans, Black and white, were intensely aware of Haiti’s impact. Gullah Geechee people, many of whom lived in and around key port cities like Charleston, would have been at the crossroads of that information, trade, and migration.

A living connection

The Gullah Geechee and Haitian connection is not just a historical footnote. It is part of a living story. It reminds us that the African diaspora is not confined by borders. It is a braided lineage of language, resistance, artifacts, and memory that traveled across waters and left footprints on these shores.

As we keep exploring these links, we honor those who, like Norice Wilkinson, carried revolutionary fire with them. And we preserve the stories of families like Katie Brown’s and the unnamed man whose family treasures still hold keys to diasporic history.

— Dominique Holiday

The Bloodline Tribune

As a writer who’s spent years naming oppressive systems outright, writing dystopia has been a shift. It’s challenging, but I’m enjoying it. Learning to trust the story to carry the weight instead of explaining everything. Letting the world reveal the truth on its own feels like growth, even if it’s uncomfortable.

Long before Marvel introduced the fictional nation of Wakanda, African Americans were already envisioning futuristic African kingdoms and Black utopias. Writers in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, responding to the realities of racial oppression, created speculative narratives of advanced Black civilizations that challenged white supremacy and reimagined the future for Black people.

One of the earliest and most influential works in this tradition is Of One Blood (1902) by Pauline Hopkins. In this novel, Hopkins imagines a hidden, advanced society named Telassar, a powerful Black civilization more technologically advanced and culturally rich than Western nations. This vision of a prosperous Black society stands in sharp contrast to the racial hierarchies of her time.

George Schuyler’s Black Empire (serialized between 1936 and 1938) also depicts a powerful, technologically advanced Black nation rising to challenge oppressive systems of white supremacy. Schuyler, a prominent journalist and satirist, uses his work to critique racism while advocating Black unity and self determination. His story imagines Black leaders controlling an empire capable of defeating the global powers of white domination.

Sutton E Griggs’s Imperium in Imperio (1899) adds to this visionary tradition with a plot centered on a secret Black government operating within the United States. Griggs, a Black nationalist and writer, explores themes of Black self governance and the tension between assimilation and resistance. His work anticipates the later Afrofuturist emphasis on Black autonomy and political independence.

These early works laid the foundation for what we now call Afrofuturism, a cultural and artistic movement that combines elements of science fiction, technology, and African diasporic identity.

Authors like Hopkins, Schuyler, and Griggs used

speculative fiction to create visions of thriving, independent Black civilizations that transcended the constraints of their era. Their stories challenged dominant narratives of racial inferiority and imagined futures where Black people harnessed their own technological, cultural, and political power.

While Wakanda has become a global cultural phenomenon, it is important to recognize the deeper historical roots of Afrofuturism and its origins in the work of these early writers. The dream of a thriving, independent Black civilization existed long before the fictional kingdom of Wakanda captured our imaginations. It was, and remains, a vision of empowerment, resistance, and transformation, deeply embedded in the ongoing struggle for Black liberation and identity.

– Dominique Holiday

The. Bloodline Tribune

Long before Marvel introduced the fictional nation of Wakanda, African Americans were already envisioning futuristic African kingdoms and Black utopias. Writers in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, responding to the realities of racial oppression, created speculative narratives of advanced Black civilizations that challenged white supremacy and reimagined the future for Black people.

One of the earliest and most influential works in this tradition is Of One Blood (1902) by Pauline Hopkins. In this novel, Hopkins imagines a hidden, advanced society named Telassar, a powerful Black civilization more technologically advanced and culturally rich than Western nations. This vision of a prosperous Black society stands in sharp contrast to the racial hierarchies of her time.

George Schuyler’s Black Empire (serialized between 1936 and 1938) also depicts a powerful, technologically advanced Black nation rising to challenge oppressive systems of white supremacy. Schuyler, a prominent journalist and satirist, uses his work to critique racism while advocating Black unity and self determination. His story imagines Black leaders controlling an empire capable of defeating the global powers of white domination.

Sutton E Griggs’s Imperium in Imperio (1899) adds to this visionary tradition with a plot centered on a secret Black government operating within the United States. Griggs, a Black nationalist and writer, explores themes of Black self governance and the tension between assimilation and resistance. His work anticipates the later Afrofuturist emphasis on Black autonomy and political independence.

These early works laid the foundation for what we now call Afrofuturism, a cultural and artistic movement that combines elements of science fiction, technology, and African diasporic identity.

Authors like Hopkins, Schuyler, and Griggs used

speculative fiction to create visions of thriving, independent Black civilizations that transcended the constraints of their era. Their stories challenged dominant narratives of racial inferiority and imagined futures where Black people harnessed their own technological, cultural, and political power.

While Wakanda has become a global cultural phenomenon, it is important to recognize the deeper historical roots of Afrofuturism and its origins in the work of these early writers. The dream of a thriving, independent Black civilization existed long before the fictional kingdom of Wakanda captured our imaginations. It was, and remains, a vision of empowerment, resistance, and transformation, deeply embedded in the ongoing struggle for Black liberation and identity.

– Dominique Holiday

The. Bloodline Tribune

Long before Marvel introduced the fictional nation of Wakanda, African Americans were already envisioning futuristic African kingdoms and Black utopias. Writers in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, responding to the realities of racial oppression, created speculative narratives of advanced Black civilizations that challenged white supremacy and reimagined the future for Black people.

One of the earliest and most influential works in this tradition is Of One Blood (1902) by Pauline Hopkins. In this novel, Hopkins imagines a hidden, advanced society named Telassar, a powerful Black civilization more technologically advanced and culturally rich than Western nations. This vision of a prosperous Black society stands in sharp contrast to the racial hierarchies of her time.

George Schuyler’s Black Empire (serialized between 1936 and 1938) also depicts a powerful, technologically advanced Black nation rising to challenge oppressive systems of white supremacy. Schuyler, a prominent journalist and satirist, uses his work to critique racism while advocating Black unity and self determination. His story imagines Black leaders controlling an empire capable of defeating the global powers of white domination.

Sutton E Griggs’s Imperium in Imperio (1899) adds to this visionary tradition with a plot centered on a secret Black government operating within the United States. Griggs, a Black nationalist and writer, explores themes of Black self governance and the tension between assimilation and resistance. His work anticipates the later Afrofuturist emphasis on Black autonomy and political independence.

These early works laid the foundation for what we now call Afrofuturism, a cultural and artistic movement that combines elements of science fiction, technology, and African diasporic identity.

Authors like Hopkins, Schuyler, and Griggs used

speculative fiction to create visions of thriving, independent Black civilizations that transcended the constraints of their era. Their stories challenged dominant narratives of racial inferiority and imagined futures where Black people harnessed their own technological, cultural, and political power.

While Wakanda has become a global cultural phenomenon, it is important to recognize the deeper historical roots of Afrofuturism and its origins in the work of these early writers. The dream of a thriving, independent Black civilization existed long before the fictional kingdom of Wakanda captured our imaginations. It was, and remains, a vision of empowerment, resistance, and transformation, deeply embedded in the ongoing struggle for Black liberation and identity.

– Dominique Holiday

The. Bloodline Tribune

Race and gender are deeply intertwined parts of identity that shape how we are perceived, especially after a violent attack. They affect how we move through the world and how others decide who looks like a victim and who looks like a threat.

In a critical self defense situation, those identity markers can influence whether we are treated fairly or judged through bias. The people assessing us after the fact, law enforcement, media, judges, prosecutors, juries, often do not share our lived experience.

For Black and Brown people, race becomes a compounding factor that increases scrutiny and suspicion. In violent situations, we are more likely to be seen as the aggressor, even when we are under attack. Racial stereotypes that associate Blackness with danger or violence still shape reactions. That bias, rooted in centuries of systemic racism, can lead to disproportionate police responses, wrongful arrests, and harsher legal outcomes.

The truth is that the stakes are higher for us. Preparation has to be mental, physical, emotional, and legal. It is not enough to survive the attack. We have to survive what comes next.

Part of that preparation is understanding what happens inside the body during a defensive shooting or any life threatening encounter. Think about how your body reacts when you are startled, exhausted, or afraid. If you have ever been in a car accident or a fight, you have tasted your nervous system flipping into fight or flight. When survival mode kicks in, your body leans on familiar movements, thoughts, and habits.

Your body does its job. It redirects energy to vital muscles and organs, increases pain tolerance, and boosts short term endurance. But that automatic reaction can also limit your ability to process complex scenarios or think about long term consequences in the moment.

That is why training matters. Training is not just mastering technique. It is teaching your body how to respond under stress. It is building muscle memory for decision making.

One principle I stand on is this. Any time you are forced to present or pull your weapon, you should be the person who reports it to the police.

A painful example of what happens when that does not occur comes from a Black political organizer in Michigan. She was harassed and threatened by a non Black person. Fearing for her life, she retrieved her unloaded, legally owned firearm and presented it in an attempt to de escalate. She survived and ended the threat without taking a life. But the true aggressor called the police first.

She was later arrested, charged, and convicted, even though her actions were defensive. Law enforcement and prosecutors built their case around the attacker’s version of events, which painted her as the aggressor. Because she did not establish her own defensive narrative first, the legal system never truly accounted for her side, which likely fit under self defense law.

That case is a warning. When you let someone else control the narrative, you give up your chance to frame what happened.

Preparing your mind and body is one part. Just as important is knowing how to handle the aftermath, especially the 911 call and the first interaction with law enforcement.

In the immediate aftermath of a defensive shooting, your job is to be clearly seen as the victim who acted in self defense. You want to make things as easy to interpret as possible and avoid appearing like the aggressor. Clarity is everything. Any confusion can be misread, and those misreadings can follow you into court.

When you call 911, your primary goal is to protect yourself. Share critical information, your location, that you were attacked, and that you need immediate assistance. You do not need to tell the whole story on the phone. Do not exaggerate. To the best of your ability, keep your voice as calm as possible, even if your body is shaking.

When officers arrive, do not assume they know who is victim and who is perpetrator. They may be arriving to chaos and will treat everyone as a possible threat. Stay composed. Keep your hands visible. Avoid sudden movements. Remember that they are assessing danger in real time and you do not want to be misread.

When they ask what happened, keep it simple, you were attacked and you acted in self defense. Avoid going into detail. Those specifics belong in a statement you give after speaking with your lawyer.

Officers may press for more information. Stay respectful, but consider using your right to remain silent. You can say that you will provide a full statement after you have spoken with your attorney.

Anything you say in those early minutes can be used against you later, even if you are trying to be helpful.

Posture matters. How you show up in those first moments can influence how law enforcement, prosecutors, and even the public interpret your actions. The goal is not just to survive the encounter, but to make sure your rights are respected and that you are not unfairly criminalized for protecting yourself.

Training, knowing your rights, and having a plan for the attack and the aftermath are all part of responsible gun ownership, especially for Black folks. I strongly recommend working with a qualified instructor, having firearms legal protection in place, and connecting with a community of people who take this seriously.

Protecting the Black tradition of arms is an honor.

But it demands heightened awareness and mindfulness. We understand the dynamics and potential consequences of using deadly force, the good, the bad, and the ugly. As responsible gun owners, we think about both the attack and the aftermath.

Yessica Jessica

“Sister… you have been on my mind. Oh, Sister, we are two of a kind…”

I am probably showing my age with that song snippet, and I am fine with that. With this age comes a little wisdom from some bumps, bruises, tears, and definitely some triumphs. I do not mind showing my age if I can show a little wisdom too.

On the internet, I see our Queens showing no love to each other, or worse, spewing hate. Are we ok. Why are we so mad at each other. Where is the love, and why does the hate feel so loud.

Do not believe the hype, though. It is more of us who love each other than hate each other. The internet just has a way of magnifying the heat.

I often ponder this as I scroll. Sometimes I feel the urge to say something myself that is not so loving.

Then I pause. It feels like something pulls inside me. I ask, “Why were you about to do that.” And I have to admit, it usually shows up when I am unhappy.

We all have unhappy times. What we do during those times matters most. My misery has never loved company, but when you add social media to the mix, you can easily find yourself looking for company in your misery.

The beautiful thing about life is that as long as we are alive, we can learn, grow, and do better. Girl power is a thing. But Black girl magic. That is necessary. That is ancestral.

One of the first things we have to do is heal. Heal from old trauma, old relationships, old addictions, old mistakes. We have to forgive ourselves and give ourselves the same grace we give everyone else. We are often the least appreciated, least supported, and least protected. We cannot be part of the problem; we have to be part of the solution.

Next, we must check ourselves. This is the hard part. There is an old song that says, “Check yourself before you wreck yourself.” The ability to do that is a superpower. Checking ourselves keeps someone else from having to do it. It gives us pause before we say or do the wrong thing. Every Black Queen needs that superpower.

Our power is also in our unity. In our love, compassion, and empathy for each other. We should be lifting each other, motivating each other toward greatness, supporting each other’s dreams and hopes, helping each other face fears and obstacles.

The world around us hates us enough. We cannot afford to hate each other. There was a time when the pride of being a Black woman overrode petty things. When we raised our fists together and said Black power and all power to the people.

That spirit is still in us. Deep in our souls, entrenched in our bones. It is why we know how to season food without a cookbook. Why we know how to heal ourselves with herbs. Why our hips move to their own rhythm that still lands on beat.

Start inside your own home. If you have girls in your house, build them up and lift them up. Be everything you needed. Then extend that love to your community. When you see your sister, say hello and ask how she is doing. If she looks like she is struggling, offer support, even if it is just encouraging words. Help our elders, our mothers, our young sisters trying to carve out their piece of the dream.

Our nation is only as strong as we are. We raise the future. We have to lead with love so our nation can rise strong and lasting.

Take a vow with me: when it comes to our fellow sisters, we pick up the mantra, “I have my sister’s back.”

Together we are stronger. Together we are powerful.

Together we create our future. We have purpose. We are needed. We are loved. We are necessary.

Stay encouraged.

Sister… I got your back.

— Jay Rene

“Sister… you have been on my mind. Oh, Sister, we are two of a kind…”

I am probably showing my age with that song snippet, and I am fine with that. With this age comes a little wisdom from some bumps, bruises, tears, and definitely some triumphs. I do not mind showing my age if I can show a little wisdom too.

On the internet, I see our Queens showing no love to each other, or worse, spewing hate. Are we ok. Why are we so mad at each other. Where is the love, and why does the hate feel so loud.

Do not believe the hype, though. It is more of us who love each other than hate each other. The internet just has a way of magnifying the heat.

I often ponder this as I scroll. Sometimes I feel the urge to say something myself that is not so loving.

Then I pause. It feels like something pulls inside me. I ask, “Why were you about to do that.” And I have to admit, it usually shows up when I am unhappy.

We all have unhappy times. What we do during those times matters most. My misery has never loved company, but when you add social media to the mix, you can easily find yourself looking for company in your misery.

The beautiful thing about life is that as long as we are alive, we can learn, grow, and do better. Girl power is a thing. But Black girl magic. That is necessary. That is ancestral.

One of the first things we have to do is heal. Heal from old trauma, old relationships, old addictions, old mistakes. We have to forgive ourselves and give ourselves the same grace we give everyone else. We are often the least appreciated, least supported, and least protected. We cannot be part of the problem; we have to be part of the solution.

Next, we must check ourselves. This is the hard part. There is an old song that says, “Check yourself before you wreck yourself.” The ability to do that is a superpower. Checking ourselves keeps someone else from having to do it. It gives us pause before we say or do the wrong thing. Every Black Queen needs that superpower.

Our power is also in our unity. In our love, compassion, and empathy for each other. We should be lifting each other, motivating each other toward greatness, supporting each other’s dreams and hopes, helping each other face fears and obstacles.

The world around us hates us enough. We cannot afford to hate each other. There was a time when the pride of being a Black woman overrode petty things. When we raised our fists together and said Black power and all power to the people.

That spirit is still in us. Deep in our souls, entrenched in our bones. It is why we know how to season food without a cookbook. Why we know how to heal ourselves with herbs. Why our hips move to their own rhythm that still lands on beat.

Start inside your own home. If you have girls in your house, build them up and lift them up. Be everything you needed. Then extend that love to your community. When you see your sister, say hello and ask how she is doing. If she looks like she is struggling, offer support, even if it is just encouraging words. Help our elders, our mothers, our young sisters trying to carve out their piece of the dream.

Our nation is only as strong as we are. We raise the future. We have to lead with love so our nation can rise strong and lasting.

Take a vow with me: when it comes to our fellow sisters, we pick up the mantra, “I have my sister’s back.”

Together we are stronger. Together we are powerful.

Together we create our future. We have purpose. We are needed. We are loved. We are necessary.

Stay encouraged.

Sister… I got your back.

— Jay Rene

When the grandmas disappear, where does that leave our youth.

Our diaspora has leaned on the backs of Black grandmothers until the spine has broken. Few will have the luxury I had growing up, with a grandmother’s love and direction to center you before entering the chaos of the world. This was more than the best home cooked meals you could experience. She was love in loveless places, courage in moments of fear, and faith in all things hoped for.

What she was not was a full time daycare center, a financial dependency when we lived beyond our means, or a savior. We were supposed to grow up and save ourselves.

When the Black father began to vanish from the home, leadership and order naturally fell to the elder. Under harsh pretenses, the grandmother was forced into the role of leader rather than nurturer, a burden many still carry today. When the roles are reversed, grandma loses time to give life lessons and reassurance. She is too busy trying to save the world, trying to protect, trying to provide, ultimately trying to survive.

We are all guilty in the abuse of a power structure that once kept our tribe sacred. Now we are left in an insoluble predicament. Our youth today have no grandmothers. Lineage wise, maybe, but not consciousness wise. Neighborhoods have turned into battlefields where blood spills more frequently by our own hands than by oppressive ones. Boys learn to pick up a gun before they are taught how to be men. Mothers raise sons alone because their fathers failed the mission themselves. For too long, we tried to use grandma as a crutch to keep order and stability. But when elders age, duties must be passed and responsibility must be taken.

So can we be honest. What is the solution now that the essence of the grandmother is disappearing. Grandmothers are becoming younger and younger. Many want to finally live their own lives once their children are “grown.” That leaves our streets polluted with unhealed youth missing a grandmother’s love.

We all owe grandma an apology. Black men must protect and guard the few grandmothers who remain. And we, as a collective, must reinstate practices and restore order that allow grandmothers to exist in their natural role. Otherwise, our youth will continue to spill blood that never had to be shed.

What has been your own experience with grandmothers in your family or community, and what do you think it would actually look like to restore that role without putting the whole world back on their shoulders again.