Black America is in an abusive
marriage.
And sorry, we’re not talking about
a
rough patch. We’re talking broken
ribs,
broken promises, gaslighting,
ghosting,
and a history of “accidents” that
somehow always involve our bodies,
our
communities, and our constitutional
rights being in the wrong place at
the
wrong time.
Please, let me be sharp and blunt:
we
need a divorce.
This isn’t a marriage - it’s a
hostage
situation with a national anthem.
The
Disunited
States of America is long
past
counseling. We’ve already tried
everything:
forgiveness,
patience,
integration,
coalitions, marches,
protests,
ballots, bloodshed, moral
appeals,
economic boycotts, policy
memos
- and
yes,
we even gave y’all
Obama,
the “Hail Mary” of racial
reconciliation.
Hell,
we
even played nice during a global
plague.
Wore the masks. Washed our
hands.
Watched our elders die alone. And
in
return? We got coughing patriots
storming
state capitols, maskless
freedom
crusaders spitting in grocery
stores,
and the same essential workers
(us)
labeled
expendable once again.
Black
folks died at double the rate, but
Karen
couldn’t be bothered to put on a
mask
because it “felt like tyranny.” That’s
not
public health - that’s ritual sacrifice.
We
gave America cooperation. It gave us
surveillance,
more police funding, and
another
summer of white folks calling the
cops
on us for walking while melanated...
masked
or unmasked.
Let’s
not
sugarcoat this any longer. If
Black
America is the wife, then White
America
is the husband who keeps
“accidentally”
punching holes in the wall,
swearing
he’s changed, then blaming you
for
making him mad when the drywall
cracks
again.
It was arranged - by force, by
purchase,
by human trafficking under the name
of
economic necessity. And like most
hostage situations, it came with
rules:
don’t look them in the eye, don’t
raise
your voice, don’t ask for too much,
and
don’t expect the law to apply to
you the
way it applies to them.
Black folks are the 14-year-old
girl
locked in the basement for 400
years,
fed scraps and patriotic slogans,
and
then blamed for not smiling in the
Christmas card. The only difference
is
that instead of a sick uncle, the
captor
wears a red tie, drives a Ford
F-150, and
lectures you about “pulling
yourself up”
while standing on your neck.
And
here’s
the kicker: White America has
the
nerve to plead amnesia.
“We
didn’t know!”
“That was a long time ago!”
“I
wasn’t
there!”
“We gave y’all Beyoncé!”
This
is
the spiritual equivalent of your
spouse
forgetting your birthday and our
name,
while insisting they’ve always
treated
you right.
America didn’t forget. It just
pretends to.
Denial is policy. Gaslighting is
tradition.
ICE didn’t materialize out of thin
air. It is
Bull Connor in a crisp federal polo
shirt.
Same DNA, new branding. The LAPD
that
pulverized Rodney King didn’t
retire -
they rebranded into task forces and
predictive policing. The NYPD that
sodomized Abner Louima with a
broomstick? They just swapped the
broom for a data analyst and called
it
“community engagement.”
The
slave
catcher didn’t disappear. He
just
got a pension, a badge, and a
GoFundMe
when
he
shoots an unarmed
Black
man.
And for those who insist we stay
and
“work on things”? Please. You don’t
negotiate with someone who keeps
calling you a threat for merely
existing.
Which
brings
us to the phrase of the
hour:
Irreconcilable
differences.
It’s the most commonly cited reason
for
no-fault divorce. It means: “We’re
done.
This can’t be fixed. We’ve grown
apart -
or more truthfully, we were never
actually growing together.”
No-fault, but not no-pain.
Now
usually,
“irreconcilable differences”
means
stuff like finances,
communication,
and mismatched goals.
But
in this marriage, the irreconcilable
part
is simple: One
side
wants truth,
justice,
and healing. The other side
wants
plausible
deniability and property
values.
It’s
not
that we don’t speak the same
language
- it’s that we’re living on
different planets, and one of them
is
hurling
asteroids.
In
2026,
the atrocities aren’t just
repeating
- they’re upgrading. Dig this,
Negro-sympathizers,
because
that’s how
MAGA
world
regards them, Renee Good,
headshot
by ICE agents, executed on
camera,
labeled a “domestic terrorist”
before
the blood dried. And, Alex Pretti,
gunned
down in the street, shot over ten
times,
some
in the back - by federal
agents
who apparently mistook justice
for
a drive-by. Minneapolis looks like
apartheid
with better architecture. And
somehow,
Black America’s husband is
telling
everyone
to “wait for the facts.”
What facts? Our husband is at war
with
the world.
The
fact
is: this marriage was built on a
lie.
A lie that said liberty and slavery
could
coexist.
A lie that said “justice for
all”
would eventually include us, if we
were
polite enough. A lie that said we
were citizens while treating
us like
property. A lie that said
progress was
real
because we got Oprah and a few TV
judges.
We didn’t fall out of love. We fell
out of
patience.
And
now
America’s children - our
children
- are growing up in a home
where
the abuse is livestreamed, the
gaslighting
is policy, and the same
people
who beat you last week are at
your
door asking to see your ID this
week.
You don’t raise kids in a house
like that.
You get out.
Now,
let’s
be clear: this divorce doesn’t
have
to be geographic. We’re not saying
load
up the U-Haul and move to
Wakanda.
But mentally? Emotionally?
Politically?
Economically? We are done
begging
to be loved right.
We are done being the ones who have
to
“fix” this union.
We are done whispering our pain to
protect their comfort.
We are done praying that people who
brought chains will one day bring
change.
Because if America were a person,
they’d
be in therapy right now, sobbing
into a
flag and blaming their racism on
bad
parenting.
But we’ve been America’s unpaid
therapist long enough.
Now we need space.
We need distance.
We need a break from the denial,
the
betrayal, the endless loops of
“We’re
better now!” while we bury another
name, hold another vigil, march
another
block.
We don’t want an apology.
We want autonomy.
We want ownership. Of our culture,
our
safety, our narrative, our damn
time.
And if White America still wants to
play
dumb about what went wrong, that’s
fine. We’ll leave the keys on the
table
and keep the grill. You never
seasoned
the steaks right anyway. Didn’t put
garlic
and onion powder on the bacon….and
those are just a few of the little
things.
So
file
the papers. Tell the kids. We’ll
explain
it honestly: It
wasn’t
you, baby.
It
was America.
And trust me: we’ll be better off
living
apart.
