I woke up this morning feeling hopeful for the first time in a long time. I had an appointment scheduled with Dr. Washington, the doctor who had delivered my children. It had been years since I’d last seen him—since insurance companies started controlling who we could and couldn’t see, forcing me into an endless cycle of unfamiliar doctors who barely knew my name. Dr. Washington wasn’t just any doctor. He was someone I trusted. Someone who had been a part of my life’s most significant moments.
But as I thought about what I wanted to say to him, something inside me broke. I wanted to tell him how I was feeling—but how do you even begin to explain something like this?
"I am so unhappy. Not because of my life, but because of this world. Because no matter what I say, I am being labeled something I am not. Because I am being told I am racist, not because of anything I have done, but because of my skin. Because I am being told I am immoral, not because of my actions, but because I dare to question the way things are. Because I ask, ‘Is this system really helping people?’ and instead of being answered, I am silenced."
I thought about Dr. Washington himself. He was never my "Black doctor." He was just my doctor. My stepmom’s boss, a strong, successful woman, was never her "Black boss." She was simply a leader, someone she respected. A woman that would become her best friend.
Race wasn’t something that had dictated my experiences growing up. The people around me existed as individuals, as people with stories, struggles, and successes. So when did that change? When did we start believing that identity matters more than ideas?
I keep asking myself—when did this start?
The Day They Told Me Who I Was
I think back to the first moment I felt the shift—the day I walked into my Cultural Diversity class in grad school. I remember sitting at my desk, expecting to have meaningful discussions, expecting to learn. But instead, I opened my textbook and read something that shook me.
"If you are white, you are racist."
Not because of your actions. Not because of what you believe. But simply because you exist.
And then came the second part—if a Black person succeeds or should suggest the textbooks are wrong, it is not because of their intelligence, their drive, or their ability. It is because they were forced to conform to whiteness.
I stared at those words, stunned. That’s not true, I thought. That’s not what I’ve seen. That’s not my experience.
I thought about Dr. Washington. Was his success not his own? Was his intelligence, his care, his work not real? I thought about my stepmom’s boss. Had she not earned her leadership? Had her accomplishments been reduced to nothing more than survival within a system that supposedly oppressed her?
I raised my hand. I challenged it.
"I don’t see people that way. I don’t judge people by race. I see them for their choices, for their work, for their character."
It didn’t matter.
The professor told me I didn’t get to decide that. The textbook had already decided for me.
My experiences didn’t matter. My reality didn’t matter.
That was the moment I realized something terrifying.
I was not allowed to define myself.
Someone else had already written my story for me.
When Politics Became the way of Division
I remember a time when politics were about ideas. You could disagree, debate, argue—but at the end of the day, you were still people.
Then Obama ran for president. And suddenly, questioning him wasn’t about policy.
It was about race.
People asked simple, valid questions. Who is this man? Where did he come from? What does he stand for?
But if you asked those questions out loud, you were met with accusations: "Oh, so you don’t like him because he’s Black?"
It wasn’t about policy anymore. It was about morality.
You were either with him, or you were a racist.
That’s when people started shutting up.
That’s when people started nodding along, staying silent, avoiding the fight—because what else could they do?
We watched as people who had real concerns—about healthcare, about the economy, about education—were dismissed.
I remember thinking, "If we can’t even have these conversations, how do we fix anything?"
But no one was listening.
When Obamacare Wasn’t What I Expected
I remember being so excited about Obamacare.
I was poor. I had no insurance. My children were on Medicaid, but I wasn’t eligible. I had to quit my job to homeschool my son because the school system was failing him and the doctors wanted to take him out of my care and institutionalize him.
I remember thinking, "Finally, I’ll have coverage. Finally, I’ll be able to see a doctor when I need to."
Then I found out the truth.
I wasn’t given free healthcare. I was given a $50 monthly premium and a $10,000 deductible. Nothing but a wellness visit was covered until I paid that deductible out of pocket.
I couldn’t afford it.
And when I said so? When I voiced my frustration?
I was once again told that it must be because I was racist.
Because if you didn’t praise Obama’s policies, that must have been the reason.
It couldn’t possibly be because his policy failed me, just like it failed so many others?
Why People Voted for Trump (And Why They Still Don’t Get It)
They wonder—how could so many people vote for Trump?
"How could anyone support a man like him?"
"How could anyone believe in his leadership?"
"How could anyone not see that he is evil?"
And here’s the answer: Because they silenced us.
For years, they told us we couldn’t speak.
For years, they mocked us, insulted us, erased us.
For years, they forced people to nod along with things they didn’t believe in.
And when someone finally came along and said, "No more. This is broken. We are tearing it down."—People latched on to it.
Not because they were immoral.
Not because they were racist.
But because they had spent years being told they didn’t deserve to have a voice.
And still—even now—they refuse to understand.
Instead of asking, "Why did so many people feel this way?"—they doubled down.
Instead of listening, they screamed louder.
Instead of saying, "Maybe we lost their trust,"—they called them names.
They refuse to see the people who have been hurt by these broken systems.
They refuse to acknowledge the voices that have been silenced.
And they wonder why people fought back.
The Breaking Point
I don’t know how we fix this.
But I do know this: They pushed too far.
And now, they’re angry because people are fighting back and finally speaking out.
But maybe, just maybe, if they had let us speak in the first place, we wouldn’t have had to fight at all.
Disclaimer & Final Thoughts
I want to be clear—I am not denying that racism has existed, nor am I saying that there aren’t still people out there filled with hate. There will always be bad apples, as there have been throughout history. But we were making progress. Society was evolving. People were learning, growing, coming together. And then, something changed.
Now, people are feeling attacked and defensive. Anytime someone questions a system, a policy, or a law, they are met with accusations instead of discussion. If you challenge a political decision, suddenly it’s because you don’t like women, Black people, people of color, or the LGBTQ+ community. Instead of debating ideas, they assume your motives. Instead of hearing the concerns, they turn on you.
That is what is so frustrating. That is the division I am fighting. Not the idea that racism has never existed, not the idea that discrimination isn’t real, but the way disagreement itself has now been twisted into something hateful. It’s not us who are drenched in racism, sexism, and prejudice—we are just trying to question the things that are not working as a whole.
If they would stop fighting, stop attacking, and actually listen, maybe they would see that the frustration isn’t about who put the law into place, but about whether or not it’s working. Maybe they would see that questioning a broken system doesn’t mean we hate the people who created it—it means we want something better.
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