The Fire This Time: Why Black Voters Are Sitting This One Out

We've carried democracy long enough. Don't expect us to keep saving it if it won't save us.

Before you read this, I ask one thing: come with an open mind.

Not defensively. Not politically. Just honestly.

You don’t have to agree with every word. But sit with it. Hear what’s being said—not just the pain, but the patience. Not just the frustration, but the history behind it. The hope that still flickers beneath the exhaustion.

Because you might have noticed something at the recent rallies against Donald Trump and Elon Musk—something that stood out precisely because of its absence.

Or maybe you didn’t notice. That’s the point.

The crowds were big, the signs were bold, the outrage was loud. But Black folks? We weren’t there in large numbers. And maybe it’s time we talked honestly about why.

Because we’re tired.

Tired of always being expected to show up. To vote like our lives depend on it—because they do. Tired of carrying the burden of democracy on our backs while others vote their wallets, their privilege, their fear. Tired of being called heroes every four years and ghosts in between.

Black voters have been the firewall, the conscience, the soul of this nation. We’ve saved democracy from itself more times than history dares to count. But lately, there’s a quiet resistance growing—not against the issues, but against the expectation that we’ll always be there, unquestioning, when the alarm bells ring.

Because here’s the truth: too often, when it comes time to cash in on the promises made during election season, we’re left holding nothing but slogans and broken trust.

Let’s talk DEI—Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. It was sold to the public as a tool to address historical injustice. But who’s really benefiting from it? Not Black folks. Not in proportion to the pain we’ve endured. The biggest recipients of DEI programs and affirmative action have historically been white women. Then others: Asian Americans, Latinos, members of the LGBTQ+ community. And in some spaces, even white men who manage to position themselves as “diverse” by proximity or identity politics. Meanwhile, Black people—especially Black women—are still fighting just to be seen, heard, and paid what they’re worth.

And now, somehow, DEI itself has become a dirty word. Affirmative action, a slur. What was once held up as a pathway toward justice is now used as a punchline or political weapon. And one of the twisted justifications for this backlash? The movement that rose up after George Floyd.

Yes, people marched. Yes, they put signs in their windows and posted black squares on Instagram. But instead of digging deeper into the root causes of that moment—the systems, the policies, the culture that allowed it—America got uncomfortable, then resentful. That discomfort turned into backlash. Companies quietly dropped their commitments. Politicians changed the subject. And just like that, equity became a threat.

And while we’re naming truths, here’s another: when this country had a choice between a twice-impeached, now convicted felon—who was found liable for sexual abuse—and a Black woman who warned us of the economic disaster we’re now living through, white America made its choice. The majority of white men, and yes, white women too, chose Trump.

They chose chaos over competence. Chose grievance over growth. They dismissed a qualified, clear-eyed Black woman who saw the storm coming—and now we’re all standing in the wreckage she tried to prevent. A recession is looming, prices are surging, and still, no one wants to admit she was right.

But somehow, we’re the ones expected to fix it. Again.

Then there’s the selective outrage.

When Hamas attacked Israel on October 7, there was global grief—and rightfully so. But soon after, some in the Jewish community turned their focus not on the perpetrators, but on Black public figures like Oprah Winfrey and Michelle Obama. They wanted statements. Outrage. Condemnation. As if these women—who have spent their lives being symbols, role models, and punching bags—were now obligated to speak on command. As if their silence was somehow more offensive than the suffering itself.

And they weren’t alone. Beyoncé. LeBron James. Even Meghan Markle—people who are constantly under a microscope—were expected to drop everything and respond, immediately and correctly, or risk being labeled complicit.

But where was that same energy when Black mothers in Mississippi were forced to give their children bottled water to bathe in? When lawmakers in Tennessee expelled two young Black legislators for raising their voices on gun violence? When books about our history were stripped from classroom shelves in red states—and blue ones, too?

We are always expected to perform empathy, to show up for everyone else’s pain, while our own trauma is constantly minimized or ignored.

We’ve always stood up for our brothers and sisters across communities—across oceans—because that’s who we are. That’s who we’ve had to be.

But standing for you is not the same as standing with you. And right now, after the choices so many of you have made—not just in the distant past, but in the recent, very present moment—that solidarity feels like a one-way street.

So when the outrage machine gears up against Elon Musk and Donald Trump—two billionaires with more in common than either side wants to admit—Black folks are asking: Where were you when we needed you? When voting rights were gutted? When police reform stalled? When the promises made to us turned to dust?

This isn’t apathy. It’s strategy. It’s a refusal to be used. It’s a declaration: We will not keep setting ourselves on fire to keep this country warm while others roast marshmallows on the flames.

We know the stakes. We’ve always known.

But don’t expect us to keep saving democracy if democracy won’t save us

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