The Burden of Silence: Why we Should Let Freedom Ring.

"No one asked anyone to be perfect. We asking people to be honest."

Dave Chapelle

When examining racism as a systemic tool, it becomes clear that society as a whole bears responsibility for how the system functions and how we move within it. Black people in America—marginalized for centuries by this very system—are faced with a painful and complex truth: we are, in many ways, willing participants in the structure that seeks to suffocate us. But how are we participants?

We participate when we silently occupy spaces with people who slight our identities. Docile and meek, we remain silent when those with no true cultural insight say something racially loaded. You know—the kind of comment that triggers your internal dialogue, asking, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”—yet those thoughts remain unspoken.

When we placate these biases in our daily lives and never, ever take on the mission of addressing them—or removing ourselves from those spaces—we add to the pulse of this age-old tool called racism.

The toll of this silent burden wears on our psyche. To be quite honest, the entire nation, as a collective, is suffering from the effects of its cognitive dissonance. A dissonance that has manifested into the growing mental illness we see across the board. We minimize the importance of addressing the irrational nature of bigotry. And here, we drop the ball—just to chain our own minds.

For the act of slavery is more psychological than anything else. It is an attack on the thinking of men. In fact, in order for it to thrive, people must submit to the abuse.

The cost of silence is heavy. As Lupe Fiasco put it, “As I drown in my regret, I can’t take back the words I never said.” Swallowing our dignity to “keep the peace” is submitting to the psychological war tactics used to enslave humans. The limitations we place on ourselves—when we don’t exercise our so-called “freedom of speech”—keep us trapped in a prison of our own thoughts. We can’t fully experience those liberties when we censor our truth to make others comfortable in the poison of their ignorance. No one who is truly free will suffer the impact of another’s ignorance without speaking up for themselves. Why should any free person suffer from the limitations of someone else’s inability to honor their identity in shared space? Any truly free being would address those matters. For freed men speak freely.

Our submission to these mentally abusive societal norms is painted clearly by our collective silence when faced with macro issues on a micro scale. Our silent trade-off is our acceptance of psychological attack. The effects of this warfare undoubtedly manifest physically. It might explain the high rates of hypertension in Black and Brown communities. What are these racially laced social practices doing to our spirits—and to our nervous systems?

We are swallowing shit, and it is affecting us.

My choice of words isn’t more repulsive than the act we keep committing—compromising our humanity just to get by. It’s that deep, and that serious. A raw act—vulgar and hard to digest. We invest in the disrespect the same way we ingest fast food: quickly, in the moment, with little thought. But when we slow down, when we begin to truly process what’s happening, the ugly truth is difficult to digest.

We’ve been trained to stomach the disrespect. At every corner, every intersection, we are met with moments that challenge our humanity. They question our pulse. And we wonder, “Are they dead ass right now?”

Not only do we suppress our concerns by limiting our speech, we further disrespect ourselves by continuing to occupy those same spaces—because we believe we can’t do without them. The compromise of the hustler. The nation of hustlers who:

“Run this hard just to stay in placeKeep up the pace, babyKeep up the paceYou run this hard just to stay in place”

We are running so hard just to maintain the comforts of our current servitude. Slavery feels more certain than the possibilities that await us in the unknown. So, we comply. Internally, we feel powerless—conditioned to believe we cannot do without. Thinking in terms of flesh, we fold—and fold quickly. We’ve been trained to tolerate abuse, believing we will lose everything if we walk away. So, rather than break every chain, we lock ourselves in, compromising our humanity. Where is the God in that?

We are not powerless.

We are so powerful—yet we neglect that power. “We are not our ancestors” is a common saying today. Many who say it mean, “We’re not taking all that shit.” Yet I challenge you, boldly, on a world stage: bullshit.

We are not our ancestors indeed—we are far more fearful than they were. Too spooked by our own shadows to speak up. Mind you, our ancestors had real monsters at their doorsteps—in hoods. And yet, they pushed on. Somehow, they did more with less.

Unlike those before us, who had to run fast to fight, our fight is less taxing. All we have to do is slow the fuck down—and fix it. We have the world at our fingertips. Yet so many of us are too cool to be seen trying.

We are not our ancestors, alright—they knew they could be self-sufficient if given the chance.

The movers and shakers of the past: women who sold plates and made their own way; kitchen hairdressers and neighborhood mechanics; janitors who kept our public spaces clean; the Maroons who fled to the wilderness rather than accept bondage. That’s a network of hustlers. They risked everything—deciding they had nothing of value to lose. They said, “F**k this.”

We, on the other hand, are so deeply tied to comfort, to self-interest, to our paychecks and fears, that we hold onto what our ancestors would’ve gladly burned to the ground.

Our fear. That word holds the story of our collective oppression. A fear fed by materialism. So much materialism that we neglect the spirit of men. Have they robbed us of our spirit? Our skill? Our dignity? Our collective pulse?

Yes, more than one thing can be true at once—yet we still comply.

The demons of our self-interest ensnare us in our own minds, creating narratives that doom us—hopeless as “a penny with a hole in it.” We never stand up where it matters. We grant permission to oppressive forces to navigate the troubled waters of society.

That’s how we fuel this system—our silence in daily life.Our silence is permission.The oil that keeps the machine burning.

However, I digress.

But before I close, ask yourself this:

Are you an activist in your daily life?Not just on social media.Not just during elections.

Are you vocal where it matters?In meetings.In classrooms.In break rooms.

In front of the face of the system.

Silence is a choice—one with many consequences.Consequences that prove dangerous to everyone in the long run.

What would happen if we lifted every voice?

It doesn’t have to be loud.But it must be lifted to be brave.

Asé.