In childhood, I was taught the importance of seeing Black faces in government positions and political power. At school, I learned how integral specific Black political leaders were to the Black Revolution—especially during the Reconstruction era and the Civil Rights Movement. I understood from a young age that the presence of Black faces in political institutions was necessary for community advancement.
I still remember learning about Hiram Revels, who in 1870 became the first Black elected official to serve in Congress. This was shortly after slavery was abolished, and Revels’ presence in U.S. politics was a watershed moment for Black American communities.
Our presence in these institutions that sought to exclude us did indeed make a difference. Now, even after witnessing the election of a Black president in 2008 and seeing more and more Black people in spaces of political power and privilege, I’m not so sure.
When Barack Obama became president in 2008, I remember the joy felt across my community and this understanding that if a Black person could reach the highest level of power in the U.S., change had certainly come.
That was the beginning of a harsh reality check for me. What good is Black political representation in a system meant to maintain the subjugation of marginalized people? What positive change does that representation bring when people with Black faces are complicit in the same oppression and violence that continue to devastate communities like ours?
Communities like Gaza, whose devastation we continue to see every day.
The death toll in Gaza is more than 37,000, and the U.S. has repeatedly vetoed a life-saving ceasefire for the Palestinian people and voted against the effort to recognize Palestinian statehood.
The U.S. has left Palestine and its people in the path of fire and destruction. The world has watched the U.S. ambassadors for the United Nations silently raise their hands to veto ceasefire resolutions. Their silence speaks volumes.
U.N. ambassadors Linda Thomas-Greenfield and Robert A. Wood are Black Americans in high-ranking government positions, two Black Americans who ostensibly represent our ability to overcome a history of slavery, genocide, and racism, the relics of which continue to plague our communities today. They are two Black Americans choosing to subject another group of oppressed people to genocide and displacement, not so different from what our ancestors faced when they were stolen from their lands, slaughtered, and enslaved.
Before you assume otherwise, let me say that I do understand nuance. Yes, Ambassadors Thomas-Greenfield and Wood do carry out Washington’s decisions, and they do not act on their own behalf; they are the voice of the U.S. government. But for me, the question remains: Why are you there? As Black Americans, why are you choosing to work as conduits for colonization, imperialism, and genocide? What does this do for Black people in America right now? Because existing in places of power and privilege does not inherently equate to uplifting and serving the Black community.
Another example is White House Press Secretary Karine Jean-Pierre. The daughter of Haitian immigrants, Jean-Pierre is the first Black and openly gay woman to hold her role in the White House. She is a Black woman I once looked up to—until I began to pay close attention to the way she speaks of Israel’s war on Gaza.
In one press conference, Jean-Pierre could not even acknowledge why Palestinian, Muslim, and Arab organizations rejected meetings with President Joe Biden. I’ve watched Jean-Pierre dismiss journalists’ questions regarding the safety and protection of Palestinians in Gaza. Of course, Jean-Pierre is the White House’s mouthpiece, and we do not know her thoughts on the genocide in Palestine. But again, I ask: Why is she there? What is she willing to co-sign to have proximity to power? What personal excuses are used to justify being complicit in oppression not so different from what our own people face?
How many times will we exempt Black political figures from accountability while holding up their representation as some sort of community good? Do we not realize the harm this does when we uplift Black leaders who merely act as conduits for white supremacy? As a Black woman, I find this hard to accept.
I’ve been on a path of reflection, which has led to many revelations. I wanted to know how many Black politicians I’ve looked up to have hurt our community and marginalized communities abroad.
Take beloved President Obama, for example. The Obama administration oversaw 10 times more drone strikes than the Bush administration, killing nearly 4,000 people in Yemen, Pakistan, and Somalia, including at least 324 civilians.
These realizations hurt me immensely and pushed me to continue reflecting on the why. As Black Americans, why do we look toward these political figures for representation, revolution, and change? Change cannot happen in colonial spaces. Change, revolution, and actual representation are community efforts that must come from within—away from our oppressors.
These efforts cannot be achieved by holding hands with white supremacy.
After all, the Black community is no stranger to self-sustaining practices. A violent white mob may have destroyed Black Wall Street, but acts of community preservation are alive today. In 2021, three Black women purchased land in Georgia to make a Freedom Settlement for Black people that will eventually include support for 19 Black families.
Despite the racial terrorism our community has experienced, we have prevailed, and we are at our most successful when we work together—outside of the institutions that have harmed and oppressed us.
This moment is a lesson for us all when it comes to the myth of representation. True revolution cannot happen in the very places where laws were written to enslave us and strip away our rights. I do not believe true reform or representation occurs when the people who look like us and face our struggles raise their hands to veto life-saving interventions for the Palestinian people.
