In my previous piece, “I Don’t Hate White People,” I explored the complexities of navigating relationships in a world shaped by systemic oppression. The response to that article has been both thought-provoking and deeply personal, with many readers sharing their own reflections and questions. One response in particular, from Ms. Jae, stood out—posing profound questions about the cost of being present, of sharing our genius, and of navigating relationships that may deplete us more than they replenish us.
This follow-up, “What Is the Black Man’s Burden,” seeks to engage her questions while framing them within a broader conversation about identity, responsibility, and relational wholeness. I’ve chosen this title deliberately, fully aware of the sensitivities surrounding gendered language in today’s discourse. Some might argue that “The Black Person’s Burden” or “The Burden of Blackness” would be more inclusive or precise. Yet, I’ve chosen the phrasing intentionally—not to diminish gender sensitivity but to invoke a certain resonance, an old-school cadence that holds its own weight in the cultural imagination.
In using this title, I hope to invite reflection not only on the burden itself but on how language shapes our understanding of it. This piece is not just a continuation of the conversation but also an offering—a space to reckon with what we carry, why we carry it, and how we can transform it into something greater.
Let us begin.
Ms. Jae,
Thank you for your heartfelt question. It’s clear your concern stems from a place of love for our people and a desire to see us thrive. Your reflection invites us into a necessary and challenging dialogue about the nature of our relationships within systems of oppression and how these dynamics impact our souls, creativity, and collective well-being.
You ask, “What if we were lured into their spaces for our genius and soul? And what if this is why we feel so drained and strained in these relationships?” This is a vital question that acknowledges the historical and ongoing reality of extraction—where the infrastructure of whiteness thrives, in part, on the exploitation of Black genius and wholeness.
On Retreat and Wholeness
There is a natural inclination, when faced with systemic harm, to retreat or withdraw. This response mirrors the rhythms of nature, where retreat is often a precursor to renewal—like trees shedding their leaves in winter or bulbs lying dormant underground. Similarly, retreat for us can be a way to regroup, to distinguish ourselves in our essence, and to prepare to reemerge with greater strength and clarity.
However, there is another kind of retreat—a retreat born of weariness and disillusionment—that risks isolating us from the very relational wholeness that could be our healing. In my book, The New Human, I discuss how “there is no act of love that, when withheld, does not result in injury.” Withholding our love and our gifts from the world can inadvertently perpetuate cycles of harm—not only to others but also to ourselves.
On Withholding Love and Increasing Love’s Volume
When we feel tempted to withdraw our love due to the wounds inflicted by oppressive systems, it’s crucial to recognize that this temptation is also a request to “increase Love’s volume.” Rather than diminishing our capacity for love and connection, we are called to amplify it. By doing so, we not only heal ourselves but also challenge and transform the very structures that seek to suppress us.
On Distinction, Not Dilution
The scriptures I grew up with in a Pentecostal context often spoke of being “holy” and “separate.” Over time, I’ve come to understand these calls not as commands to withdraw from the world but as invitations to live in proper relationship to the whole. To “be holy” is to “be whole”—to sanctify and signify ourselves in a way that optimizes our function and allows others to see and respond to us rightly. This is not about hiding our essence or withholding our gifts but about ensuring that our genius remains intact, uncorrupted, and unapologetically present.
Responding to the Infrastructure of Whiteness
It’s important to distinguish between white people and the infrastructure of whiteness. Whiteness as a structure harms not only Black and marginalized people but also white people, distorting their sense of self and relationship to others. When we withhold our genius or respond reactively to this harm, we risk perpetuating cycles of division and injury.
Instead, we are called to respond with clarity, compassion, and transformative love. By increasing the volume of our love, we can be “clean enough, clear enough, pure enough to inoculate the oppressive infrastructure”—as I elaborate in The New Human. This means using the purity of our soul and the genius of our collective gifts to reshape the very structures that seek to exploit us.
Building Toward Collective Genius
If retreat is necessary, let it be purposeful—a time to gather our strength, align our gifts, and build an economy of being where our genius is so profound that it eclipses the supposed wealth and power of whiteness. Our goal is not to live as perpetual victims but to rise as creators of a new reality—one where wholeness, love, and shared humanity define our relationships and economies.
As Black people, we hold the capacity to heal, redeem, and transform the world, but we must first heal ourselves and align our efforts. The challenge is immense, but so is our potential. I speak into these spaces not because it is easy but because it is necessary. And I need a community behind me—one that believes in the power of our collective genius to bring forth a world where we are no longer drained or diminished but replenished and thriving.
This response holds space for your question, affirms your perspective, and expands on it with insight and care. It emphasizes that withholding love results in injury and that increasing love’s volume is a powerful act of transformation—concepts discussed in my book, The New Human. It challenges retreat as a default response while validating the need for purposeful withdrawal when necessary. Finally, it inspires a vision of collective transformation rooted in love, distinction, and the power of Black genius.
What is The Black Man’s Burden?
In my previous piece, “I Don’t Hate White People,” I explored the complexities of navigating relationships in a world shaped by systemic oppression. The response to that article has been both thought-provoking and deeply personal, with many readers sharing their own reflections and questions. One response in particular, from Ms. Jae, stood out—posing profound questions about the cost of being present, of sharing our genius, and of navigating relationships that may deplete us more than they replenish us.
This follow-up, “What Is the Black Man’s Burden,” seeks to engage her questions while framing them within a broader conversation about identity, responsibility, and relational wholeness. I’ve chosen this title deliberately, fully aware of the sensitivities surrounding gendered language in today’s discourse. Some might argue that “The Black Person’s Burden” or “The Burden of Blackness” would be more inclusive or precise. Yet, I’ve chosen the phrasing intentionally—not to diminish gender sensitivity but to invoke a certain resonance, an old-school cadence that holds its own weight in the cultural imagination.
In using this title, I hope to invite reflection not only on the burden itself but on how language shapes our understanding of it. This piece is not just a continuation of the conversation but also an offering—a space to reckon with what we carry, why we carry it, and how we can transform it into something greater.
Let us begin.
Ms. Jae,
Thank you for your heartfelt question. It’s clear your concern stems from a place of love for our people and a desire to see us thrive. Your reflection invites us into a necessary and challenging dialogue about the nature of our relationships within systems of oppression and how these dynamics impact our souls, creativity, and collective well-being.
You ask, “What if we were lured into their spaces for our genius and soul? And what if this is why we feel so drained and strained in these relationships?” This is a vital question that acknowledges the historical and ongoing reality of extraction—where the infrastructure of whiteness thrives, in part, on the exploitation of Black genius and wholeness.
On Retreat and Wholeness
There is a natural inclination, when faced with systemic harm, to retreat or withdraw. This response mirrors the rhythms of nature, where retreat is often a precursor to renewal—like trees shedding their leaves in winter or bulbs lying dormant underground. Similarly, retreat for us can be a way to regroup, to distinguish ourselves in our essence, and to prepare to reemerge with greater strength and clarity.
However, there is another kind of retreat—a retreat born of weariness and disillusionment—that risks isolating us from the very relational wholeness that could be our healing. In my book, The New Human, I discuss how “there is no act of love that, when withheld, does not result in injury.” Withholding our love and our gifts from the world can inadvertently perpetuate cycles of harm—not only to others but also to ourselves.
On Withholding Love and Increasing Love’s Volume
When we feel tempted to withdraw our love due to the wounds inflicted by oppressive systems, it’s crucial to recognize that this temptation is also a request to “increase Love’s volume.” Rather than diminishing our capacity for love and connection, we are called to amplify it. By doing so, we not only heal ourselves but also challenge and transform the very structures that seek to suppress us.
On Distinction, Not Dilution
The scriptures I grew up with in a Pentecostal context often spoke of being “holy” and “separate.” Over time, I’ve come to understand these calls not as commands to withdraw from the world but as invitations to live in proper relationship to the whole. To “be holy” is to “be whole”—to sanctify and signify ourselves in a way that optimizes our function and allows others to see and respond to us rightly. This is not about hiding our essence or withholding our gifts but about ensuring that our genius remains intact, uncorrupted, and unapologetically present.
Responding to the Infrastructure of Whiteness
It’s important to distinguish between white people and the infrastructure of whiteness. Whiteness as a structure harms not only Black and marginalized people but also white people, distorting their sense of self and relationship to others. When we withhold our genius or respond reactively to this harm, we risk perpetuating cycles of division and injury.
Instead, we are called to respond with clarity, compassion, and transformative love. By increasing the volume of our love, we can be “clean enough, clear enough, pure enough to inoculate the oppressive infrastructure”—as I elaborate in The New Human. This means using the purity of our soul and the genius of our collective gifts to reshape the very structures that seek to exploit us.
Building Toward Collective Genius
If retreat is necessary, let it be purposeful—a time to gather our strength, align our gifts, and build an economy of being where our genius is so profound that it eclipses the supposed wealth and power of whiteness. Our goal is not to live as perpetual victims but to rise as creators of a new reality—one where wholeness, love, and shared humanity define our relationships and economies.
As Black people, we hold the capacity to heal, redeem, and transform the world, but we must first heal ourselves and align our efforts. The challenge is immense, but so is our potential. I speak into these spaces not because it is easy but because it is necessary. And I need a community behind me—one that believes in the power of our collective genius to bring forth a world where we are no longer drained or diminished but replenished and thriving.
This response holds space for your question, affirms your perspective, and expands on it with insight and care. It emphasizes that withholding love results in injury and that increasing love’s volume is a powerful act of transformation—concepts discussed in my book, The New Human. It challenges retreat as a default response while validating the need for purposeful withdrawal when necessary. Finally, it inspires a vision of collective transformation rooted in love, distinction, and the power of Black genius.
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