This Is My Confession: 𝗜 𝗔𝗺 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗔 — Are YOU?

Because Somebody Needs to Hear a Word Today

Addressing the Elephants in the Room—Friends, Family, Loved Ones—With Open Love

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I am not MAGA.
Not quietly. Not diplomatically. Boastfully not.

And not because I don’t know MAGA people.
I do. I love some of them. I share bloodlines with them. I have broken bread, buried elders, raised children alongside them.

Proximity didn’t confuse me—it clarified me.

Because I have seen belief systems up close—not as slogans or online avatars, but as habits, incentives, and economies.

I once wrote a blog about an industry I worked in, before I understood that I was standing squarely in the lion’s den. We had one mission: make the sale.

Sell the dream.
Sell the fairy tale that aspiration could be purchased, that belonging could be deeded, that a better life was waiting in a timeshare contract.

Hope monetized. Faith leveraged. People of color and the working poor exhausted with promises that could not be bought even in a raffle.

Most of that fraternity didn’t disappear. They simply rebranded. Today, many are MAGA mouthpieces—still selling, still promising, still waiting for the next client willing to buy grievance dressed up as freedom.

Same pitch.
Same muscle memory.
Different product.

That experience cured me of naïveté.

I am not MAGA because I have watched a President, a Party, and a rehearsed script of outrage operate as an incontestably corrupt machine while pretending to be populism.

I have followed the money.
I have read the filings.
I have traced the shell games.

I will not play dumb about how one family pockets billions while marketing persecution as virtue.

And do not insult my intelligence with false equivalence.

Yes—deportations happened under Obama. But do not dare pretend the spectacle was the same.

Under that administration, enforcement—however imperfect—was bounded by law, discretion, and an understanding that terror is not governance.

Schools were not hunting grounds.
Children were not props.
Cruelty was not brand strategy.

What we are witnessing now is not continuity.
It is escalation.
It is punishment masquerading as policy.

My sight does not stop at U.S. borders.

Trinidad and Tobago did not become collateral by accident. Cooperation with American power turned into exposure. Fishermen were killed. Sovereignty was bent.

Regional stability was sacrificed for Venezuelan interests and geopolitical muscle-flexing. That is not unfortunate fallout—it is consequence by design.

I see the hypocrisy clearly.

The loud MAGA devotee—Mrs. Nicki Petty—who vanished her public persona the moment citizenship mattered. Bold when it was performance. Silent when it required paperwork.

Loyalty, it turns out, is only rewarded until protection is needed.

Under this regime, if you are brown, Black, or somewhere in between, your body becomes probable cause.

You can be picked up, disappeared into detention, processed as law. The language is clean. The outcome is not.

Spare me the conspiracies used to distract from reality.

Ilhan Omar did not need fabrication to be targeted—her existence was sufficient. Meanwhile, we are asked to accept assassination narratives without evidence while journalists become the real casualties.

Don Lemon is not an anomaly; he is a warning. Freedom of the press doesn’t vanish overnight—it is disciplined, chilled, and hijacked.

What I will not touch—because it is sacred—is the disparate philosophies within bloodlines. Family is not a monolith. History never is.

I am not here to sever kinship or demand ideological purity. Like the peace walkers marching across America, I seek no favor.

I do not need agreement to grant dignity.

But respect is not optional.
And silence is not neutrality.

I am not shallow in my positions. If I take a stand, it is with facts and receipts, with the quiet confidence that comes from having watched the machinery from the inside.

So yes—I breathe.

Because my ancestors are close.

They marched. They soldered. They resisted ships, whips, scaffolds, and silence. And not one of those tools succeeded in erasing us.

Not one.

I am retired.
I am a full-time caregiver.
And I am not small. (in body, voice, or presence 😘)

Caregiving is custodianship—of memory, of truth, of lineage. It is the work of keeping the record intact when power depends on amnesia.

Victory is not gifted by power.
It is extracted by presence.

And our presence—
mine, yours, ours—
is immutable.

🙌

𝖂𝖍𝖔 𝖉𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖕 𝖋𝖎𝖙, 𝖑𝖊𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖒 𝖜𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖎𝖙