There was a time when The Purge felt like a dystopian fantasy—a cinematic, exaggerated vision of chaos where rules were suspended, and survival depended on who had power, protection, and proximity to both.
Today, we’re living through something quieter, more bureaucratic, and in many ways more insidious. No sirens announce it. No masks signal it. But make no mistake: A purge is underway.
And this purge isn’t so much about sanctioned violence in the streets (although it does involve that). But it’s more about systemic erasure.
Across industries and institutions, Black professionals are being purged from positions of influence (that they’re over-qualified for) and replaced by an army of white, entitled, and incompetent (WEI; a term created by thought leader Lurie Daniel Favors) impostors who feel their lack of melanin entitles them to whatever the hell they want. So, they label Blackfolk who are their bettors in terms of intellect, experience, know-how, creativity, etc., as “DEI hires”—as if DEI means unqualified.
In education, Black studies courses are being cut from K-12 curricula and college catalogs, undermining decades of scholarship and identity formation. Books centering Black voices are being banned or quietly removed from libraries, severing young minds from cultural anchors.
In the media, Black voices are being diminished or removed entirely. Joy Ann Reid (MSNBC) and Karen Attiah (Washington Post) are just two of many credible and insightful journalists the “powers that be” sought to silence.
In public spaces, our history is under assault, with our contributions minimized in museums and our sacrifices obscured in military cemeteries. In Philadelphia and other places, there’s been a literal physical removal of “our story.”
Funding streams that once supported Black advancement have been defunded, especially those explicitly tied to equity and inclusion. Government entities designed to address racial discrimination in housing, education, employment, etc., are being purposely dismantled at the federal, state, and local levels.
This is a sho’nuff purge, and it’s violent as hell.
Even language is under attack. Words associated with justice, equity, and Black identity are being flagged, discouraged, or outright banned in academic and professional spaces. When language is policed, thought is criminalized if it doesn’t cower to white nationalist demands.
And the economic toll is undeniable. Policies linked to initiatives like Project 2025 have accelerated a quiet (and loud-as-hell) dismantling of progress. Media voices like Roland Martin have warned that these efforts amount to a coordinated defunding of Black America—economically, politically, and culturally. Reports of mass job losses among Black workers, including hundreds of thousands of Black women, signal a crisis that’s both immediate and generational.
If that’s not a purge, what is?
Naming the threat
To move forward, we must first be clear-eyed about what we’re facing. But even the First Amendment right to call it out is being purged via threats made and followed through on by a small-minded, tiny-handed, low-IQ, U.S. president and his gazillionaire handlers. They sue and threaten to crush any media who dare call out injustices. This ain’t random. This ain’t accidental. It’s structural and sadistically strategic.
But why are we surprised? Attempting to purge Black excellence and Black advancement has been part of the American playbook since before this nation even adopted the name America. From Reconstruction to Jim Crow, from redlining to mass incarceration, periods of Black progress in America have always been followed by calculated backlash.
Dr. Carol Anderson documented this “Iceman Cometh” history in her book White Rage. She writes: “The trigger for white rage, inevitably, is Black advancement. It is not the mere presence of Black people that is the problem; rather, it is blackness with ambition, with drive, with purpose, with aspirations, and with demands for full and equal citizenship.”
We’re now witnessing the modern iteration—digitized, legalized, and AI-enhanced for public consumption. But history also offers something else: a blueprint for resistance.
How Blackfolk must move
Survival isn’t enough. The goal must be sustained self-determination.
First, economic consolidation is critical. Black dollars must circulate within Black communities with intention. And yes, we’ve heard this a million times. But it’s past time to make it real. Support Black-owned businesses, banks, media platforms (like the Defender), and educational institutions. As activists and economists like Claude Anderson have long argued, political power is almost non-existent without economic independence.
Second, build and protect independent institutions. From schools to media outlets to health networks, reliance on systems that are actively excluding us is a losing strategy. The work of figures like Marcus Garvey and Rev. Albert B. Cleage Jr., “Father of Black Liberation Theology,” reminds us that power lies in institutions, not titles or salaries, and especially not in dependence upon institutions controlled by folk who have never had our best interests at heart.
Third, control the narrative. In an era of rapidly spreading misinformation, Black storytellers, journalists, and content creators must double down. Platforms may shift, algorithms may change, but the responsibility to document truth remains. If mainstream outlets purge our voices, we must amplify our own. And as the Black Press moves closer to the 200th anniversary of its founding, it’s more critical now than ever.
Fourth, prioritize political literacy and local engagement. National headlines dominate the headlines, but many of the most consequential decisions are made at the local level—by school boards, city councils, and state legislatures. National organizers like Stacey Abrams and local ones like Annie Benifield have demonstrated the power of sustained, strategic civic engagement.
Fifth, invest in mental and physical health. The psychological weight of witnessing systemic erasure is real. Community-based care models, culturally competent healthcare providers, and wellness practices rooted in ancestral tradition aren’t luxuries; they’re necessities for endurance.
Sixth, teach the next generation—by any means necessary. If formal institutions erase our history, then homes, churches, and community centers must become classrooms. Elders must become professors. Culture must become curriculum.
Finally, practice strategic unity. As the National Chairman of the National Black United Front, Brother Kofi Taharka, often says, it’s about “unity without uniformity,” and working collectively toward the purpose of Black empowerment.
Purging the Purge
The irony of this moment is that while forces seek to erase Black progress, they’re also revealing their own fear of it. You don’t purge what is insignificant. You purge what is powerful and makes you feel insecure in your WEI-ness.
So, the question isn’t simply how we survive this purge, but how we transform it into a catalyst; into a movement bigger than any fleeting moment.
We do it by refusing invisibility. By building what can’t be easily dismantled. By protecting what we build. By remembering that every attempt to erase us has, historically, been met with reinvention and resurrection.
The purge is real. But so is Black resilience and Black power. And if history is any indication, what comes next won’t be our disappearance, but our redefinition.
