I received this comment on my Instagram this morning, after (supportively) venting my personal experience on Bebe Montoya’s post, which is devoted to condemning leftist cancel culture.

This person called me out for showcasing my anthology “She Holds The Line: Black Women Speak on Gender Ideology” and spoke to me as if I am totally ignorant about the impact it would have on my public image, as if I haven’t been doing this for years.

Yes, I know people will judge and mischaracterize me for speaking against gender ideology, and yes it does hurt.

But:

(1) I am very proud of my work and it deserves to be showcased for people who will appreciate it, and/or those who need it.

(2) I attract leftists of all persuasions who are only nice to me because they assume my aesthetic = embracing gender ideology, and I would rather shatter their false, misguided image of me sooner than later, for my own sake.

and

(3) I want people to know my values upfront, because I am no longer investing my valuable energy in misaligned relationships, whether personal or professional.

For this reason, I always feel called to highlight at least one post sharing my gender-critical work, no matter what the rest of my page is about.

It is not that I always share my views with people I first meet. But when someone visits my Instagram page or any of my websites, they are visiting my creative domain.

I am not interested in hiding who I am in MY creative home. My Instagram is not just a “page”, it is a snapshot of my life’s work. If I cannot express myself authentically in my own space, I might as well just dig a grave and haul myself into it, which is exactly what they want me to do anyway.

Gender ideologues love to justify and pour extra salt on the wound that you have been socially ostracized from your own community. They always make sure to reiterate why you are outcasted, to remind you that you have done it to yourself through your own bad behavior.

There is no self-reflection or critical thinking involved, which is why it is so common for them to reflexively tell you how much you “hate” trans people.

It’s the simplest way to package you for easy disposability, so that they do not have to engage with your complexity and question their worldview.

Yes, it is hard. There are people from all sides, fueled by misguided anger and jealousy, who sit in the wings like vultures, waiting for me to fumble, cry, and break. They are searching for a crack of vulnerability to swoop in and feast on my remains.

But what they do not understand is that the only reason why they have the pleasure of throwing tomatoes at me in the arena, is because I walked through fire to stand there in the first place.

And I cannot expect anything different from them, because they are the same abusive community who has created this warfare of eating their own.

At this point, hoping leftists will do better, is like returning to a domestic violence household and waiting for things to improve.

The reality is, most gender ideologues who reinforced destructive social tactics will never change. Their behavior is primarily a mark of poor character—it just happens to be expressed through politics. As the culture and laws shifts towards a more balanced rationale, they will simply fade in popularity and hold less power, just like any other social ill in history.

Some will inauthentically try to grift onto the new wave, because grifting is all they know how to do.

Mark my words and watch it happen.

Ultimately, it’s up to me to create the social and economic infrastructure I need to thrive in the world and continue spreading my light.

I never want to be beholden to these people, because they certainly do not have my best interests in mind, and they never will.

Earlier this summer, I was taking an early morning walk through my neighborhood when I happened upon the most wonderful kitty…

A slender Tuxedo cat with black fur and white socks and gloves quaintly perched atop a set of stairs leading up to a neighbor’s front door.

I immediately stopped in my tracks, gasped, and devoted all of my loving attention to this cat, the same way I do for every cat I come across.

“Hi Kitty!” I enchantedly chirped, outstretching my right paw for sniffing inspection. He gazed at me curiously, and slowly rose to make his way down the steps.

I was sure that I had come across this cat before—or at least his sibling. But most of the stray cats in the area had never given me the time of day, despite all of the love songs I sing to them. This cat was different. He actually came over to give my hand a sniff of approval!

That is when a pang of disappointment hit me. I didn’t have any treats to offer.

I had a small bag of crunchy Wellness Kittles, but they were in my other tote bag, at home. Why did today have to be the day I didn’t have them on-hand?

It might seem strange for me to say this, but whenever I try to befriend a stray cat without offering them food, I feel like a cheapskate. Cats are so precious about their energy, and they know their worth. Plenty of humans want to enjoy their soft fur and cute face. I need to come with incentives!

But my disappointment soon turned into care and concern. That early morning was the beginning of a massive heat wave. This cat didn’t look like he was suffering, but he was a bit skinny for an adult. I considered the prospect of him spending his energy looking for food, exhausting and dehydrating himself in the process. He needed water! That is when I gazed at the grocery store a couple of blocks away, and decided to buy him a can of wet food.

“Stay here!” I said, glancing back at him every few steps as I walked away. “If you leave, I can’t feed you!”

He sat on the sidewalk watching me walk away, as I looked back to check on him until he was no longer in my line of vision. I didn’t want to waste my time getting food if he was just going to leave the vicinity, but I had to try.

I walked into my favorite grocery store, and made a beeline for the pet food section. Naturally, I wanted to get the healthiest, most nutritious option available, so I intuitively chose Fancy Feast. The can was smaller and more expensive than the others, so I assumed it had something special to offer. I deliberately chose a Chicken flavor, in gravy-smothered chunks. Only the best for my babies!!

Unfortunately, when I returned to the scene, he was gone. That is when I put the can of Fancy Feast in my tote bag, determined to carry it everywhere until I saw him again.

I did see him again, about a week later, on my daily walk. But much to my chagrin—I wasn’t carrying the particular bag where I kept the fancy feast, and I was empty-handed. He was still gently warming up to me, but I really wanted to feed him.

So once again, I pilgrimaged to the grocery store to buy yet another can of fancy feast! Just like the first time, we watched each other as I walked away.

“I’ll be right back!” I said.

I bought a Salmon Paté, popped it in my bag, and went back to his territory, but he was no longer there. I felt a bit deflated. However, the upside was that I now had two cans of cat food, so I could place one in each of my usual tote bags, and never be caught slippin’. Doubly-equipped!

On my way home, I ran into a neighbor—a young woman who lives in my building who also loves cats. She also has a cute kitty who I’ve had the pleasure of meeting a few times! I stopped to greet her while she was waiting outside for her ride, and told her about the stray cats I intended to feed. I pulled out the can of fancy feast with an innocent grin on my face.

“This is the second time I am returning and they’re not there!” I bemoaned.

She seemed amused by the lengths I had gone to for these cats. But oddly enough, she was not very encouraging.

“Yeah well, they’re all fed so…they’re probably not interested. But yeah, you keep trying though!”

Her last phrase “you keep trying though!” carried a sarcastic tone, as if to say In Your Dreams!

She pointed at me as she said it, and then backed away to get into her friend’s car, which had just arrived to pick her up.

…

To be honest, that hurt! I felt like I had shared a soft, tender part of myself, only to have someone tell me that I’m foolish for wanting to nurture it.

Furthermore, it didn’t make any sense. She made a blanket statement about how the stray cats in the area are not interested in my food.

She was not aware that the particular cat I wanted to feed seemed to be surviving OK, but he also looked like he was no stranger to missed meals. But even well-fed cats will happily welcome a second breakfast! They will even fight for it.

So what was with the low-grade animosity? Based on some other things I knew about her fears around following her creative passions, I wondered if she was projecting her insecurities onto me in some odd form. But I would never expect that from a fellow cat-lover.

Where are the real cat ladies at?!?!

Anyway, that little snub didn’t stop my fancy feast in my bag-swag. And so, I continued on. Thankfully, just a few days later, I had a very lively conversation with an elderly woman at the farmer’s market, and she was thrilled that I was carrying Fancy Feast!

“What flavor?” she asked.

“Chicken in Gravy” I said, pulling out the can.

She whipped out her phone and showed me a few photos of her fluffy cat, who loves to sleep with her at night.

“This is more like it!” I said, thinking back to the first reaction I got from my neighbor. I felt understood.

Now, this elderly woman did think it was absurd that I wanted to travel to Istanbul to meet all the community cats…so I guess there are levels to it, but I appreciated the boost of encouragement she gave me.

And don’t you know—just a week later, I was walking down the street when I saw a pile of black fluff curled up in his usual elevated spot on the townhouse stairs.

“Kittyyy!” I joyfully squealed, outstretching my hand for sniffs and pets. This time, I had come prepared.

I reached into my tote bag and pulled out a small bag of Wellness Kittles, sprinkling a few heart-shaped treats on the ground. I opened my mouth with pure delight as I listened to him crunch and munch his little appetizer. Then I reached deep into my bag and pulled out the can of Fancy Feast.

He sniffed the can aggressively, with piqued interest. OK, we are on the right track!

The satisfying sound of can-opening reverberated to both of our ears, as I set it down for kitty to eat to his content. The gentle sound of traffic eased off into the distance as I sat on the sidewalk and tuned into kitty licking and clapping his mouth to the delicious meal at his pawz.

Oh, It filled my heart with such joy to watch him nourish his little bawdyy with my offeringz!!

It was as if my heart was filling, as his belly was filling.

I closely monitored his progress, making sure to empty the remaining food onto the ground when his mouth couldn’t reach the corners. I watched him eat until he finished every morsel.

Satisfied, he licked his nose and jaws and washed his paws with his long tongue.

“Oh, my baby!!” I exclaimed. He gifted me with his lingering presence, allowing me a few hesitant pets here and there, until he slowly walked off into the distance.

I gathered the can into both of my hands and walked home with a smile on my face, deeply fulfilled that I had fed my child. And the nay-sayers were wrong, as usual!!

My love prevailed.

I only hoped that my dinner offering had brightened his evening as much as it had brightened mine.

Apparently so, because the next time he saw me, he greeted me by flopping on his back and inviting me to rub his belly.

I had a can of fancy feast for him that time, too.

At least once a month, my estranged Mother emails me to tell me how things are going in her world, as if I never left.

I will occasionally stumble upon her emails in the “trash” folder where they are automatically sent, which I occasionally still open out of curiosity.

Mom’s interactions with me are formulaic, usually packaged as one of the following:

Nice Mommy: She talks to me in her saccharine-sweet, flowery tone, inviting me to come home anytime, peppered with bribery and false promises.

Transactional Mommy: Dangling money in my face because she knows I have a history of financial insecurity, and survival might just be the perfect weak spot to reel me back in. Always worth a shot!

Warning Mommy: Creating intense pressure to do whatever she wants me to do, NOW. This one is usually combined with other face(s), and it always includes bulldozing my boundaries.

There is also the infamous Mean Mommy, which has only come out when I’ve lived with her, and most importantly…when I had nowhere else to go, and no resources to leave. But if I would so much as start packing a duffel bag, SIKE! her head would spin back to another face, like the exorcist.

Case in point—Mom has many faces, and a lot of tricks up her sleeve.

But unfortunately, since I’ve figured her out so well, she has used her creative energy to find novel (sometimes extreme) tactics to provoke a response from me.

That is what happened in this most recent email she sent, which included a half-assed apology for that one time she threatened to have me shot dead because she claimed I was hiding her kittens in my bedroom—an incident that I wrote about in detail on Substack, the day after it happened.

But that’s not all…there were some other things she shared, too. I’d like to reflect on my Mom’s “apology letter”, my connection with the animals who have been in her care, and where I’m at in my estrangement journey.

Read more

Today, I opened my Instagram and the algorithm instantly fed me this post by a young black woman who claimed she is no longer nonbinary. Of course I was interested, so I scrolled through her carousel only to find that her gender is Black.

smh…

Describing racism as a gender identity issue is exactly what the neo-colonizers want you to do, sis. Conflate gender identity with as many legitimately oppressed groups as possible, to give it street-cred as a valid human rights issue.

And bonus! Carve a clear pathway to transracialism. (Don’t say I didn’t warn you)

Because trust me. Most of these “nonbinary” middle class white kids would identify as black if they could. The only thing holding them back is political correctness, which is largely a product of the respect black people have loudly demanded over the years.

Calling themselves trans is the closest they can get to racializing themselves, and it will simply have to do for now. But O! What pleasure it will bring to fully envelop themselves in their fetish for being oppressed and othered, by inching closer to the holy grail of embodying...a person of color. drool drool

QTBIPOCCCC!!! 🤟🏾

This is one of the ways in which the trans movement capitalizes off confused, traumatized black women who are struggling to find freedom through gender ideology.

Brainwashing us to the point where we no longer understand ourselves, is the most integral step for them to redefine what it means to be you.

And of course the post has thousands of likes.

It was the way she took their breath away and restored it with a sigh of relief.

Because of course, if she reverted to understanding herself as a black woman who experiences racism and misogyny, people would be disappointed. Who wants a plain-jane analysis, when you could include the rainbow slop of “transphobia”?

You’d have people in the comments suspecting she is a “terf”, or trying to get her to reconsider her nonbinary identity. Trust would be broken.

The tension and backlash would be real, as we’d seen with other black detrans women who have faced swift backlash for simply calling themselves women.

But if you announce your gender as Black, you can still be an honorary trans person.

Because after all, in the Land Of Nonbinary, you can have your cake and eat it too. Queer culture has moulded trans identities such that anyone can simply use it as a prefix to what they actually are, for any reason.

So, come as you are and make yourself at home!

This is why it’s become exceedingly popular to identify as a “nonbinary lesbian” or “nonbinary black woman”. Or alternatively, “lesbian” can be gender in and of itself. Blackness can be a gender. Even though it makes no sense.

But the point is not to make sense.

(In fact, the more incoherent you are, the better…)

The point is to associate yourself with transgenderism for social credibility, and to distinguish yourself from other girls just like you.

I can tell when women are fearfully hiding their knowledge of self behind silly excuses like this.

I can tell when they choose cognitive dissonance, because acknowledging the truth would turn their life upside down.

You were so close to getting it, my friend.

So close, yet so far away.

Lately, I’ve been feeling cynical about finding local community.

Every time I am at a community event, I feel a sense of alienation, knowing that I could never truly be welcome because of my gender-critical views.

It doesn’t even require everyone to be against me.

All it takes is one person in that space framing me as an unsafe person, and then everyone else has to quietly (or loudly) outcast me to save their own reputation.

While most of us get by through simply hiding who we really are, I gave up the luxury of hiding when I decided to go public about my views. And, I am also not interested in hiding or being inauthentic-it’s not how I wish to live my life.

Does that mean I deserve to be an outcast?

Most people who claim to welcome controversial opinions and disagreements, usually have a very specific framework of which “controversies” they find acceptable, and I can usually bet my bottom dollar that critiques on gender ideology don’t fit in.

It’s very disingenuous to claim that you embrace people regardless of their viewpoint. I certainly don’t. Nobody in their right mind would embrace someone who carries an opinion they find to be morally reprehensible or personally offensive.

And therein lies the issue, when lobbyists have successfully shifted public opinion to view common sense as hatred and shut down any critical thinking on the matter.

Moreover, the ideas people label as controversial tend not to be the least bit controversial at all. They might be fringe opinions that get you strange looks, but they are not the sort that will outcast you from community spaces that claim to be designed for people like you, nor will they reliably and consistently lock you out of the workforce or other opportunities you deserve.

Many people love the idea of going against the system but they do not understand the true extent of what it means, or they’ve been sold a fabrication of what it looks like.

In real life, you’re not cool for going against the grain. You’re the kid sitting alone in the cafeteria while navigating a small, yet powerful group of bullies who are intent on sabotaging your daily life, and spreading rumors about how disgusting you are, while everyone else either follows along or keeps their distance from you in order to not attract said bullies’ wrath.

Cool points are only applied in retrospect, sometimes posthumously.

Anyway, I have been thinking about what this means as far as my social life. Because I’ve realized that it’s exceedingly difficult for me to trust people I meet in the wild, and publishing my anthology has changed how I engage with new connections.

Read more

Today, I hastily passed by the man who harassed me everyday for 9 months. He didn’t say anything because he was with his new girlfriend, a woman who lives in my building. However, his male friend yelled GOD BLESS!!! as I walked by.

When I didn’t acknowledge him, he said, “That’s Okay because I’m gonna say that to you every single time I sees you from now on!” He continued yelling nonsense at me as I walked into the distance.

It was the same exact line the original harasser gave me before forcefully inserting himself into my daily excursions for almost a year—reverberatory scoldings and all.

Speaking of which, I’ve noticed that most of his close associates have tried to court me in some way or another, whether male or female.

Unfortunately, there have been a couple of instances where I had to give a woman the cold shoulder after I had previously given her a friendly greeting...all because I clocked her association with him.

It’s simple math! If I say hi to her when she’s standing next to him, now he gets to talk to me too. OK. So now, none of y’all get a hello, whether he’s around or not.

This man uses these women as pawns, and only god knows why I always see so many women hanging around him all the time because he has absolutely nothing to offer except illegal substances, a bunch of spare time, and a low-vibe dick.

Clearly, he is scraping the bottom of the barrel for the most mentally and spiritually broken women this area has to offer. But apparently, it works! Because he’s swimming in pussy...so I don’t know why I needed to be in such sharp focus for so long.

Shouldn’t you know your lane by now?

You’ll never have me. Not in this lifetime, and not in the next. So let it go.

I REBUKE you, in the name of Jesus!!!

But yeah, back to his male friend who spat his same line like a frighteningly broken record...

It’s funny because I thought I had defeated my harasser. I thought I had earned his silence…only to find his clone pop out of nowhere, like a malignant virus.

They are all infected with the same disease. And yeah of course there is misogyny and entitlement but…there is also a deep layer of stupidity that underpins this sort of behavior, and that’s what annoys me the most.

It’s the same feeling I get when a man tells me to smile when I walk past. It genuinely feels as though I lose brain cells every time I hear those words.

And no, I don’t want to engage. I don’t care if they think I’m high-siddity. I am!

I am bougie. I will turn my nose up. I will call security on your ass.

I even bought a pair of sunglasses for privacy reasons…

Sometimes, I’ll open my parasol and tilt in such a way that no one can see my head when I walk past.

And I understand my energy well enough to know that it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

It’s one of the better things I adopted from my upbringing.

But I don’t always have my sunglasses on. And I don’t always want to whip my parasol out. Sometimes, I am simply walking home alone, in my natural state.

And on the occasion that they catch me walking down the street, exposed to the elements—they fall all over themselves to penetrate my peaceful aura with their raggedy-ass energy…because that’s the closest they’ll ever get to having their own.

Every time something like this happens near my house, I’m reminded that this is not my forever home. This is a blessing for me, but it is still a stepping stone.

There are always reminders not to get too comfortable, and those reminders will get louder as I grow. Just like God ushered me out of my last situation, I will transcend this one too.

I really hope that botox and cosmetic surgery goes out of style one day.

The prepackaged “glow-up” looks awful 99% of the time, and to me it is a sign of body dysmorphia.

Not to get overly clinical but I say dysmorphia because...if you prefer this cookie-cutter face to what you previously had—you’re obviously not seeing yourself in the mirror correctly. It’s one of the most extreme examples of fixing what’s not broken.

I get frustrated seeing some of the most gorgeous women destroy their natural beauty with these procedures.

It’s not purely aesthetic, either. When it’s a woman who I felt like had a strong sense of self, to me it sadly reveals that she hasn’t been feeling very good about herself lately.

Every ruined face feels like they’ve been captured by an invisible army.

I just take off my hat like, “Damn. They got you too?!”

And if I had found the woman exceptionally beautiful, my heart feels extra heavy.

Nerissa Irving has always been one of the most gorgeous women I have ever laid eyes on. Her long luxurious locs inspired me when I first started growing mine in 2009. I admired her as a figure of natural beauty in a time when I was learning how to embrace mine.

Nerissa’s uniquely ethnic features helped her carve out a niche as a model, which opened the door for entrepreneurship. Every few months or so I would check on her Instagram page to admire her photos and see what had been up to.

But when I visited her page a few months ago, I looked at her face and something felt off. I couldn’t quite place it at first, but her face just looked weird…like it had lost its flavor.

After comparing her old photos to the new ones, I eventually realized she got a nose job. The typical kind that non-white women get, to make her nose look narrower, pointier, and more up-turned. Her lips looked weird too.

Nerissa’s original nose had a very slight hook, reminiscent of mixed African and Arabic features. It was literally the perfect nose…for her. It was cute and well-proportioned. Perfect for her lips. Perfect for her face.

Perfect, period.

She literally looked like a Kemetic Princess. But she has demolished her blessings by carving it into some poor imitation of a white girl.

Her beautiful, distinct, perfectly God-given nose—gone. Gone forever.

I wondered—who told her that she needed to change? Was the spotlight too much? Has her husband been mistreating her? What happened?!

My heart sank, and I felt angry. Something about it felt like a real loss to me.

And the biggest loss was not her nose. It was knowing that all this while, she didn’t even know just how beautiful she was.

It’s knowing that deep down she thought she was ugly enough to need fixing.

I know some people will look at this and say it’s just looks, and looks don’t matter. We shouldn’t value women by their looks, women shouldn’t care about how they look. It’s all about “what’s inside”, blah blah BLAH blah blah….

No. It matters.

Beauty matters. There is nothing wrong with a woman enjoying, cultivating, and maintaining her natural beauty.

There is nothing wrong with admiring and valuing women’s physical beauty.

Just like you would admire a sunset, a peacock, or any other stunning force of nature.

Beautiful women are works of art.

Where we fuck it up is by tampering with nature.

We fuck it up, by creating factory-farmed versions of “beauty” in labs, and framing it as aspirational.

We fuck it up by selling our souls to a culture of extreme vanity.

We fuck it up by creating insecurities that don’t need to exist, and manufacturing unnecessary solutions.

I’ve noticed a lot of female influencers like to flaunt a “live and let live” attitude towards cosmetic surgery. They don’t want to appear judgmental.

They want to act like it’s nobody’s business what someone else chooses to do with their body.

But in reality, it’s that they don’t want to get attacked for stepping on toes.

They want to make the “wrong and strong” crowd feel comfortable.

We enable all types of self-destructive bullshit by donning this faux “non-judgmental” attitude. We pretend as if our choices exist in a vacuum, without influence from society, and without any impact on others.

My stance is not coming from a place of “judgment” in the sense that I turn my nose up at women who do cosmetic procedures.

After all, I’ve been there. I used to do a bunch of harmful things to my hair and body in an effort to fit beauty standards. I too, used to want to erase my unique features.

I have compassion and understanding for why they do it…but I also condemn it.

And while some women might like the results, I don’t believe it will ever make them feel good about themselves on any deep level.

In exchange for superficial confidence, it chips at your self-esteem. It’ll never really scratch that itch. The insecurities will always be there, squirming beneath the surface of your skin.

It’s just an endless hamster wheel of procedures until the day you die.

And the hamster wheel doesn’t stay the same pace, either. It gets faster and more exhausting as you struggle to keep up with the aging process.

You become a slave to the false idol of beauty.

Personally, I believe this is bad karma to bring with you to the grave.

Who wants to be working that shit out in the next lifetime?!

Lately I have been thinking about how I would like to approach my own process of graceful aging, and enjoying my natural beauty as I grow older. I will probably write about it more in the future.

But today, after being slapped in the face with yet another naturally gorgeous celebrity with cheek filler that made her look like the crypt-keeper…I had a thought.

Hollywood is toxic as fuck, and I never want to be part of it.

But really what it is—is that I never want to internalize the messaging that “the culture” promotes: that I need to mutilate my face to resemble a pre-packaged nightmare in order to be beautiful.

Or that—I need to look as young as possible, even if it means dowsing my hair in harsh chemicals, and treating my skin like open heart surgery.

I don’t want to surround myself with people who think this way, either.

I am trying to move towards wholeness and freedom, and I rebuke anything that stands in the way, even if others judge me for it.

I’ve recently been noticing that many Anti-Zionist / Pro-Palestine individuals seem to have a similar approach as trans-activists in their pursuit of justice, which includes raging anger and dehumanization towards anyone who disagrees with them or questions their viewpoint.

This includes (but is not limited to) swift cancellation, guilt-by-association, and self-righteous slander campaigns.

On two different occasions within the past month, women who were otherwise enjoying my presence, began to fire at me just because I mentioned that I have a friend who identifies as Zionist.

This is especially shocking to me, as someone who is largely removed from this debate. I have a very introductory-level understanding of this political conflict. I am clear that this topic is not my ministry, and it is not an issue I feel called to invest energy into learning about in-depth or leaning into, politically.

What I do see is that that innocent people have been harmed on both sides, and it is therefore understandable to me, why there are advocates on both sides.

I also understand why people may feel more called towards supporting either Palestine or Israel, based on their own personal background.

Fundamentally, my stance is that I don’t believe in war, and I don’t want people to get hurt. It matters less to me, which side is right or wrong. There are fair and compassionate ways of dealing with conflict that apparently, are not being implemented, and it is causing civil unrest.

But whenever I have shared this view with a Pro-Palestine/Anti-Zionist, it is never enough.

If I don’t firmly take on their stance (the “right” stance) I am a problem. If I don’t swallow their worldview whole on the spot, I am a problem.

If I even so much as associate myself with someone who disagrees with them on this topic, my morality is questionable. My little kumbaya stance is just me “trying” to be neutral, and I must be hiding something evil behind my supposed neutrality.

This all-encompassing swiftness to demonize Zionists (or anyone who questions, holds neutrality, or disagrees) has colored my view of pro-Palestine individuals.

It feels eerily similar to the way I have been demonized so harshly for expressing gender-critical views.

And while many pro-Palestine individuals are in fact, trans-activists (it’s part of the package deal of queer culture)...it makes it that much stranger to witness this behavior amidst liberal gender-critical women who are pro-Palestine.

They are doing the same exact thing to others that they don’t want to be done to them. And they think it’s so different…but it’s not.

The difference is they have major institutions, mainstream media, and social approval empowering them to self-righteously shit on people who are on the “wrong side”—thus causing further division and isolation from said people.

And the thing about isolation is that it prevents you from having to engage with someone’s humanity and see where the other person is coming from.

It prevents you from having to think.

But even if—pro-Palestine folks are politically right…the way they approach their advocacy is wrong.

Anyone who relies on groupthink, social coersion and punishment to get their point across—anyone who pushes genuine independent thinkers away…gets the side-eye from me too.

Whatever arguments you carry should never have to hide behind dehumanization of others to gain traction.

I disagree with the trans movement. I think it’s incredibly harmful and evil. I know there is major propaganda at play that people are swallowing like kool aid.

But I don’t believe all followers of the trans movement are bad people.

Yes, they too exist on a spectrum of morality, and some of them are very wicked.

But many are not; most of them are misguided followers of a movement that they have been taught promotes equality and justice for all—when all it does is promote misogyny, eugenics, and corporate greed.

But I don’t walk around shaming individual people who believe in trans ideology as eugenists, rapists, and greedy capitalists.

I don’t harass them for not thinking like I do.

I understand why they think the way they do because I’ve taken the time to cultivate that understanding.

And even though I disagree, and I know it’s wrong…I don’t use this one politic as the sole metric of their moral character.

See the difference?

Even though I retain boundaries with gender ideologues on a personal level, I retain the ability to see and engage them in their wholeness.

They most definitely do not have the capacity to do that with me.

And I still don’t demonize them for not extending me the same grace and clarity as I do for them.

I understand that their ideology does not allow them to do that. I know that they are brainwashed and/or misaligned with me, and I keep them at an arm’s distance.

I hope that they eventually come to their senses, and that the educational books and writings I have shared with the world will eventually find their way into their hands, without me placing them there.

Because I am confident that truth prevails everytime. I don’t need to use their shoddy tactics to change the world. I don’t need to force their hand, or socially punish them to push them to the “right” side.

That my friends, is the power of critical thinking.

It offers balance and allows you to see clearly. It helps you become more intellectually and emotionally generous.

Don’t let any movement snatch that away from you.

This weekend, I met up with a “nonbinary” woman in my community, and we had an exchange that illuminated something about myself that I had been needing to see for a long time.

…

We met just a few weeks ago at a walking tour designed to educate locals about the wild-grown herbs in our neighborhood. We were the only two black women in our small group. She had more of a soft-butch presentation, but she seemed shy, and we didn’t talk to each other at all throughout the walk.

However, towards the end of the tour, the facilitator stopped to show us one of the plants growing on the side of the bike trail, and this black woman raised her hand to ask whether the herb was native to the region or not.

The facilitator immediately launched into a 2 minute lecture about how we should watch our language when describing plants as “native” because it also translates into how we describe human beings as belonging vs. not belonging, based on whether they are a citizen of the U.S..

I smirked. Her whole white guilt spiel was really annoying, and it felt performative. Are we not here to learn?! Why is the origin of the plant suddenly offensive?

What’s more, I thought it was so ironic that one of the only non-white people in the group was being policed so hard for using language that was supposedly exclusionary to immigrants, after asking a very basic question.

So I raised my hand and told the facilitator that, as someone who is half-Nigerian, I have personally taken a special interest in learning which plants are indigenous to West Africa, because it helps me understand which Nigerian dishes are native to the region, and which ones are made from ingredients that the colonizers brought to our land.

That was both a 100% true statement, and my way of taking the pressure off of this other black woman. And it worked.

The facilitator widened her eyes and said, “Oh yes of course that is totally valid!!”

She fawned over how that’s a totally different political context, and blah blah blah…we moved on.

After that, I started to sense that this black woman wanted to connect with me. At the end of the walk, she made really intense eye contact with me for a moment, and I gave her a polite smile before walking inside.

A couple of minutes later, she approached and greeted me by my first name. She explained that she had been looking for more black friends in the area, and wanted to know if I’d like to get together sometime. She explicitly said she had to “shoot her shot” with me. Interesting.

Now on an energetic level, I have to be honest: this is not a woman who I would opt to be friends with. I could tell that I was more FREE than her, in every sense of the word—and it showed up in how we carried ourselves.

But being that I have been craving local community, I was open to forming acquaintanceships too. Maybe my initial read on her was our first incompatibility that I should have taken more seriously, but I didn’t. I stayed open, because I thought she seemed like a genuinely nice person, and I was open to explore the connection.

I thought perhaps, we could share a wholesome activity together. So I offered for us to expand on what we learned on our plant walk by going foraging sometime.

We exchanged numbers and eventually, we made plans to meet at a local park to go on a nature walk.

When I was on my way to meet her, I had an intuitive feeling that a conversation about gender ideology was going to come up, and that it wasn’t going to end well.

I was nervous about it, but I had also made peace with it. After all, we had only planned to spend an hour an a half together before parting ways, so I had packed a picnic blanket, a book, and dessert for my own solo time in the garden. I was prepared to be left alone.

…

We met up at a local train station and walked to the park entrance together, which was just a few minutes away.

We had barely crossed the street before her questions quickly began leading us down that rocky road to gender ideology.

Totally normal questions, too…

Like, “What have you been up to lately?…Oh yeah?…Well, what kind of podcast did you record?…What’s the anthology about?”

I got completely out of my comfort zone and told her exactly what it was:

“It’s called She Holds The Line: Black Women Speak on Gender Ideology and it’s a diverse group of women sharing personal essays and poetry about the adverse impact of the trans movement on black women.”

I could immediately feel her sense of time slowing down. For a few seconds, we moved through molasses.

She shook her head incredulously. “Wh…what’s impact does it have on black women? How is it negatively affecting you?”

Her question felt like an increasingly strong grip around my neck.

“We wrote about it. I contributed to the book too. I can send you a link,” I said, breathlessly.

Seconds later, we arrived at the park entrance. She was in such a daze that she completely passed it by. I had to stop in my tracks to alert her that we had arrived.

We then embarked on what was a very silent and awkward walk through the park.

We walked for about 20 minutes and tried to talk about other things. What book did I bring with me, what else we have been up to, what herbs have we discovered lately? The energy felt heavy with discomfort.

…

Eventually my legs got tired and I suggested we sit on a bench. As soon as she sat down, she turned to me and said,

“I’m just going to be honest, I don’t think this friendship is gonna work if you don’t like trans people, because...I’m nonbinary.”

Read more

Every now and then, it dawns on me that I don’t have an emergency contact.

It’s not just when I am asked to provide one at the doctor’s, leasing office, yoga class, or pretty much anything else.

I think about it when I’m chopping vegetables and I realize that all it takes is a wrist sprain for me to struggle to independently feed myself.

I think about it when a driver is pridefully about to hit me as I walk through a crosswalk. I realize that I could lose my home if I ever had to stay in the hospital for too long.

(((They always love to pardon themselves with an anxious wave that says, “Sorry I didn’t stop to let you cross when you clearly had the right of way but I’m in a large metal vehicle and you’re not, so therefore you’re of lesser value and I really don’t give a fuck if I cripple you for the rest of your life or even just destroy your quality of life for a few months while you can’t work, feed, or bathe yourself, tee-hee!”)))

I think about it when I realize I couldn’t foster a cat because even one overnight hospital visit would lead to a baby’s missed meal.

I think about it when I realize that whatever happens, I have to go through everything alone, with no safety net, and nobody knocking on my door to check on me.

For my entire life, my parents have been my emergency contact.

My family has provided shelter when I would have otherwise been on the street, and they have come to my aid when I came down with a freak illness and had to stay in the ICU…on 3 different occasions.

My Mother has always made sure to let me know that her home was my “soft landing”

Over the years, it reached to a point where my survival was the only thing tying our relationship together.

But having my parents in my life for such basic support came with a cost.

The cost was—as much as they supported me through life’s emergencies, they also created crises, too.

Fire crises that hit me like a ton of bricks when I least expected it, and slow-drip crises that ate away at my body and spirit like cancer.

Crises that pushed me to create emergency fundraisers, leave town, and sleep on couches and blow-up beds of people I just met.

My parents still welcome me with open arms. They would be happy to be my emergency contact. But I am tired of enduring the endless cycle.

I am out here raw-dogging life because that’s the only way I can set my path towards true safety, health, and peace of mind.

But I can’t lie about how vulnerable I feel, and sometimes it hits harder than others.

Community has been my sore spot for many years.

On the outside, I have a rich social life…at least during summertime.

When I go out, people are drawn to me. It’s easy for me to strike up lengthy conversations, and enjoy genuine “hang out” moments.

But at the end of the day, I’m alone.

And as much as I hate to say it—the controversial work I have done creates a real barrier with many people who could otherwise be good community.

We can laugh, talk, and enjoy each other’s company—but I don’t trust them because I know they will abandon me purely based what I have stood up for.

So I don’t nurture the connection, and it feels like wasted potential.

Sometimes I keep my distance for other reasons, but this is a major one.

This has happened with neighbors, and women I have met in my local area…

And it’s part of my sore spot.

I had a sore spot already, and it has compounded.

It is not my fault. I have identified this as a structural problem. But it’s exhausting and discouraging.

That is already on top of how challenging it is to make friends as an adult in general.

There are additional barriers I face that are quite frankly, stupid & unnecessary…yet extremely pervasive.

I’d like to think that these barriers (or standards) create a filter for higher-quality relationships. And maybe it does.

But it doesn’t change how exposed and vulnerable I feel during the long chapters of life that I have to walk alone.

I recently published an essay on my journey with celibacy.

I’m cool with taking time off from intimate relationships, especially when I do not have an emergency contact.

I’m done with getting intimate when I am building my foundation, especially after people have used fractures of my vulnerability as an opportunity to insert themselves where they didn’t belong. NO THANK YOU.

But everybody needs community, no matter what’s going on in their world. It’s part of being human.

This final chapter of family estrangement has required advanced adulting skills.

I’ve scrambled to opt-into every single safety net I can find. Long term disability insurance. Paid Family & Medical Leave. Welfare.

I even looked into hiring a pro-bono lawyer to be my medical proxy, to honor my wishes in case I ever become a human vegetable (((¡please pull the fucking plug!)))

I even looked into having a social worker be my emergency contact.

And I know it’s still not enough!

There is no substitute for someone who simply gives a fuck about you, and who has the capacity to show up for the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I’m extraordinarily resourceful, and resourcefulness has gotten me this far.

But I can’t do this life all alone. And that’s the part that I’m surrendering to.

I can’t effort my way into having friends, community, or family.

I can’t effort my way into having a good emergency contact.

And I can’t regress my morals out of fear of not having those things.

So until I build that support system in my life, I have to trust that I’m protected.

And maybe that’s the journey that I’m meant to walk.

Or let’s be real…maybe this is some bullshit that comes with living on a ghetto ass planet!!!

For most of my adult life, I have been celibate. But I definitely didn’t start out this way.

In my late teens-early 20s, I was more open to dating and hence, more sexually active.

However, as I have healed and matured--the pool of individuals who I am attracted to (that I would seriously consider laying down with) has drastically diminished.

This depth of attraction I feel is entirely based on chemistry. And being the rare bird I am, chemistry does not come cheap.

I also don’t believe in “dating” in the sense of trying on random people like a pair of shoes in a store; I actually find casual dating to be rather reckless behavior.

I need to feel a special connection. There needs to be a touch of kismet...

So, it has been easy for me to go years at a time, abstaining from sex with zero temptation.

But the day I would meet someone who I felt that chemistry with—it was a wrap.

We’d just slide right on into bed, and right into a relationship within 24 hours, and it would feel like the most natural thing that ever happened to us.

We’d devour each other.

Not out of desperation, but in the heat of raw passion and desire.

I’ve learned the hard way that...that shit doesn’t work. It’s not romantic, it’s not cute. Most importantly, it’s emotionally irresponsible.

And in the end—it’s not even as sexually fulfilling as it could be…because we hadn’t built enough trust and intimacy to truly blossom.

However, it is pure. The feelings we have for each other—the beauty we see within each other is very real.

But I’ve learned that just because we share a genuine connection...does not mean that we’re fit to be together.

Feelings, chemistry, and even love—is not enough to make a relationship work. And, it is no longer enough to make me lay down with someone.

Even if we are soul mates—the reality is that we do not exist in an ethereal realm.

We are creatures, existing on Earth, in a broken system.

We walk journeys. We carry baggage. We have life trajectories. We have daily habits.

These are elements that must be carefully discerned before investing emotional and sexual energy into another person.

And so, over the past few years, I’ve been meditating on the concept of compatibility.

I like think of compatibility as the nuts and bolts (yang), balancing the chemistry (yin). Both are necessary.

Of course, there are no rules for having a relationship. Anyone can settle for whatever falls into their lap, whether its good for them or not.

Anyone can get into a relationship, without regard for whether it is a wise or empowering decision.

But this is a conversation about quality.

I believe that relationships require a foundational level of holistic health on each individual’s part, and deep alignment in order to function as a sustainable, mutually empowering union.

And this brings me to my celibacy journey…

I’ve been celibate for 2.5 years now, by choice. And I have been single for almost 5 years.

I’d like to share the intention behind my celibacy, and my recent realization—that it may be best for me to remain single and celibate for several more years, in order to lay the foundation for the life (and relationship) I truly desire and deserve.

Ironically, this understanding has been reinforced through a recent romantic connection that was very…arousing. I’d like to share the wisdom I gleaned from that experience, and how I intend to explore my sexuality in a way that feels healthy and grounded through celibacy.

Read more

Hi Everyone!

Thank you to all of you who have supported my latest anthology, “She Holds The Line: Black Women Speak on Gender Ideology”. It’s been exciting to witness the outpouring of support for this project and I am deeply grateful that it’s making the impact it deserves.

If you enjoyed the book, I’d love to receive a review on the platform where you initially purchased the book.

Reviews are incredibly helpful for the book’s visibility and credibility, so that other people can have a glimpse of its impact.

For those who purchased a signed book on my Artist website:

Please visit the shop page here, scroll down a bit, and click the "Reviews" tab that is next to "Description". You can rate the book and submit your review there.

For those who purchased on Bookbaby:

Please visit my book webpage, and scroll to the bottom of the page, login, and submit your review.

For those who purchased on Amazon:

Login to your Amazon account, scroll to find the book in “Your Orders” and click “Write a product review”

Thank you so much for helping me offer this book the visibility it deserves! I appreciate you all. 🌺

A couple of days ago, I worked up the courage to email the liberal arts organization that funded my anthology, and share the official webpage of She Holds The Line.

When I initially applied for that grant, I used slightly softer language in the book title eg. “Identity” instead of “Ideology”. I also did not have a fully fleshed out written summary of the book.

I was very honest about what I wanted to create…but the philosophy behind the anthology is much bolder and clearer now, than it ever was in its infancy. So in a way, it felt like I was coming out about my views in a way I previously hadn’t.

It’s weird. Many people never expect me to think the way I do because of who I am and what I look like. So when they are presented with my perspective in bold print, I feel like I am piercing through a matrix with a cloak of invisibility.

In one way it is a power, but it also leaves me feeling misunderstood at times. I realize that it takes a certain clarity for some people to even process my very existence.

There is always the question of, “How can you possibly be?”

People who are used to placing black women into ideological boxes often misinterpret me, even when I’m literally showing them otherwise—because they are so brainwashed that their imagination has grown inflexible.

It’s either love or hate. If they want to love me, the only way they can love me—is by painting me as something that I am not. Because, the alternative is to hate me.

And yet sometimes—the hate never comes, because I don’t fit the narrative of someone they’re supposed to hate.

But they later realize they can’t love me either-because I don’t fit the script.

So what happens in that liminal space? (((Up next on the twilight zone)))

Anyway, I knew I deserved the funding but I was always scared that someone in that organization would discover the true contents of the book and I’d get cancelled all over again. So initially, I thought about not sharing my completed project at all.

I didn’t have to; there were no obligations for me to report how I spent the money, or even to finish the project within the proposed timeline. I was totally off the hook.

However, I decided to let them know, because I wanted to ask them to be my reference for other creative endeavors. Over the next year, I will be applying to other opportunities that require a recommendation letter (yuck!), and part of my email was to ask if they’d be willing to support me.

I could have very well asked them to recommend me, while hiding my anthology...

But It was important to me, that they at least knew what I produced with the money; that I was an excellent steward of the thousands of dollars they gave me; that I not only managed to create and publish the book within less than a year, but I also received another grant to create an accompanying talk show-style video with my authors, and market it to the extent that it has become a #1 best-selling new release within its niche on Amazon.

I say I’m proud of myself, and I wanted to stand in that pride.

Sharing my work was a personal practice of owning my greatness and not shrinking in the shadow of other people’s fears.

In doing so, I braced myself for potential backlash and coldness. And that’s exactly what I got—in the calmest way possible.

Read more

This may come as a surprise and/or disappointment to some of you, but I am tired of talking about gender ideology.

Hear me out.

For the last 4 years, I have devoted much of my creative practice to researching and writing about transgenderism’s impact on myself and other black women, especially those of us who love women.

I’ve focused on the racist and colonialist tactics of the trans movement, as well as the particular ways in which trans activism disproportionately harms black women.

I have broken this ideology down and exposed each and every one of its shallow roots, its hypocrisy, and its far-reaching damage—especially towards the most vulnerable groups on our planet.

My writings on this subject have been passionately astute outpourings. I have felt deeply called to do this work, because I know that I have the skillset, mind, heart, and positioning to bring perspective to this issue in a way that is not otherwise spoken for.

This blog has also been a refuge for me to process the most painful aspects of how this ideology has impacted me and my community, and a space to process the everyday grief I endure as a result of openly affirming the truth. It still is.

But let me be honest: I am tired, and I’ve been tired for a while.

Opening my feed to see people screaming “Men cannot become women!” is draining as FUCK!!!

I understand that there are people out there who still need to see this message, but I am not one of those people.

And there are only so many ways you can creatively remix this statement before it wears itself out.

So, I am tired. Or should I say re-tired?

Because the birthing of my anthology, “She Holds The Line” has completed the mission of me articulating everything that I have to say about this subject.

I have an entire archive containing dozens of writings on gender ideology...

But there are 3 foundational works I’ve created (and worked exceptionally hard on) that I think everyone should read if they want to get a solid grasp on the subject:

• How The Trans Movement is Erasing Black Women From History: Setting The Record Straight About Pauli Murray

• Transphobia is Not Real

• She Holds The Line: Black Women Speak on Gender Ideology (The Anthology)

I wrote each of these works with the general public in mind (which I do not always do). If someone genuinely wanted to understand my point of view, and learn foundations to properly and holistically deconstruct gender ideology, there we have it.

And without further ado… (((cue looney tunes music)))

That’s all folx!!!

OK, not exactly…

What I mean is—I want to write about other things that move me. I am not a political puppet—I am an ARTIST. I have always peppered my blog with writings about other topics; pretty much whatever I want, to the utter delight and/or shock and dismay of my subscribers. Even my youtube channel, which I started in 2008, platformed my hodgepodge of well-articulated, yet totally left-field thought.

This marks a more intentional shift towards that.

I already have another memoir brewing in my womb, and other topics that have been on my mind and heart. New things I want to learn about, and new things I have to say, and old stories I have yet to share.

I have *gasp* other controversial opinions. Maybe nothing as holistically catastrophic as believing men cannot be women...But, things that would make certain people angry.

Like, my beliefs that cats should have freedom to enjoy nature, my affirmative beliefs on the “right to die”, Pan-Africanism, or…seriously wondering if I should be single and celibate for the remainder of my youth, despite being a total siren.

My platform is not centered around controversy—but this marks a shift for me to welcome more diversity in my research and writing, and more breathing room to focus on other creative work.

This summer, I will also be reviving my Women’s Wellness platform, and further pouring into my own emotional and sexual healing journey. The fruits of this work will be shining through, and I will also be sure to announce the release of my new platforms when they are available.

It’s not that I’m going to stop talking about gender ideology completely. This is something that impacts my daily life, whether I like it or not. And because I’ve gone so public with my views, I’m now properly going against the grain in society.

That said, I am a full-time working Artist. And in my opinion…given the quality, consistency, and authenticity of my work—I should’ve been a Substack bestseller.

So, if you want to compensate me for my work, especially through the economic risks I take for my outspokenness, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. 💐

(((¡Shoutout to my paid subscribers!)))

My outspokenness will always follow me like a shadow—even if I decide to make art about bubblegum and lollipops for the rest of my life.

So I anticipate that there may continue to be things I occasionally need to speak and/or vent about regarding the trans issue—especially how gender ideology impacts me as a whole person. Everything I have learned about gender ideology informs the consciousness of my work, no matter what I do. And (unfortunately) I retain a hyper-awareness about transgenderism that influences how I move through life.

🎼Every step I taaaake, every move I maaake…

I am also open to further amplify my voice on platforms that feel aligned and authentically welcoming to my perspective on the subject.

Not the ones who want to use me as a scapegoat for their corny-ass liberal circus show….but the real ones who are ready to talk sense amidst chaos.

Real Recognize Real.

I expect that in 5-10 years when this hollow empire starts to visibly crumble, people will come sniffing around for the OG’s who have held it down this entire time, and that would most definitely be me.

I am not necessarily seeking such opportunities now, nor do I expect them to be handed to me in such a culture of fear; but I am open to them as they arise. Hay Oprah!

So, sit back and enjoy the ride.

The end of an era marks a new beginning, and we’re just getting started.

Thanks for rocking with me. 🌺

Editor’s Note:

This is a guest post written by , a brilliant writer who is currently incarcerated in Chowchilla Women’s Prison. Tomiekia is one of our honorable contributing authors for my new anthology, She Holds The Line: Black Women Speak on Gender Ideology.

This essay is different from the one published in the anthology, but it shares the same theme about Tomiekia’s eye-opening experience and insights about being housed with male inmates, including more detail about the puppet masters who have created this reality for women.

You can read more of Tomiekia’s work in She Holds The Line. Enjoy!

Complicit Judge Favors Male Convicts in Women’s Prisons

Please pick up your clothes, we have them folded! Is the over represented attitude of incarcerated women in the Central California Women’s Facility where Eastern District of California (Fresno) Judge Jennifer L. Thurston refuses to ship out predator male prisoners from the women’s quarters where we are under constant attack.

With astonishing and copious evidence of these predators criminally engaging in rapes, batteries, unwanted touching on women’s breasts, swiping genitals across women’s buttocks, exposing genitals in women’s bathrooms and other shared spaces, has taken a backseat for profits dispatched to government officials, the fractured prison medical apparatus, ambushed mental health programs, and supporters of the game men and judges play with women’s lives -- making abuse a lucrative business.

Ostensibly, Judge Thurston is a loyalist to the Democrats as she fails to return men to their own prison, complicit in inflicting more harm upon women hiding in our cells. Her negligence implies she disgracefully believes it’s legal for incarcerated women to have consensual sex with male convicts. According to the California Title 15 Rules & Regulations and the Prison Rape Elimination Act, it’s a criminal act for any inmate to engage in sex. “No means no, and yes is not allowed,” appears affixed to prison walls throughout the complex.

I dare Thurston to apply her wrongheaded premise to Custody Officers who women’s organizations like California Coalition for Women’s Prisoners, led by rep Colby Lenz, accuse of rape and sexual misconduct without fail, to shift the attention away from the male convicts they keep in our women’s prisons for sexual gain and t-axpayer funded gender transition surgeries to the tune of millions annually. How about teens that “consent” to have sex with adults? According to Thurston’s logic, pedophilia should also be legal.

California is one of the oldest holdover slaver states who don’t care much about the wellbeing of its tenants. I’ve blown up so many lives California could’ve salvaged, but profiting off cruel and unusual grim treatment is more important to politicians like Gov. Gavin Newsom and Senator Scott Wiener, who passed and authored SB132, which forcibly houses men in the only 2 women’s prisons of 33 prisons statewide, and Judge Thurston, who turns two blind eyes to strong evidence of male convicts Dancing at the Pink Pony Club victimizing women. In Chandler v. CDCR, filed again 7/19/24, after Thurston d-ropped the original case filed in 2021, Thurston is still working to protect the male predators who actually inserted themselves in the case as “interveners.”

Now one would think, men trying to figure out how to stay in women’s prisons would be on their best behavior. Not so, interveners Tremayne Carroll and Kelli Blackwell are the most rebellious against the law. Undoubtedly, it’s incredibly difficult for male prisoners to abstain from sexual conduct with broken down women who have arrested development dating back to when they were first incarcerated. I submit it’s a bigger struggle to be an unattainable attractive incarcerated woman, independent, wise, healthy, successful, uncompromising and completely out of their reach.

The stalking, sabotage, and sexual harassment I’ve experienced is nauseating. Thurston; Newsom; Wiener; the most accountable, are negligent and derelict in their duty as they sit with knowledge through eye witness accounts of crimes against women, and blood on their hands. They simply don’t care.

Intervener Carroll was finally charged with rape and witness intimidation and sent back to the men’s prison (should’ve never left). This was only after he stalked and harassed me for years, allegedly raped and impregnated women, beat one fetus from its mother’s womb, then buried it in the yard.

Intervenor Blackwell is another well known mean predator. His female cellies complained about him sitting at the table in the makeshift kitchenette commando, genitals hanging between his legs. He would harass them at the sinks while they brushed their teeth, styled their hair, and applied makeup.

One of Governor Newsom’s Peer Mentors told me Blackwell was the vixen victim of a woman taking sex from him. I opined, he is so familiar with manipulating P-REA to his benefit, he should’ve easily reported her for rape -- crickets. A coworker described an on the job situation she had with Blackwell. She was “shook” when the 6-foot-1, man bulked and “snapped” on her while she gave him instructions in her role as “lead.”

Other coworkers described the lead as “usually very calm, but he rattled her,” leaving her trembling after a verbal dispute with Blackwell. Women complained about Blackwell sharing the workplace low partition bathroom, citing, “he thinks because he sits down it’s OK. We still know he had to move his parts... He gets upset when women wait until he is finished to use the bathroom.

We will never be comfortable with this, and only the women who want to be intimate with them will be.” One upside, when a Blackwell victim spoke out, the Board of Parole Hearings commended her for growth, reporting abuse. A stark contrast from when I spoke out and was put in solitary confinement.

When I reported sexual harassment, stalking, and a-ssault by Florencia-13, Transnational gang member, Michael Contreras, who once blew the head of a fellow gang member clean from his shoulders, I was placed in a human size cage, shackled and perp walked to confinement for “protective custody.” Contreras was an “enforcer” for the Mexican M-afia, o-rdered to “t-ax all d-rug dealers...to kill rival B-lacks...” (Police Magazine) While in the men’s prison, he was charged with the murder of a fellow prisoner, and accused of raping another. Still, Gov. Newsom and Senator Wiener’s criminal SB132 policy, encouraged him to invade and prey upon CCWF.

The latest breach of my privacy came when one of Newsom’s most disrespectful constituents, Mr. James Robinson, who sat on San Quentin’s Death Row 30 years, stalked me. He is known for the infamous “Subway Murders,” when he, self described, “popped those two kids” while buying a sandwich. Twice he came to my cell pretending to look for my cellies; I was in my underwear, frozen. It reminded me of when Michael Contreras would push a woman in a wheelchair down my hall while I was stepping from the shower.

I would step back in to avoid his gaze; Which is precisely why I had to verbally embarrass Mr. Robinson in the laundry room when he put his grimy hands on my wet bras and panties. I felt so violated, as this predator was already accused of having visible boners in his state issued panties. His cellies said he would rudely hang his underwear in the shared commons spaces, gawk at their behinds, and slammed metal drawers to scare them awake early in the morning.

One woman said, “this is an antagonizing individual. He never lived with men in San Quentin.” She opined, “how could he fit in with women?” But it’s Gov. Newsom who allows savage men who committed murders heinous enough to earn them the Death Penalty, to be loose among the female population, as he desegregated Death Row for his failed “California Model,” pet prison project. And his codefendant, Senator Wiener, craftily plays both sides of legal fences. He is a proponent of criminalizing women who are trafficked by pimps he slaps on the wrist.

Wiener is fine with women prostituting themselves but frowns upon those who report rape, and he supports laws that get predator pedophile men off the hook for sexing little boys. Philanderer Newsom, and Oscar Mayer Wiener’s behavior are consistent with d-rug addiction and sexual misconduct that warrants investigating. And Judge Thurston doesn’t fall far from the t-ree, refusing to recuse herself from a case where her real estate husband financially benefited from.

Although Thurston peeps Behind the Barz watching incarcerated women be sodomized, impregnated, and beat down, her commitment to the LGBTQ+ has recused her from issuing a preliminary injunction to protect women. Conversely, and ostensibly, she helped protect her husband’s multi family real estate broker business, issuing a preliminary injunction to prevent law enforcement from making lawful arrests on illegal immigrants -- her husband’s best customers. Folks were outraged, calling for Thurston’s arrest for obstructing justice.

Incidentally, during her confirmation hearing, Thurston was asked, “if there was a domestic violence call with allegation the aggressor is armed, who should respond? Police or social worker?” Thurston recused herself here to, replying, “this is an important decision for emergency response personnel. I lack the experience to opine.” Do-nothing judges create the need for vigilante just-us seekers like a Tomiekia Johnson, Karen Read, even Snowden. Especially when we’ve been sabotaged and framed by corrupt law enforcement.

Unfortunately, some incarcerated women are gullible, easy, plain stupid. They need Judge Thurston to protect them from bad choices, remove male convicts from women’s prisons, abolish SB132, and ban men from ever being housed with women again. Additionally, Newsom and Wiener have used male convicts to destabilize women’s rehabilitation, making them dependent on d-rugs, meds, and dysfunction that leads to depression, overdoses, suicide, and higher recidivism rates, bringing them right back to prison upon release!

I wouldn’t be surprised if Newsom and Wiener have risk assessments that include life insurance policies for women killed by their narcissism. While Judge Thurston sits pleasantly on her hands, I recommend her overseers demand she protect incarcerated women, or recuse herself entirely from the bench. Incarcerated women want predator men to pick up their clothes, we have them folded; Meet us at the door; It’s open!

Author Biography

Tomiekia Johnson is a B-lack Christian mother of a collegiate-scholarship-basketball-playing daughter following in her footsteps, a former drama and theater student with a Bachelor’s in Public Administration, and former CHP Officer, with 15 years of law enforcement experience. Wrongly incarcerated, she is a journalist, author, poet, orator, women’s and girls ‘ sports rights activist, aggressive whistle blower, inside organizer, art curator, rapper/spoken word artist. She has a credential as a Minister of the Gospel and facilitated Grief Share in the Protestant Chapel, Live-Learn-Prosper, Life Skills, and has a special credential to train potential facilitators throughout the entire inmate population – T4T.

Tomiekia wrote “Looking Through The Window: Incarcerated Women Struggle With Faith in Prison”, “B-lack Widow”, “They Not Like Us”, “Grooming Officer Johnson: a Journey from the Academy to the Penitentiary”, and started a handful of additional books still being lived out. Upon release, Tomiekia will be a momager to her daughter, a supportive family member, doting friend, active church member, domestic violence survivor advocate, girls’ and women’s rights speaker, and trauma-informed consultant to high-profile people who are fed up with yes men and women. Tomiekia trusts God, bets on herself, doesn’t suffer fools well, and never bows to Baal.

Calls to Action 📣

Tomiekia is newly on Substack! Subscribe to her blog for future writings.

Join thousands of others in supporting Tomiekia’s journey to justice by signing her change.org petition to be granted commutation so that she can return home to her family.

If you appreciate this essay, please share it with others! Thanks for your support.

Greetings Everyone!

I’m very proud and excited to share our groundbreaking podcast discussion for She Holds The Line: Black Women Speak on Gender Ideology!

Our discussion features myself alongside two of the book’s co-authors, Krysta Elora and Sia Mensah.

We dive deep into the personal journeys behind the essays and poetry we contributed for the book—including a rich discussion about our experiences as LGB and detrans women, how trauma informs trans identity, the religious nature of gender ideology, the particular burden of transgenderism on black women, and more!

But don’t be fooled—amidst all the serious and vulnerable talk, we had a BALL!!!

✨Vibes, Vibes, Vibes✨

So, sit back with a cup of tea and enjoy this 90 minute watch. I guarantee you there is nothing quite like this on the internet!

How to Support This Video

If you love our discussion and you would like to help this video (and the book) reach a wider audience, please visit this link to watch on Youtube, like the video, leave a comment underneath the video, and share the direct link with your networks!

Likes, comments, and shares boost the video’s visibility in the Youtube algorithm—especially when they are made within the first hour of the video’s launch.

Also, please restack posts about the videos so that it can circulate on Substack, including this one! Over the next several days, I will also be posting short video clips of our podcast, so you’re welcome to share whichever clips resonate with you.

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She Holds The Line is now available for purchase! You are welcome to order your copy of the anthology here.

This amazing project was made possible by an Artist Grant from FAIR in the Arts. Thank you for believing in this project and investing in my vision!

Thank you also to my paid subscribers and everyone who has supported my work over the years in various ways.

I appreciate you and I hope you enjoy this beautiful project. Enjoy 🌺

This is an narrated excerpt from the Introduction of my latest book, “She Holds The Line: Black Women Speak on Gender Ideology,” a groundbreaking anthology of personal essays and poetry exploring the adverse impact of the transgender movement on the lives of black women. You can find a full book synopsis here.

She Holds The Line is now available for purchase. If you enjoy the anthology, please leave a review, share the book with your networks, and recommend it to your library.

Next week, I look forward to sharing our amazing video discussion with two of our co-authors about the topics presented in this book. Stay tuned!

Thanks so much for your support! 🌺

She Holds The Line: An Introduction

This anthology has been a long time coming. Ever since I started researching and writing about gender ideology in 2022, I have always envisioned black women’s voices uniting as a collective force. This book is a manifestation of that vision.

From day one, I have been intentional about creating greater visibility for black women so that we can know we’re not alone, and carving out a space for us within this social and political discourse so that the rest of the world can learn from our wisdom and our lives.

Black Women’s Studies has been a passion of mine from a young age. In 2013, I published my first feature-length documentary film, Reflections Unheard: Black Women in Civil Rights. Reflections Unheard focuses on black women’s contributions and political marginalization between the Black Power and Feminist movements of the 1960s and 70s.

In many ways, this book carries the same spirit as Reflections Unheard. I am bringing forth illuminating stories and powerful, highly impactful voices that don’t get as much shine as others, due to marginalization and silencing.

But before I get into the nitty-gritty about the ethos behind this black women-focused anthology, let’s ground in a few basic terms for those who may be new to the concepts of “gender ideology,” which we will be discussing in this book.

* * *

Gender ideology is a philosophy in which gender identity supersedes biological sex. In practice, this happens by privileging transgender identities in law, medicine, social life, and many other facets of society.

For example, if a man believes that womanhood is based on looking or behaving a certain way, he may also believe that he is a woman because he aspires to have those qualities. If he lives in a society that enforces gender ideology, the law then allows him the right to demand that others treat him in alignment with his self-perception.

Notice that I am using the words concept, philosophy, and transgender-ism. It’s important to note that “Trans” is, by definition, rooted in self-perception and chosen identity that is often influenced by a learned set of beliefs about gender stereotypes.

Unlike race or biological sex, transgenderism is not rooted in anything material. It is also not a medical status, sexual orientation, aesthetic, personality trait, or innate quality.

Trans is just an identity.

Of course, different people may have their own convictions about how they define transgenderism—and that is exactly my point. When you read the dictionary and legal definitions of Transgender, it is defined by one’s personal identity. And when you compare that to a variety of trans perspectives, including people who have “detransitioned”…you find that trans identities are based on fluid concepts that anyone can mould to their liking, and opt into or out of as they see fit.

In modern times, the Western world has codified gender ideology into law and society. So, for example, if a male chooses to adopt a female gender identity, the law will treat him as a woman.

Because males have obvious physical strength over women, and because men are women’s primary predators, transgender laws have placed women in an even more vulnerable position, as it is now legal for males to infiltrate female-only spaces which were originally designed for our privacy, protection, and holistic wellbeing.

This is not just a hypothetical problem; it is a very real issue that impacts women at all levels of society. The everyday woman who relies on female spaces for professional opportunity, gatherings, healing, or even just to use the public restroom, is impacted.

But the most vulnerable women amongst us are impacted even more severely. Women who are under the stewardship of the state by way of incarceration, domestic violence survivorship, and homelessness are now forcibly housed with abusive males who identify as women. And because it’s legal, their cries for help are often ignored.

More women are being raped, bullied, and impregnated in captivity as a direct result of transgender self-ID laws. As black women comprise 30% of the prison population and over 40% of the homeless population, despite us being just 13% of the U.S. female population, we are disproportionately represented in these vulnerable groups.

Women’s safety is only one slice of the problematic pie. There are many physical and psychological harms being done to children, LGB people, and trauma survivors who genuinely aspire to be perceived as something they can never become through false identities and experimental cosmetic surgeries. Additionally, those who rely on controlling other people’s language and natural sensibilities to validate their own self-esteem will inevitably find themselves frustrated and deeply unwell.

This is one of the biggest factors that pushed me to begin speaking out: Policing and Control.

The amount of policing towards women to stay unquestioningly silent became increasingly impossible to ignore.

But here, we don’t get in line; we hold the line.

* * *

Gender Ideology came into my purview early on, through my personal relationships and my involvement in various “LGBT” communities. Initially, I embraced Transgenderism because I misunderstood it to be a natural part of the gay and lesbian spectrum. It was only after transgenderism entered mainstream consciousness and corporate affairs, when I found myself being pressured under the weight of a rapidly changing language and culture that erased, shamed, and neglected women under the guise of progression.

But when I finally began to research the topic to further clarify my thoughts on the issue, I noticed that all the speakers were white. The most visible speakers were, of course, conservative men and women. However, the talking points which most resonated with me were those of liberal women’s rights advocates and detransitioners who questioned the progressive status quo—the “gender-criticals”…yet they too, were overwhelmingly white.

Ironically, the whiteness of gender critical discourse tends to backfire on itself. Gender-criticals are ignorantly pegged as “racist white supremacists” by leftists—the main group that they’re trying to educate...and I do feel that optics play a large role in that.

Aside from whiteness, Gender-critical people are further stereotyped as conservative, homophobic, religious zealots, or just plain ignorant and hateful due to lack of contact with the transgender community.

This anthology pushes back against all of those stereotypes; not necessarily through our writing, but because of who we are.

I think that in any movement, it’s incredibly important that everyone who is impacted has a voice and proportionate visibility, because it creates balance and depth of understanding around the root issue.

Of course, I always knew that the most visible voices weren’t representative of the full picture. I felt like the whitewashing of gender-critical discourse was a byproduct of white people simply defaulting to whiteness—even when other groups are equally or more heavily impacted by the issues at hand.

This is a common issue in many different spheres. It’s not so much that black voices are intentionally excluded, but moreso that we’re not thought of. Or if we are, we are only thought of marginally; not in any way that suggests our perspectives are integral. This, of course, leads to a situation where our perspectives are not actively sought out. The result is that most established platforms end up being very homogeneous.

Meanwhile, I deeply care to hear from black women. For me, our perspectives are not marginal or “niche”—they are a must. I was always scouring the Earth to find us, and here we are.

On a personal level, I felt very alone in my consciousness for a long time. I knew that these issues impacted us in unique ways that were not heard of, and that in general—a record of our dissent needed to be created. This book fills that gap.

* * *

What I love most is the incredible diversity of this book. Yes, we are all black women—but we come from different backgrounds and lived experiences. We have women in age ranges from Gen-Z to Boomers; lesbian, bisexual, and straight women; women who have previously identified as transgender (or loved someone who has); mothers and childfree women; currently and formerly incarcerated; and of course, we hail from various careers and passions in life.

There is also incredible religious and spiritual diversity amongst our authors. Some women are Christian, some are Jewish (or exploring Judaism), some were born and raised Muslim (although they are no longer practicing). And some, like me, are Spiritual, and may practice indigenous African or Pagan traditions, but are otherwise non-religious.

I think this is important to note, because our spiritual diversity represents the black community. Most black people are spiritual in some way, but that does not necessarily make us religious zealots. Many of us have also had the privilege to heal our religious trauma. Not only does this make us sensitive to the religious nature of gender ideology, but we are also highly empathetic towards people who have shared similar backgrounds, no matter how they may identify.

The result is that this anthology is quaintly sized, but incredibly rich and powerful. Each piece carries its own unique wisdom and magic. Together, we all pack a punch!

If you’d like to support this anthology or learn about the authors, you can find more information at the end of the book.

I invite you to read this book with an open heart and mind, keep it on your bookshelf as a companion to this cultural discourse, and allow it to widen your perspective.

Thank you.

Greetings Everyone!

I am very proud and happy to share that my latest anthology, She Holds The Line: Black Women Speak on Gender Ideology is now published!

Book Summary

She Holds The Line is a groundbreaking anthology of personal essays and poetry exploring the adverse impact of the transgender movement on the lives of black women.

This powerful collection features 13 African-American women who courageously share their narratives of how the modern trans movement reinforces oppression and erasure within their own lives, and the world at large.

Through vulnerable stories and sharp analysis, these women critique the political rhetoric of queer culture and share their vision of what true liberation and healing can look like for all of us.

The women featured in this book hail from all walks of life. We hear from detrans, lesbian, and bisexual women, women who are currently and formerly incarcerated, as well as artists, academics, mothers, and veterans.

Many of the authors have been subjected to cancel culture in their personal and professional lives for questioning or rejecting gender dogma, while others have experienced more severe abuses as a direct result of modern transgender self-ID laws, which allow men more liberal access to female spaces.

The powerful stories contained within this book shatter common stereotypes of who holds dissenting views on this subject, and why.

Readers are invited to open their minds and hearts along with this book, allowing it to expand their worldview.

Featured Authors include: Venus Angela, Krysta Elora, Dawn Jackson, Tomiekia Johnson, Tiffanie Victoria Jones, A’Ja Lyons, Sia Mensah, Khadijah La Musa, N3VLYNNN, A. Shanté, Sibyl Shaw, Shawn Walker, and Kristin Zebrowski.

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Where to Buy The Book & How To Support

She Holds The Line is now available for pre-order on Amazon, with an official release date of May 30th for both print and ebook versions. I also have a limited number of signed print copies available on my Artist website.

You can preview the book and find all purchasing links here.

If you enjoy the book, I highly encourage you to leave a review on the platform where you purchased it, and recommend it within your social networks and public library.

Amazon sales and reviews really help to boost the book’s overall visibility.

So, if you know that you would like to leave a review, I highly recommend purchasing the book through Amazon to support its initial launch.

EDIT: Wow, A few hours after this announcement, all of the signed copies in my Artist website shop are sold out! Thank you so much for your support. I have updated my website with a 2nd indie option to purchase the book apart from Amazon.

Bookbaby offers authors higher royalties than any other platform, and they are the ones who printed my book. You are still welcome to leave a review on their platform!

The book is available on a few other platforms too-I am just recommending the stores that are most impactful to the success of the book right now. Whichever way you choose to support this project will be much appreciated!

This month, I will be sharing a voiceover excerpt of the book’s official Introduction, and I will also be sharing a video discussion with the authors, so stay tuned!

Thanks for your support 🌺

I have received mixed responses on my essay that questions whether trans apologists can be true friends with gender-critical women. I know I initially posed it as a question, but the truth is not so murky. So let me be clear:

Over the years, loads of women have told me that they have friends who disagree with them on the trans issue. But there is one thing they all have in common:

They end up silencing themselves to some degree about this subject in their relationship, because their deeply-held convictions make the other person uncomfortable. There is a point they reach where depth of connection remains inaccessible due to the other person’s cognitive dissonance, willful ignorance, or straight up brainwash.

And that is exactly my point: going along to get along, self-silencing, and “tolerance” is not my idea of true friendship. This does not only apply to my own relationships; it represents how I look at friendship as a whole.

But I will speak for myself:

I am willing to hold my tongue amongst strangers, if it is the wiser choice in the moment. I may even be a bit reserved with a new acquaintance, until I know their character.

But I will not cage myself within an inner-circle that requires this behavior of me to maintain a comfortable stance within it. And I will not structure my entire life around making myself palatable to others.

My idea of friendship includes space to rest, fully express, support, and grow together. I should feel comfortable getting emotionally naked with a friend about anything, including this subject. Chosen relationships are a space of deep alignment.

Friendships are not something that I take lightly. The path I walk has eroded the luxury I once felt I had, to take friendships lightly. Illusions have fallen away.

This is why I have walked in solitude for long stretches of time, including a willingness to estrange from my family, and shed friendships that die a natural death:

It’s because I am unwilling to live a lie.

Despite being very open-hearted and loving towards people…if someone is not (or is no longer) aligned with me…they will not be close to me anymore. Period.

This is not coldness; it is clarity. Intimacy is earned through true connection, and connection cannot be forged. It is shown through the substance and health of your relationship, not through its utility or mere presence.

For me, being as outspoken as I am, taking the risks that I do—I have had to unveil people’s character very quickly. The deeper I have gone into my journey as an Artist who pushes boundaries, the more I have had to open my eyes to the truth around me, even when it is hard, heartbreaking, and inconvenient.

Even amongst the more “open-minded” liberals...some can walk a little bit with you on this subject but they will most definitely leave you high and dry when push comes to shove.

I am living that push-to-shove all the time. So I see past the niceties, I see past the surface, and I am no longer thirsty for basic agreeance with my views. At this point, I require solidarity.

But you can’t show solidarity when you are busy walking in the opposite direction.

And that is my point...

When someone adopts gender ideology, they are not choosing their own path, they are choosing a path that has been manufactured for them.

It is a socially engineered conveyer belt, paved along a pretty yellow brick road.

But when you look at the end point of that path, you’ll see that there is no way that you can reject gender ideology, and still be equally yoked with someone who is happily skipping down that road, or simply standing still while it moves beneath their feet. Because ironically, their path is not “inclusive” of people like you.

Sooner or later, you have to get off the road and find people who are walking with you into the light. Otherwise, you’ll just be shuffling around in purgatory, rejecting truth, and rejecting yourself.

It is nothing personal. It’s not about being a good or bad person. It is what it is.

What ends up happening is that many people don’t want to look at the end of the road, or they don’t know how to, or they are not aware that that pretty little road leads them to a very sharp fork that demands strict compliance, where they can no longer hide behind shades of grey.

And that fork usually shows up sooner than expected, because it’s always moving and mutating, designed to catch you off guard, like a random strip search.

And if they arrive at that fork and make the “wrong” choice, they will most certainly be dropped off and left in the dust—whether emotionally, economically, or literally.

I have to look at the end of these roads all the time for my own safety and wellbeing. I have to study the map from all angles and get ahead of the curb. I navigate these roads like a video game.

I can easily discern whether someone is equipped to walk with me. I can see where someone is going, because they show me, and the proof is in the pudding of their life.

But hey, it’s cool if we don’t walk together at the same time! Some people will never get it, while others will catch up later…and that’s OK!

But I am right here, right now. And I am not going to turn around and abandon my own path to close my eyes, play dumb, and hightail my ass down a Yellow Brick road, or allow someone else to weigh me down with their own well-meaning confusion...just because they happen to show up for life in a different place.

Most importantly…

I will not derail myself to hold someone else’s hand, when they don’t even know how to hold mine.

It’s better that we respect ourselves and part ways right here. Because I know what I deserve, even if it’s not standing in front of me right now.

I understand that this is an inconvenient truth, but it is the truth nonetheless.

Don’t shoot the messenger. ✌🏾

Yesterday, I received an email from my father.

I know most of my family estrangement writings have focused on my Mother, but that’s mostly because I’ve been estranged from my Father for much longer, and the wounds I have from my Dad are not as fresh.

I have also had a more distanced relationship with my Dad throughout my entire life. While my father has made a huge impact on my life, his parenting has mostly happened at arm’s length. Therefore, my relationship with my Father has carried less emotional complexity than that with my Mom.

Being that I hadn’t spoken with my Dad in a few years, and I thought he had given up on contacting me, I was surprised to see a message from him in my inbox—and a sweet-talking one, at that. I’d like to share what memories, thoughts and feelings his message brought up for me, and how I’d like to move forward.

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