Notices by Kim Crayton ~ Her/She (kimcrayton1@dair-community.social)

“Good white folx,” it’s now at your door.

The hate.
The coverups.
The justifications meant to strip you of dignity and humanity.

It’s ugly. It’s harsh. It’s violent.

But it has always been this way.

For years, I’ve said something many of you did not want to hear: that “good white folx” would eventually find themselves harmed by the very systems, institutions, and policies rooted in the myth of white supremacy that you believed protected you by default.

I’ve spent most of today watching videos of non-Black communities questioning, begging, and in some cases demanding that Black folx “come outside.”

To show up.
To lead.
To save.
To stand on the front lines again.

And I ended my day watching the Celebration of Life for Richard Smallwood, and it clarified something for me that I haven’t seen articulated in this way.

Have Latina, Asian, Palestinian, Jewish, and other non-Black communities historically participated in anti-Blackness on this soil? Absolutely.
Have many used proximity to whiteness as insulation, as a way to be seen as the “model minority,” as a way to say we are not like them? Absolutely.
Were anti-Black tropes deployed loudly before and after the 2024 election? Absolutely.

Are many still shocked to learn that Black descendants of enslaved people in this country are not immigrants? Absolutely.

All of that is true.

But what I don’t think is being said clearly is this:

Black folx staying home right now is not about wanting anyone else to suffer.

It’s about knowing, from centuries of evidence, that without discomfort and consequence, many of you will never understand that we get there together or not at all.

We have been cast, by the myth of white supremacy, as everyone’s enemy and everyone’s servant at the same time.

Expected to be of service to every struggle while our own is minimized, debated, delayed, or traded away when convenient.

Watching that service reminded me of who we are as a community.

We are here in spite of being bought, sold, tortured, maimed, experimented on, raped, lynched, and dehumanized in ways most people cannot even bring themselves to say out loud. And yet we still create joy. Still create music. Still create beauty. Still create community.

So when Black folx say “no” to rushing back to the front lines, it is less about abandoning anyone and more about protecting ourselves from a pattern we know all too well.

We have more than enough historical data to know what happens when we show up first, loudest, and most consistently for others whose behavior has repeatedly shown that, when the pressure comes, we will be left standing alone.

This is a season of rest. Of regrouping. Of tending to ourselves and our community.

Because we know the fight will come for us again, as it always does.

And we are choosing to be ready for that, instead of exhausting ourselves proving, yet again, that our humanity should have always been enough.

https://www.youtube.com/live/niIFVwnnxGE

#LifeBeyondTheSupremacyMyth #ProfitWithoutOppression #KimCrayton

I woke up this morning with two things looping in my mind.

The lyrics to Michael Jackson’s “Will You Be There”
and the phrase, “I am that I am.”

They arrived alongside something I’ve said for years and wish I didn’t know to be true: nothing meaningfully changes until white folx lose what they’ve always assumed was guaranteed.

And by “everything,” I don’t mean comfort or status. I mean the freedom and democracy Black folx in this country have never experienced, yet have fought hardest to protect. Over and over again. Most clearly through the Black vote, cast not out of naïveté but out of a stubborn, disciplined hope that reform was still possible. That maybe one day this nation would become, for everyone, what white folx have always taken for granted.

That hope is heavy to carry right now.

There is a low-grade anxiety that never fully leaves. An awareness that something unethical is always loading. A quiet question that greets the day: What will I wake up to this time? What new erosion of dignity, safety, or truth will be framed as necessary, inevitable, or just “the way things are”?

The myth of white supremacy thrives in this instability. It teaches white folx to experience accountability as persecution, limits as oppression, and the loss of unearned advantage as injustice.

It promises greatness while delivering fear. Control while producing chaos. Certainty while hollowing out meaning.

And still, Black folx continue to show up, often as the moral firewall for a democracy that has never shown up for us in return. Fighting for systems we were excluded from. Defending freedoms we were never allowed to fully access. Believing, again and again, that repair was possible.

That contradiction is exhausting.

“I am that I am” isn’t resignation. It’s grounding. It’s a refusal to contort myself to make sense of a world that keeps asking the most harmed to be the most patient, the most generous, the most hopeful. It’s a reminder that my clarity doesn’t require consensus. That my worth doesn’t depend on whether this country ever tells the truth about itself.

We are living in a moment where the illusion is cracking. Where what white folx assumed was permanent is proving fragile.

Where the structures built on exclusion are no longer stable enough to hide their violence.

And I don’t say that with celebration. I say it with grief, with resolve, and with a clear understanding that the anxiety we’re all breathing now is the cost of decades of denial.

The question isn’t whether things will change. They already are.

When I talk about Profit Without Oppression, I’m not talking about tearing down every economic idea we’ve inherited. I’m talking about telling the truth about how those ideas have been practiced and the harm those practices continue to produce.

Because the truth is: Capitalism, in theory, is simple.

It’s the idea that someone can sell something of value in exchange for something else valued, grow food, raise animals, build housing, make clothing,

without needing permission or intervention from the government or a titled authority.

Nothing about that idea is inherently supremacist, coercive, discriminatory, or exploitative.

But that’s the theory.

And because words matter, we have to be honest about the difference between theory and practice. Because the way capitalism was talked and written about is not the way it was implemented, scaled,

enforced, or justified, especially in societies built on the myth of white supremacy and its companion, white male supremacy.

The “practice” of capitalism we live with today didn’t evolve from neutral economic principles.

It evolved from:

➡ stolen land
➡ stolen labor
➡ monopolized opportunity
➡ differential access to safety, mobility, and dignity
➡ systems, institutions, and policies designed to consolidate profit for some by extracting value from everyone else

If we don’t name that, then we replicate it.

If we don’t interrogate the justifications for harm, we reproduce them inside whatever “new” system we build.
Without clarity, all we have is 6 on one hand and half a dozen on the other.

And that’s why Profit Without Oppression matters.

It’s an economic theory grounded in the belief that:

✔️ profit should not require sacrificed humanity
✔️ innovation should not demand exploitation
✔️ leadership should not be synonymous with domination

✔️ and “value creation” should not depend on someone else’s suffering

The dictionary defines capitalism as:

“An economic system in which the means of production and distribution are privately or corporately owned and development occurs through the accumulation and reinvestment of profits gained in a free market.”

That’s the theory.
But practice, your practice, is a choice.

White men especially have been socialized to believe that exploitation is a feature, not a bug. That domination is efficiency. That cutting corners is strategy. That winning requires someone else to lose.

But none of that came from capitalism.
It came from the myth of white supremacy and capitalism became the tool used to scale it.

Profit Without Oppression is the invitation to deprogram those myths and rebuild an economic practice that aligns with the theory so...

After I shared my recent reflection on being labeled “intimidating,” a member of the PWO Community offered this response. He affirmed something I already knew, that for many white men, it’s the first time they’ve encountered a Black woman who says “no” without softening it, explaining it, or reshaping herself to protect their comfort.

But what struck him even more was the amount of grace he experiences inside the PWO Community.

And here’s why that matters: