Introduction: Why Compare Then and Now?
Some of you might remember my “Race and Prejudice in America Today” series from a decade ago. For those new here, I’m W. Smith III—a Milwaukee native, longtime Daily Kos writer, and someone who has spent years thinking, living, and speaking openly about the realities of race in America. My work has always been about getting to the heart of what it means to be Black in this country—not just to endure, but to question, to challenge, and to look for patterns in the story we keep telling.
I haven’t been absent so much as working in other ways—reading, reflecting, writing longer pieces, and watching the country move through familiar patterns. America’s story on race hasn’t stood still; neither have I. Much has happened since I last posted, but the core truths haven’t changed.
But I didn’t return to these pages out of nostalgia, and I don’t come to mourn what was lost. I come as a witness—to history, to the present, to the patterns that shape not just Black life but American life as a whole. When I first began writing about race here more than a decade ago, I was clear about one thing: I am not just a Black American. I am an American. This story is mine, but it is also yours, and what we see in the mirror is not a private reflection. It’s the country staring back at itself, asking who we are and what we’re willing to do about it.
If there’s a temptation when we talk about race in America, it’s to imagine that the “good old days” were ever really good, or to pretend that this moment is uniquely broken. But the longer I live, the more I realize that these cycles are older than any of us—they morph, shift, and sometimes repeat so quickly you can lose your place in the story. The hope that marked the era of the first Black president felt new, world-shifting. Today, it’s easy to feel like we’re living on the other side of that dream—where advances are now called mistakes, and rights are rebranded as privileges.
The Era of Cautious Hope
Not so long ago, we witnessed what had once seemed impossible: a Black family not only entered the White House, but lived there as the First Family. The symbolism was undeniable. For millions, it meant that history could be more than just a wound—it could also be a doorway. Our children saw themselves reflected in the highest halls of power, and our elders saw a world they never imagined come to life, if only for a moment.
But even as we celebrated, we felt the tension. The symbolism of a Black president carried the full weight of history—centuries of exclusion and expectation—and the burden of being “the first.” Every move was watched, every decision debated, every slip magnified. Progress, when it came, was hard-won: every policy fought for inch by inch, every achievement earned twice—once by merit, again by reassurance that no one else’s place was threatened.
It would be a mistake to discount what those years meant. There were real victories, real cracks in the walls that kept so many locked out. Black writers, artists, thinkers, and everyday citizens gained platforms once unimaginable. But for every step forward, there was a reminder to “not disrupt,” “not alarm,” “not change too much, too quickly.” Even hope, it seemed, came with boundaries. We learned that being at the table is not the same as setting the menu.
The Era of Open Backlash
It didn’t take long for the tide to turn. The same doors that had seemed newly opened began to swing shut with stunning speed and force. Where once bias hid behind coded language, it now stood in the open. The whisper became the headline; the dog whistle became a bullhorn.
Suddenly, diversity and equity—once celebrated as signs of American progress—were recast as threats to unity, even as dangers to democracy itself. Laws and policies appeared across the country to dismantle affirmative action, gut school curricula, and silence honest conversations about justice and history. The facts of the past became targets in a political war, with entire states moving to erase any mention of racism or inequality from the public record.
This was more than a reversal of policy. It was an orchestrated effort to make the very acknowledgment of inequality seem divisive or dangerous. “You can have the symbol, but not the substance,” became the message. “You can celebrate history, but don’t you dare try to change the future.”
What makes this era different is its boldness. It’s not just what happens in the back rooms of power; it’s happening on our screens, in our schools, and in public view. The machinery of erasure is more efficient now—better organized, better funded, and less interested in pretending to be neutral. The cycle repeats, but this time with a confidence that can only come from believing the backlash is permanent.
What We Didn’t See Coming
Looking back, even those of us who’ve studied these cycles were stunned by the speed and brazenness of the reversal. Rights that once took generations to win were suddenly branded as “special privileges.” Unity was no longer even a pretense. The politics of division grew sharper, fueled by fear and by a country tired not of injustice, but of hearing about it.
Perhaps the greatest disappointment was realizing that awareness, by itself, wasn’t enough. Many of us believed that if America saw what we saw—if cameras caught the violence, if headlines named the harm—then change would have to follow. But as the headlines multiplied and as video after video surfaced—each more shocking than the last—the spectacle became background noise. Outrage became routine, and hope began to feel brittle. The fatigue wasn’t just individual; it was collective. People tuned out, retreated into denial, or decided the problem was too big to solve.
But not everyone folded. The backlash didn’t expect that resistance would adapt, too. New leaders stepped up—not just from traditional movements, but from the edges, the margins, and the neighborhoods overlooked by those in power. Coalitions formed, often in unexpected ways, across age, race, and region. Where one door closed, another was pried open—not always gracefully, but with determination and creativity.
And here is where one of the most profound differences between then and now emerges: the role of social media and ordinary people in shaping the narrative. A decade ago, our stories depended on who held the camera, who edited the story, who chose which voices were heard. Today, any bystander with a phone can bear witness. The world has seen “Karens” exposed, police violence recorded in real time, truths that could once be buried by silence or bureaucracy now broadcast for all to see. Our stories are no longer just filtered through the bend of professional reporters—they are captured, archived, and shared by everyday people who refuse to let the truth be erased.
This shift has been both a blessing and a burden. On one hand, injustice is harder to deny when the evidence is so public, so immediate. On the other, the constant exposure to trauma—video after video, headline after headline—can numb even the most vigilant. Social media gave us tools for accountability, but it also multiplied the fatigue, the outrage, the sense of being stuck in a loop.
What Endures: The Script and the Response
If the past decade has taught us anything, it’s that the image of Blackness in America is still manufactured, contested, and commodified. Old myths—about who we are, how we live, and what we deserve—don’t just fade away. They find new life in digital media, in politics, and even in classrooms. The script about Black life in America keeps being rewritten—not to tell the truth, but to protect the status quo. Today’s battles over what can be taught, what can be protested, what can be remembered—these aren’t random. They are strategies to maintain power.
And yet, despite the attacks, resilience endures. Black Americans—and those who stand with us—have never stopped creating, teaching, resisting, and healing. Memory itself becomes an act of protest. Every mural painted, lesson taught, archive kept, or story shared is a defiance against erasure.
We have built institutions, families, art, and scholarship from what was never meant to survive. We raise generations who know how to read between the lines and understand what is at stake when history is up for grabs.
Comparative Truths
So, what has truly changed between then and now? There’s no denying that attacks on civil rights are bolder, the machinery of rollback more sophisticated, the fatigue more widespread. The forces of erasure are louder, unapologetic, and better resourced. Some days, it feels like every step forward is matched by three steps back.
But another truth lives beside it: we are not where we started. Coalitions have grown, not just in number but in strength. The language of justice has more voices behind it than ever before, and those voices are sharper, more insistent, less willing to be silenced or satisfied with appearances. Young people refuse to wait their turn or settle for symbolic progress. Allies, once content to applaud from the sidelines, are being called to real accountability and deeper action.
Visibility matters, but we’ve learned—sometimes the hard way—that there is no liberation in optics alone. Representation is not enough. Structural change is what counts, and the fight for it is louder, harder, but also more creative and more honest than ever.
An Invitation, Not an Indictment
This work is not about blame; it is about responsibility. For Black Americans, for white Americans, for everyone who claims this country as home, the question is not only what happened, but what now? The mirror does not lie. It shows us who we have been, and it challenges us to decide who we want to become.
Courage is needed—not just to protest or post, but to listen, to change, to build, to repair. Curiosity matters—not only about others, but about the stories we tell ourselves, the truths we hide, the fears we inherit. Humility is essential. No one has all the answers, and progress is never the work of one person or one community alone.
For me, writing has always been a form of healing, resistance, and care. I write because the work is unfinished, because silence serves no one, and because clarity—no matter how uncomfortable—is a gift we can give each other.
Conclusion: The Mirror and the Question
The world is watching America. But are we willing to see ourselves? That is the question I return with—the one that sits behind every headline, every protest, every moment of quiet or unrest. We cannot bear witness and then look away. We cannot ask the mirror to flatter us. We can only demand that it show us the truth.
The work ahead is not just to survive the cycle, but to break it—to insist on new stories, new structures, and new forms of belonging. I’m not here for applause. I’m here because I believe that together, we can do more than witness history. We can change it.
I write to invite, not indict. If you’re reading this, you’re part of the next chapter.
