Black Model T: More than a Revolution

I am not a prototype built in a secret society of spiritual mimicry and illumination. I am not the Stepford version of a revolutionary woman designed for palatable progress".  I am an amalgamation of legacy, memory, trauma, and vision—what some try to dim and reframe as malfunction just because it threatens their glow from within.

They told me to "step out of my comfort zone" while they sat securely in theirs—borrowing my ideas, my spiritual heritage, and my suppressed genius to build new foundations with my stolen bricks. These phrases meant to inspire are often used to manipulate: "Great things come to those who hustle," while they hustle my energy, my name, my family stories. The real comfort zone was theirs: the comfort of inherited privilege, backed by unseen institutions, masked as merit.

When I moved, they labeled my performance erratic. Manipulating the paperwork for new models and better-controlled performers. When I paused, they called it lazy, but studied the come back while handing out the influence. But all the while, they were copying my rhythm, encoding it into algorithms, and using it to power machines, movements, and media designed to reflect my light—without ever giving credit to its source.

They called me a virus during a pandemic, projected illness on my name while prescribing my ideas to others for "public health" and economic reform. They played God with my bloodline—Florence, Warren, Spanish flu, 1920—all inverted into a staged spectacle on Warren Road, while mocking the energy and ancestry I come from as if it were a ghost they could trap and direct the blame to who they wanted to trap and create inverted behaviour patterns to keep racial and family stereotypes and narratives, wearing black and brown men and women with rich bloodlines also abused or used in the system.

I was taught to be polite, but live to forgive offenses unseen and committed in daylight but justified in boardrooms. Meanwhile, I am psychoanalyzed without consent and algorithmically mimicked without pay. My divine downloads became their vaccine against extinction. And still, they call it mentorship.

I was been spiritually "abducted" and trafficked through institutions who award diplomas not for merit but for complicity—those who know better but say nothing. They do the work, yes, but with stolen blueprints. And when I speak up? The world doesn't revolve around me, they say.

But here’s what they can’t overwrite: I am a woman, and my existence empowers equity. Not performative representation, but lived, breathing truth. To dig for gold isn’t to be a golddigger; it’s to break patterns and plant new roots. My growth is not a trend—it's an ecosystem of healing.

So don’t call me dirty when the system was designed to bury me under it. I’ve risen in soil meant to smother. And yes, I’ve stumbled—but I never stopped rising. The same cannot be said for those who prayed with an "e" for my downfall just so I wouldn't get an "A."

Let that sink in: They were preying for me, not praying for me. Because I am not just a Black Model T. I am part of the whole assembly line of memory, mastery, and metamorphosis that they were trying to erase, with rubber. Imagine, erasing ink with rubber and its a fountain pen?