​Virginia, you’ve come a long way, baby. And yet… Something happened in a federal courtroom last week that most Virginians probably missed.  U.S. District Judge John Gibney told Virginia — again — that it is not properly following a federal voting-rights law enacted in 1870.

Yes. 1870.

And this is not simply a disagreement over some obscure old statute.

The judge says Virginia’s interpretation of his earlier ruling may have kept hundreds of thousands of Virginians who should have been eligible to vote from participating in this month’s primary.

So how in the world did we get here?

Earlier this year, Judge Gibney ruled that Virginia had been violating an 1870 federal law intended to protect the voting rights of formerly enslaved people. In his words, the Commonwealth had disobeyed that law for “well over a century.”

He ordered Virginia to stop automatically denying voting rights to people whose convictions fall outside a limited group of felonies recognized under common law in 1870.

Virginia then identified 284 modern crimes that it argued were connected to those original offenses and could therefore still result in disenfranchisement.

Last week, Judge Gibney essentially said:

No. That is not what I told you.

And this is where the history becomes important.

Because it is easy to hear “felony disenfranchisement” and think:

They committed a crime. They lost the right to vote. So what?

Except America’s criminal justice system did not develop in a racial vacuum.

After slavery was abolished, the 13th Amendment left an exception permitting involuntary servitude as punishment for a crime.

Southern states soon enacted Black Codes that criminalized behaviors such as vagrancy, loitering, violating curfews and failing to have employment.

Newly freed Black people could be arrested, convicted and forced back into labor.

They were leased to mines, railroads, farms and private companies. Others were placed on chain gangs and prison farms.

These systems of convict leasing, peonage and forced penal labor persisted in various forms into the World War II era.

So after losing the legal ability to own Black people, parts of the South developed another mechanism:

Criminalize them.
Incarcerate them.
Take their labor.
And take their vote.

These systems of convict leasing, peonage and forced penal labor persisted in various forms until 1945.

When Congress readmitted Virginia to the Union in 1870, Black men had only recently gained the right to vote. Congress specifically restricted Virginia’s ability to create additional crimes and then use those convictions to disenfranchise its citizens.

Congress understood the danger.

Turns out, Congress knew its audience.

And while we are no longer living under Black Codes or convict leasing, the racial disparities within the criminal justice system did not magically disappear with Jim Crow.

That does not mean every conviction is unjust.

It does mean we cannot discuss felony disenfranchisement as though the words crime, race and voting rights have no historical relationship in America.

Which brings us right back to last week.

One hundred fifty-six years after Congress imposed a safeguard because it feared Virginia would use criminal law to undermine the voting rights of newly freed Black citizens, a federal judge in Richmond is still having to enforce it.

Virginia is certainly not the Virginia of 1870.

We have made extraordinary progress.

Virginia, you’ve come a long way, baby.

But history has a wicked sense of humor.

Sometimes it doesn’t stay neatly tucked away in museums, textbooks and old photographs.

Sometimes it walks into federal court in 2026, clears its throat and says:

“Virginia. We discussed this in 1870.”

And yet.

And if you think this is the only old law or policy designed to restrict the rights of African Americans that still has consequences today, you might be surprised.

There are more.

Perhaps we should talk about those, too.

Frankly speaking, 
Adrienne P. Whitaker

​I find the reporting about Harry and Meghan returning to the UK fascinating.

Now, I must admit, I have been fascinated with the Royal Family since I was a child because of my own family connection to the Crown, which I have mentioned in past posts. I get my interest honestly from my grandmother, whose first cousin was Sidney Johnson, the royal valet and confidant of the Duke of Windsor—the former King Edward VIII, who abdicated the throne for the woman he loved.

Sidney became the Duke’s valet while Edward was Governor of the Bahamas. He later traveled with him back to Europe and remained in his employ until Edward’s death. Sidney also became involved in the restoration of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s home and the preservation of their collections.

So yes, I have always paid attention to this family. I guess it is a weird fascination with colonizers. 

And when it comes to Harry, I learned a long time ago to listen to him, believe him, and not bet against him.

Years before Harry ever met Meghan, he told us he wanted to get married, have children and eventually step away from being a full-time working royal.

In 2017, Harry said that he had previously wanted out of royal life, but his grandmother, Queen Elizabeth, encouraged him to stay and carve out a role for himself. He also spoke openly about wondering whether the demands of royal life would ever allow him to have the marriage and family he wanted. In other interviews, he discussed having questioned his royal role as far back as his twenties, particularly after watching what the pressures of that life had done to his mother.

Fast forward.

He meets Meghan. He marries her. They have children.

Then he does almost exactly what he had been telling people for years that he wanted to do.

And the world acted shocked.

When Harry and Meghan stepped back from royal duties in 2020, they said they wanted to become financially independent. They did.

They said they wanted to continue their charitable work independently. They did.

Their Archewell Foundation now has millions of dollars in assets and has supported dozens of charitable organizations and initiatives. Harry continues his work with the Invictus Games, while both Harry and Meghan remain involved with nonprofit organizations, advocacy efforts and philanthropic work.

But there is another part of their original 2020 statement that people seem to forget.

Harry and Meghan specifically said they intended to balance their time between North America and the United Kingdom and that doing so would allow them to raise their son with an appreciation for the royal tradition into which he was born.

That was not something they said yesterday.

They said it in 2020.

Their children are now Prince Archie and Princess Lilibet, grandchildren of the reigning monarch. Those titles became available to them when Charles became King, and Harry and Meghan chose to use them — another indication that they never intended to separate their children from their royal heritage.

And now the reporting is that the Sussex family is preparing to spend significant time in Britain, with Archie and Lilibet reportedly attending school there.

Harry and Meghan themselves have not issued a formal public announcement, so I think it is important to distinguish between confirmed reporting and an announcement directly from the Sussexes.

But the reporting has now gone well beyond one anonymous tabloid rumor. Multiple major news organizations are reporting that the family plans to return to Britain for an extended period and that they will live in a private residence rather than a royal property.

The security question remains important. Harry has spent years fighting over the level of protection available to his family in Britain, and I cannot imagine that he would make a decision involving Meghan, Archie and Lilibet without being satisfied that their safety could be adequately addressed.

Still, if this move happens as reported, I will not be surprised.

Because Harry told us.

Again and again.

He wanted a wife.

He wanted children.

He wanted a life outside the confines of being a working royal.

He wanted financial independence.

He wanted his own charitable work.

And he wanted his children to understand the royal heritage into which they were born.

None of that required him to stop being British.

None of it required him to stop being the King’s son.

And none of it required his children to grow up disconnected from their grandfather or from the country that is part of their identity.

I also think King Charles has always understood that distinction better than much of the public has.

Harry and Meghan are not returning to royal duty.

That is not the same thing as never returning to Britain.

There was a time when Frogmore Cottage was specifically retained as their UK family home after they stepped back, and Harry and Meghan repaid the £2.4 million in public funds used for its renovation($3 million in American dollars). They later gave up the property, and the current reporting says they will now live privately rather than in a royal residence.

So I would not say the Palace literally kept a house waiting for them.

But I do think the family door was never completely closed. The porch light was in for a potential return. 

And perhaps that is what people have missed throughout this entire story.

Harry did not necessarily want to walk away from his family, his country or his heritage.

He wanted to walk away from the job.

There is a difference.

And if these reports are correct, six years later Harry may simply be doing exactly what he told us he intended to do all along. He told us in 2017. He told us again in 2020.

He is bringing his wife and children back to Britain on his own terms.

And their grandfather happens to be the King.

Full stop.

Frankly Speaking,

Adrienne Patrice Whitaker

​Stephen A. Smith gets on my very last nerve.

And after this latest episode, I have reached a decision on behalf of the culture:

Sir, please turn in your Black card at the front desk.

You are also indefinitely suspended from the cookout. No plate. No foil. No “who made the potato salad?” No “to-go plate.” Nothing. Boy, “bye!” 😆

Here is what bothers me.

Stephen has turned his anti-Black women antics into a sport for his own amusement. Who has been on his hit list? Michelle Obama, Kamala Harris, Jasmine Crockett, and Joy Reid.  I have talked about this before.

Does he have the right to disagree with them? Absolutely. We all know he has adopted a very conservative, MAGA-leaning ideology. So, I expect him to disagree with Black women who happen to be liberal. That’s his shtick.

What I don’t expect is the visceral way that he does it — by leaning into systemic stereotypes and bias, with critiques that are sharper than the ones he has for their pale-skinned counterparts.

Yep… he is the walking, breathing embodiment of “not all skin folk are kin folk.”

Until now, that has been why I personally don’t put any merit in anything he has to say. But his most recent antic has moved me from annoyed to embarrassed for him…because he don’t have the good sense to be embarrassed for himself.

The National Association of Black Journalists criticized Stephen A. Smith for his treatment of Black women. He had every right to disagree. He could have challenged the criticism. He could have gone directly to NABJ and had a substantive conversation about why he believed they were wrong.

Instead, this grown Black man went running to Sean Hannity and Chris Cuomo looking for validation. (Yes, I censored myself because I was really thinking this “grown a… man”).

SIR.

You went to white men to complain that Black journalists were being unfair to you for how you publicly treat Black women? You’ve got to be kidding.

You couldn’t have scripted a better Exhibit A if NABJ had written the scene themselves. Dude, you are no victim so stop pretending to be one. You are guilty as charged.

And this is why I continue to struggle with calling Stephen A. Smith a journalist. He is certainly a broadcaster. He is unquestionably an entertainer. He is very good at generating attention, outrage, and ratings.

Hell, I watch him on General Hospital. He’s even pretty good at playing a mobster. 😆

But journalism?

I need somebody to show me the receipts.

Because increasingly, Stephen A. seems less interested in examining an issue than performing his grievance about it — loudly, dramatically, and preferably with a camera rolling. He even enjoys teasing that he will run for President. But guess what bro, the same folks who enjoy watching and laughing at you will never vote for you. You are the minstrel show. 

And running to white media personalities for reassurance after a Black professional organization calls you out?

Baby, that did not clear your name.

That got your Black card laminated, stamped “REVOKED,” and mailed directly back to the issuing authority.

I only have one more thing to say to you, Stephen.

Bless your heart.

Frankly Speaking, 
Adrienne Patrice Whitaker

​The Trump Administration’s Justice Department has targeted my alma mater, William & Mary

I am in no way surprised.

In fact, after the Administration practically declared war on Harvard — something I wrote about last year — I fully expected William & Mary eventually to find itself on the hit list.

Well, here we are.

So, what is the accusation?

The Justice Department’s Civil Rights Division announced that it has opened a compliance review to determine whether William & Mary offers scholarships and other student benefits using racial criteria in violation of Title VI of the Civil Rights Act.

Assistant Attorney General Harmeet Dhillon put it this way: awarding scholarships or opportunities based on the “color of their skin” is illegal.

Okay.

Then let’s talk about what William & Mary is actually doing.

One of the programs specifically identified by DOJ is the Lemon Legal Scholars Program, which provides at least five full-tuition scholarships to admitted William & Mary Law students who are graduates of Historically Black Colleges and Universities.

And here is a fact that seems rather important:

Nowhere does the eligibility requirement say the recipient must be Black.

Not once.

William & Mary Law says the program is for HBCU graduates admitted to its J.D. program. Its published factors for consideration include an undergraduate degree from an HBCU, academic achievement and commitment to civic engagement.

Race is not listed as an eligibility requirement.

Apparently, we now need to explain that HBCU is not a race.

Historically Black Colleges and Universities are historically Black because they were created with a mission of educating Black Americans at a time when Black people were systematically denied access to many of this country’s colleges and universities.

But historically Black has never meant Black-only.

HBCUs have educated students of different races for generations.

In fact, federal education data show that 15% of HBCU students were already non-Black in 1976. Today, approximately 24% — nearly one in four — are non-Black.

And if you still think “HBCU graduate” is simply another way of saying “Black person,” allow me to introduce you to West Virginia State University.

West Virginia State is an HBCU founded in 1891.

According to the university’s own 2024–25 enrollment data:

67.6% of its students are White.

7.4% are Black.

Yes, you read that correctly.

An HBCU where more than two-thirds of the students are White and fewer than one in ten are Black.

So yes, a White student can attend an HBCU.

A White student can graduate from an HBCU.

And a White graduate of West Virginia State University admitted to William & Mary Law is an HBCU graduate just as surely as a Black graduate of Virginia State University is.

HBCU graduate is an educational credential. It is not a race.

Now let’s make this even more interesting.

Since the Justice Department wants to have a conversation about race and educational opportunity at William & Mary, perhaps we should look at William & Mary’s own numbers.

When I attended William & Mary, Black students represented only a tiny percentage of the student body.

In 1987, Black students were approximately 5% of William & Mary’s students.

In the early 1990s, the percentage remained in the single digits.

Today?

Black students still represent only about 5% of William & Mary’s undergraduate population.

I graduated more than three decades ago.

On my graduation day, there were five other Black undergraduate graduates with me.

More than thirty years later, Black representation at my alma mater is essentially in the same numerical neighborhood it was when I was a student.

Let that sink in.

More than three decades later.

About five Black students for every hundred undergraduates.

Meanwhile, the federal government is investigating whether giving five law-school scholarships to graduates of HBCUs — institutions where nearly one out of every four students nationally is not Black and where, in at least one case, nearly seven out of ten students are White — amounts to racial discrimination.

The irony would be amusing if the history weren’t so serious.

Because William & Mary knows its history.

The university acknowledges that it owned and exploited enslaved labor from its founding to the Civil War and failed to take a stand against segregation during the Jim Crow era.

The Lemon Project exists because William & Mary chose to confront that history.

The project bears the name of Lemon, a man enslaved by William & Mary.

And William & Mary Law explicitly says the Lemon Legal Scholars Program was designed to recognize the significance of HBCUs while recruiting their graduates to the J.D. program.

Think about that history for a moment.

For centuries, this country enacted laws, policies and practices specifically designed to deny Black Americans access to literacy, education and institutions of higher learning.

HBCUs were created in large part because Black Americans needed institutions willing to educate them when many existing institutions would not.

And now, generations later, the federal government is scrutinizing scholarships for graduates of those institutions — scholarships that do not require the recipients to be Black — as potentially discriminatory.

You really cannot make this up.

I also happen to be a William & Mary donor.

Every year, I contribute to my named scholarship fund intended to provide opportunities for first-generation students, with a preference for students from underserved communities.

That is intentional.

And no, that scholarship isn’t “for Black people” either.

First-generation is not a race.

Underserved is not a race.

And HBCU graduate is not a race.

Could an institution theoretically use some neutral-sounding criterion as a deliberate proxy for race?

Certainly.

Investigate that.

Examine the evidence.

Apply the law.

But that is very different from beginning with the assumption that graduating from an HBCU tells us the color of someone’s skin.

It does not.

HBCUs admit students of every race. In fact, the U.S. Department of Education explicitly states that HBCUs offer educational opportunities to students regardless of race.

Historically Black is a description of an institution’s history and mission.

It is not an admissions restriction.

And it certainly is not the race of its graduates.

West Virginia State University alone destroys that assumption.

And the Justice Department itself acknowledges that it has reached no conclusions about William & Mary. It has opened a compliance review.

So review it.

Ask the questions.

Look at the criteria.

Follow the evidence.

But if we are going to invoke the Civil Rights Act in the name of educational equality, perhaps we should be willing to examine the whole picture.

Because more than thirty years after I graduated, Black students still constitute only about 5% of William & Mary’s undergraduate population. 

About where we were when I was there.

Perhaps that deserves a serious conversation about educational access too.

Oh and by the way, 90% of the students who recieve scholarships or grants to attend the William & Mary law school are not Black. 

Frankly Speaking,
Adrienne P. Whitaker
@highlight

Two years ago—almost exactly to the day—I wrote a post defending Virginia State University after a shooting occurred on campus.

Today, I find myself thinking about those words again.

For those who may not know my connection to VSU, I am a former Vice President of the university. I left VSU a decade ago, but I never left the VSU family. I established an endowment at the university and have continued to be a proud supporter and booster of Virginia State and its students. My support for VSU did not end when my employment did.

And that is the perspective from which I write today.

Two years ago, I said that VSU is a safe campus, while also acknowledging that no college campus—urban or rural, gated or open—is immune from the violence that exists in the communities around us.

Two years later, we have to address the elephant in the room:

Another shooting has happened at Virginia State University, on its campus.

Five young people were shot. One was a VSU student. Four were not. The individual who has been arrested is also not a VSU student.

Those facts matter. But they do not make what happened any less frightening for the students who were there, the parents and families who received calls or alerts in the middle of the night, the faculty and staff responsible for their well-being, or the alumni who love this university.

There is another elephant in the room that I believe we need to acknowledge as well.

Shootings happen on and around college campuses throughout Virginia and throughout our region.

Just a few weeks ago, on June 29, a 23-year-old man was shot and killed in a home on South Pine Street near VCU’s Monroe Park Campus. Richmond Police investigated the homicide.

I don’t remember seeing a flood of social media posts questioning whether VCU was a safe university because that shooting occurred near its campus. And frankly, I wouldn’t have expected to—because a violent crime occurring in the surrounding community does not automatically tell us something about the safety of the university itself.

Yet I have watched something different happen with Virginia State University.

When a shooting occurs within several miles of VSU—even when the people involved have no connection whatsoever to the university—there often seems to be a rush to bring VSU into the story. The university becomes part of the headline, part of the conversation and, ultimately, part of the perception created by the incident.

We should apply the same standard to VSU that we apply to other universities.

If an incident occurs on campus, say that. If VSU students are involved, say that. If university security or policies are relevant, examine them and ask the difficult questions.

But when violence occurs miles away and has no connection to Virginia State University, we should be equally clear about that.

Because repeatedly attaching the name of an institution to violence committed by people who neither attend nor work there creates a perception about that institution that may have very little to do with the actual safety of its campus or its students.

And let me be equally clear about this weekend:

This shooting occurred on the VSU campus.
That is different.

It deserves serious scrutiny. The university has a responsibility to examine what happened, how individuals gained access to campus and what additional measures may be necessary to protect students.

We can acknowledge that reality while also insisting on fairness and context in how Virginia State University is portrayed.

And I don’t want to sugarcoat something else.

It is becoming increasingly dangerous to be a young Black person in America.

Gun violence is taking an unacceptable toll on our young people. They encounter it in communities, at gatherings, in schools and universities, and sometimes simply by being in the wrong place when a disagreement turns deadly.

That is a problem much larger than Virginia State University.

We cannot normalize that reality.

So today, I am not going to simply repost what I wrote two years ago and say, “See, VSU is still safe.”

Today calls for more than that.

It calls for those of us who love Virginia State University to stand with students who may be shaken by what happened. It calls for us to understand the fear of parents who entrusted VSU with their sons and daughters. And it calls for alumni, supporters and friends to stand with our university while also expecting continued vigilance, strong security, accountability and honest conversations about what more can be done.

And to my former colleagues at VSU—the administrators, faculty, staff, campus police and others who now have the difficult responsibility of reassuring families, supporting students and beginning a new academic year in the aftermath of this violence:

I see you. I know how deeply you care about those students. And I stand with you.

Virginia State University is more than the worst thing that happens on its campus—or within a few miles of it.

For more than a century, this institution has educated generations of students, transformed families and communities, and produced extraordinary leaders.

Supporting VSU does not require us to minimize what happened.

We can love our university and ask difficult questions.

We can reassure our students and take their fears seriously.

We can demand fair and accurate portrayals of VSU and hold the university accountable for maintaining a safe campus.

We can stand with VSU and confront the violence threatening far too many of our young people.

Two years ago, I ended my post with safety tips for students heading to college.

Today, my message is broader:

Take care of one another. Look out for one another. Speak up when something doesn’t feel right. And please—do not allow violence to become so commonplace that we stop being shocked by it.

Ten years after leaving VSU, I am still here. Still supporting. Still investing. Still believing in its students.

And today, especially, I still stand with Virginia State University.

I continue to have confidence in President Makola M. Abdullah and in the people who work every day on behalf of VSU and its students.

Great things are happening at Virginia State University. We cannot allow acts of violence to define this institution or derail the progress being made. Those of us who love VSU have a responsibility to work with the university to help protect that progress—and, most importantly, to help protect our students.

Hail State. 🧡💙

Frankly Speaking,
Adrienne P. Whitaker

​Someone recently asked me to post about a specific topic.

It was relevant. I had an opinion. I was perfectly happy to discuss it.

But I never wrote the post.

She followed up with a text—and then a call—asking when I was going to say something about it.

The honest answer?

It just didn’t hit me.

People sometimes ask why I post about the things I do. The answer is simple: because something moved me enough to make me want to share my opinion.

Like everyone else, I have plenty of opinions. But sometimes a subject hits me and I feel like I have to say something—or do something.

Sometimes something simply amuses me, and I have to share that too.

And sometimes so many things are hitting me at once that I become exhausted just thinking about them—and post nothing at all.

Social media has become a race to be first.

First with the breaking news.
First with the outrage.
First with the hot take.

I’d rather be interesting than first.

If someone has already posted the news, I don’t need to repeat it.

I’d rather add context.
History.
Humor.
Perspective.
A different way of thinking.

Information tells us what happened.

Conversation helps us understand why it matters.

Which do you remember most—the people who were first, or the people who made you think?

Stay tuned…as we march toward the November elections, I will probably have a lot to say. 🤔

Frankly Speaking,

Adrienne P. Whitaker

I wasn’t planning to see The Odyssey, but lately I cannot escape it—and I am not talking about publicity.

I am talking about the outrage, and in some cases outright hate, spreading across social media over Lupita Nyong’o reportedly being cast as Helen of Troy: a woman so beautiful she caused a war, but also a mythological figure who was literally hatched from an egg.

Mythology requires us to suspend reality and immerse ourselves in the story. And there is no denying that Lupita Nyong’o is one of the most beautiful women in the world.

Still, I am not surprised by the outrage. In fact, I expected it.

Why?

Because every few months, America seems to find a new reason to argue over who is “allowed” to play a fictional character.

Before Lupita Nyong’o, it was Halle Bailey as Ariel in The Little Mermaid. Cynthia Erivo was attacked long before audiences ever saw Wicked. Yara Shahidi’s casting as Tinker Bell became a cultural flashpoint. Francesca Amewudah-Rivers’ Juliet, Candice Patton’s Iris West, and Amandla Stenberg’s lead role in The Acolyte all became targets of remarkably similar campaigns.

The outrage over a Black actress playing Juliet is especially revealing. I have seen blond, blue-eyed white actresses with unmistakably Midwestern or Southern accents portray Juliet without anyone questioning whether they could authentically embody a teenage girl from Renaissance Verona. Audiences understood that they were watching actresses interpret a fictional character.

After all, it is acting.

Yet when a Black actress is cast, race suddenly becomes the one characteristic some critics insist cannot be reimagined. That is not simply a concern about fidelity to Shakespeare. It reflects a double standard about which actresses are permitted to embody characters whose experiences—first love, family conflict, youthful passion, and heartbreak—have always been treated as universal.

The script never changes.

Critics argue that race-conscious casting ignores historical accuracy, violates the source material, or represents “forced diversity.” Supporters argue that mythology, fantasy, theater, comic-book adaptations, and science fiction have always evolved through reinterpretation and that talent—not race—should determine who is permitted to tell a story.

Reasonable people can disagree about artistic choices.

That isn’t what fascinates me.

What fascinates me is what these debates reveal about our priorities.

Helen of Troy is a mythical figure.

Ariel is a mermaid.

Tinker Bell is a fairy.

Elphaba is a green-skinned witch.

Juliet never existed.

The Jedi are fictional.

Yet these characters generate weeks—sometimes months—of outrage. Comment sections explode. YouTube channels produce endless commentary. Politicians weigh in. Think pieces multiply. Social media algorithms amplify every disagreement until it becomes another front in America’s never-ending culture war.

Meanwhile, something far more consequential is happening with remarkably less public attention.

Across the country, there are continuing battles over how Black American history is taught, preserved, interpreted, and remembered. School boards debate curriculum. Museums defend exhibits. Libraries become political battlegrounds. Historic sites face pressure over how they tell the nation’s story. Educators find themselves navigating shifting political expectations about what can and cannot be taught.

We have seen fierce debates over the removal or revision of historical interpretation at national parks, scrutiny of museums dedicated to African American history, continuing efforts to restrict how race and systemic inequality are discussed in classrooms, and legislative battles over whether African American history should receive the same academic standing as other historical subjects.

These are not arguments about mythical kingdoms or fictional romances.

These are debates about documented American history.

History that belongs to all of us.

That contrast is difficult to ignore.

Too often, some of the loudest voices defending the imagined identity of fictional characters seem far less concerned when the historical record of real Black Americans is challenged, minimized, or politicized.

We will spend weeks arguing over the race of a mermaid while giving comparatively little attention to whether students fully understand the legacy of the Tuskegee Airmen.

We passionately debate whether Helen of Troy should be portrayed by a Black actress while paying far less attention to whether future generations will understand the realities of slavery, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Movement, or the countless Black innovators, educators, soldiers, scientists, entrepreneurs, artists, and public servants who helped build this nation.

That imbalance should concern all of us.

To be clear, this is not an argument that everyone who opposes race-conscious casting also supports limiting Black history. Those are separate questions, and many people who prefer historical fidelity also strongly support preserving honest history.

But the broader cultural imbalance remains.

We have somehow created an environment where preserving the imagined appearance of fictional characters often generates more public passion than preserving the documented experiences of real people.

Perhaps no example illustrates this contradiction better than Cynthia Erivo.

Here is one of the most accomplished performers of her generation.

A Tony Award winner.

A Grammy Award winner.

An Emmy Award winner.

A two-time Academy Award nominee.

Yet some critics dismissed her casting as Elphaba by reducing her accomplishments to a three-letter accusation: DEI.

Think about that.

A Black woman with extraordinary credentials was accused of receiving preferential treatment while portraying a fictional woman whose defining physical characteristic is that her skin is green.

If excellence itself can be dismissed as “DEI,” then perhaps the debate was never really about qualifications.

Perhaps it was always about something else.

Art has always evolved.

Shakespeare’s works have been reimagined for centuries.

Greek mythology has been retold by countless cultures.

Comic books are routinely rewritten.

Science fiction reinvents itself with every generation.

Every generation adapts classic stories through its own lens.

Whether audiences embrace those interpretations is a matter of personal taste.

History is different.

History is not mythology.

History is not fantasy.

History is our collective memory.

Once historical knowledge disappears from classrooms, museums, archives, libraries, and public spaces, recovering it becomes far more difficult than recasting a movie.

That is why I find our cultural priorities so perplexing.

If America devoted even half as much energy to preserving Black history as it does debating Black actors portraying fictional characters, we might spend less time arguing over mythology and more time ensuring every child understands the full complexity of our nation’s story.

One debate is about entertainment.

The other is about memory.

One concerns characters who never existed.

The other concerns millions of Americans who did.

Reasonable people can disagree over who should play Helen of Troy.

There should be far less disagreement about preserving the history of people who actually lived.

Because fiction can always be rewritten.

History cannot.

Frankly Speaking, Adrienne P. Whitaker
————
Permission to share but not copy and paste. 
👉🏾relevant articles in the comments.

@highlight

Over the years, I’ve worked with some exceptional leaders. I’ve also worked around a few who confused intimidation with leadership.
When people talk about workplace civility, they often imagine the big moments—the explosive meeting, the executive who loses control, or the person everyone quietly warns you about.
What I’ve learned is that hostile workplaces don’t begin there.
They begin with the small moments that everyone chooses to ignore.
Three experiences from my career still stand out.
The first happened when I was in my twenties.
I had already managed a team and had moved into a role supporting the rollout of one of the company’s most profitable product lines. It was demanding work. Long hours were normal.
One evening, while working late, I overheard two senior executives in a heated conversation. They were discussing another executive, and the language was harsh, personal, and profane. As the conversation ended, one of them said, “She can sit on it and spin.”
I froze.
I quietly gathered my things and tried to slip out unnoticed.
I wasn’t successful.
The next morning, the head of the division came to my office and apologized.
Not for what he said.
Not for how he said it.
He apologized because I heard it.
That distinction stayed with me.
Even as a young professional, I realized there was a public culture and a private culture. The apology wasn’t about respect. It was about exposure.
Twenty years later, I found myself on another executive leadership team.
One of my colleagues had a habit of raising his voice in anger. No one was immune—not even the CEO. It wasn’t considered unusual. It was simply “how he communicated.”
I made two decisions.
First, if he ever raised his voice to someone on my team, he would discover that I was perfectly capable of having difficult conversations.
Second, if he ever raised his voice at me, I would resign.
No drama.
No debate.
No second chances.
In fact, I kept a letter of resignation in my padfolio and updated it regularly.
Eventually, he yelled at a member of my team.
I calmly walked into his office, closed the door, and addressed it directly.
Then, as I expected might happen one day, he yelled at me.
That month, I submitted my resignation.
People sometimes ask why.
Because every leader teaches people how they deserve to be treated.
That includes ourselves.
The third experience was different.
Another senior executive.
Another organization.
Another reputation for explosive outbursts.
This time, people explained it away by telling me he had a personality disorder.
Maybe he did.
I actually liked him.
A lot.
But here’s what I’ve never believed:
Understanding someone’s behavior is not the same as excusing it.
Compassion should never require everyone else to absorb the damage.
So I had a conversation with him before there was ever a problem.
I told him my boundary.
Interestingly, he respected it.
He yelled around me.
He yelled around my team.
He never yelled at us.
What do these three stories have in common?
None of them started with screaming.
They started with smaller behaviors that became accepted.
Someone rolled their eyes.
Someone interrupted.
Someone humiliated another employee in a meeting.
Someone made disrespect part of the culture.
Someone excused it because the person was brilliant.
Someone ignored it because they produced results.
Someone decided confronting it would be uncomfortable.
And one day, the organization wakes up and wonders why people are anxious, disengaged, afraid to speak up, and quietly updating their résumés.
Hostile workplaces don’t suddenly appear.
They’re built one ignored act of incivility at a time.
Workplace civility isn’t about being nice.
It’s about creating an environment where people can disagree, debate, challenge one another, and still treat each other with dignity.
High expectations are not hostile.
Accountability is not hostile.
Disagreement is not hostile.
Humiliation is.
Intimidation is.
Belittling people is.
Leadership by fear is.
If you’re a leader, here are three questions worth asking yourself:
• What behaviors have become “normal” on my team simply because they’ve gone unchallenged?
• Do people feel safe disagreeing with me without fearing embarrassment or retaliation?
• Am I rewarding results while overlooking the behaviors used to achieve them?
Culture isn’t defined by the values framed on the wall.
It’s defined by the behavior leaders are willing to tolerate.
Ignore disrespect long enough, and eventually disrespect becomes your culture.

​

​I don’t usually dive into pop culture, but when it collides with politics and bigotry, I can’t resist.

Case in point: American Eagle’s “good jeans” ad with Sydney Sweeney. Trump called her MAGA’s sweetheart, white supremacists rejoiced, and honestly, I ignored it—it was just a watered-down rip-off of Brooke Shields’ Calvin Klein ads from my youth.

Then Megyn Kelly lost her mind over Beyoncé wearing similar jeans and a Marilyn Monroe–style platinum bob. She called Beyoncé “fake,” but it wasn’t just the insult—it was the venom. And that’s when it hit me: they’re mad that Beyoncé, a country girl from Houston, made a country album. They hate her. But why?

Here’s why:

What’s real about Beyoncé is her $800 million net worth. Her summer tour packed 43,000–47,000 people a night, grossing over $400 million—the highest-grossing “country” tour in history. She won Best Album for Cowboy Carter and CMA Country Singer of the Year. That’s why you’re mad.

What’s real about Beyoncé is her $3.2 billion husband, $2.8 billion of which is in business holdings like Uber. He owns the most successful production company in the world, produces the Super Bowl halftime show every year since 2019, and his Shawn Carter Foundation—run by his mom—raises $150 million annually. That’s why you’re mad.

What’s real about Beyoncé is that each of her children started life with $500 million in assets. Managed wisely, they’ll be billionaires before 18. Blue Ivy is already acclaimed for The Lion King, excels in school, speaks multiple languages, and is learning the family business. That’s why you’re mad.

What’s real about Beyoncé is her family’s success didn’t start with fame—her father was a Xerox executive (net worth $50M), her mother a thriving entrepreneur ($25M). Her sister Solange ($5M), nephew Julez ($1M), cousin Angela ($10M), and adopted sister Kelly Rowland ($12M) are all thriving. That’s why you’re mad.

What’s real about Beyoncé is her husband kept his promise to build a dynasty—one of the richest Black families in America, worth nearly $6 billion, more than the Trumps. He discovered Kanye West and Rihanna before becoming a rap icon himself. That’s why you’re mad.

So why are you losing sleep? Beyoncé is living her life while you make yours talking about it. She has more political influence in a single song than you’ll have in a lifetime of commentary. Read the lyrics, darling—there’s a message there.

Stay mad. Even her haters put money in her pockets. Remember that the next time you call an Uber or order Uber Eats.

You can follow me on Facebook at Frankly Speaking with Adrienne P. Whitaker

​Donald Trump has launched a full-on crusade against Harvard—and it’s giving major ex-boyfriend who never got over the breakup energy. So what did Harvard do to earn a spot on Trump’s enemies list?

Hmmmm. The answer may lie not in Harvard’s hallowed halls, but in where young Barron Trump has spent his freshman year. Wait for it… NYU.

That’s right. Not Harvard. Not Yale. Not even Dartmouth (which technically counts). The 6’7” Trump heir is navigating college life somewhere between Greenwich Village and a $19 chopped salad, instead of an Ivy League quad.

Now that doesn’t quite match the MAGA narrative of Trump F-34, the one who endlessly name-drops his own Ivy League education. Donald has often reminded us that he attended the very prestigious Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania. What he tends to leave out is that he transferred to Penn in his junior year—right after his father dropped a seven-figure “donation.” Call it strategic generosity, or buying your kid an Ivy League education.  Dare I say, “privilege.”

But hey, let’s not split hairs. Trump did graduate from UPenn. Even if it’s rumored his sister did his coursework. Oops—there I go again.

Still, irony and hypocrisy abounds when you consider Trump’s past obsession with Barack Obama’s academic record. Remember when he spent years demanding to see Obama’s college transcripts, questioning whether he was “smart enough” to get into Columbia and Harvard Law? Of course, Obama not only got in—he graduated with honors and was President of the Harvard Law Review.

Meanwhile, there’s no public record of Donald Trump ever participating in, well… anything at UPenn. No clubs, no awards, no test scores, no GPA. Just his constant boasting.

Michelle Obama? She continued her family’s Ivy League tradition, graduating magna cum laude from Princeton, then Harvard Law. Her brother, a star athlete, graduated from Princeton too. And Malia Obama? Yep—Harvard alum.

So what gives with Barron?

Why didn’t Trump’s youngest follow the gilded Ivy path, like his siblings (Tiffany and Don Jr. graduated from UPenn, while Ivanka and Eric went to Georgetown)? Why NYU, a respected school but not exactly in the Ivy League zip code? Not even close.

Could this be the real source of Trump’s Ivy League angst? Could it be that Barron—despite the family name, wealth, and access—simply didn’t get in? That no check was big enough, no legacy strong enough, no admission office impressed enough?

It might explain why Trump is now raging against DEI, accusing Ivy League schools of “wokeness,” and trying to dismantle the very institutions he once bragged about. Is this less a culture war and more of a personal vendetta?

In the end, this may not be about Harvard. It may be about rejection—and the one thing Donald Trump has never been able to buy: a seat at the smart kids’ table.

So, Donald… here’s the deal: Those of us who earned our way into Ivy League classrooms—old Ivies, new Ivies, public Ivies—we just might be smarter than your kid. And let’s be honest… we’re smarter than you, too.

There. I said it

Coming soon are my two books: Co-authored with Ditu Kasuyi is The Excellence Blueprint: A Strategic Guide for Afrian American Leaders to Rise, Thrive and Lead with Legacy. It drops this summer.

And, later this year, my book inspired by my family drops, Under the Banyan Tree: A Family’s Legacy of Resistance, Freedom, and Perseverance.

Permission to share but not cut and paste.