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The voting booth has always felt like a sacred place to me—an intersection of decision-making and legacy, a space to shape the future.
I grew up with a deep reverence for the ballot, not just because of the sacrifices made by our ancestors, but because of the silent power it represents. This year, I’m voting alongside my wife, Nik, who tends to see politics more from the sidelines of our conversations.
She’s strong-willed and passionate, but when it comes to politics, I’ve always felt more invested, maybe just a little deeper in the weeds. This year, though, something has changed. For the first time, a Black woman, Kamala Harris, is on the presidential ticket.
As we walk up to the polling station, I feel the pride radiating from Nik. She’s excited, smiling even. It’s the first time I’ve seen her take this level of pride in an election.
For her, Harris’s candidacy is revolutionary—a symbol of the strides we’ve made as Black people, and a tribute to the strong Black women who have always held our communities together.
But for me, it’s not that simple. I respect Kamala’s achievements, but I’m leaning toward Jill Stein, feeling her policies align more closely with my principles and my skepticism about the party system. My decision has weighed on me for weeks, knowing this might be the first time Nik and I are divided in this space. As I begin filling out my ballot, I can feel her gaze—an intense disappointment simmering just beneath her calm exterior.
The car ride home is quieter than usual. Nik’s glance speaks a thousand words, each one heavier than the last. Finally, she breaks the silence. “So, you really didn’t vote for Kamala?” Her voice carries a mixture of hurt and disbelief. I hesitate, knowing my answer won’t make her happy. “No,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “I voted for Stein. Kamala doesn’t represent the change I believe in.”
She looks at me, almost stunned. “You don’t think a Black woman in office is valuable? You voted for Obama!” Her words carry an unspoken accusation, and I feel the weight of it.
To her, my decision is a betrayal—not just of Kamala, but of Black women everywhere. She goes on, “I don’t understand how you can be so critical of her. We’ve never had someone like her in this position before. It’s like you’d rather see anyone succeed but a Black woman.”
The accusation stings, but I understand where she’s coming from. “It’s not that I don’t want to see a Black woman succeed,” I tell her. “But putting someone in office just because she’s Black and a woman isn’t enough for me. What about her policies? Her history? I don’t agree with a lot of her decisions. This isn’t about gender, Nik. It’s about her politics.”
My explanation doesn’t satisfy her, and I can sense her frustration.
To her, my vote for Stein instead of Harris reeks of a refusal to support a Black woman breaking barriers—a pattern she sees in Black men dismissing or undermining Black women’s leadership. To me, though, my decision is rooted in a belief that political power shouldn’t replace real change. Sometimes, representation alone doesn’t lead to progress.
Jill Stein, Green Party candidate for President, and Kamala D. Harris, Democratic Party candidate for President (Photo Credits: Gage Skidmore).
Nik shakes her head, her frustration clear. “You don’t get it,” she says softly. “This isn’t just about policies; it’s about opening doors, changing minds and inspiring young Black girls to believe they can be anything. That’s a different kind of power. It’s something Black women have been fighting for since forever. And when we get close, we don’t get the same support—not even from our own men.”
Her words hit me hard. “I get that representation matters, Nik, but are we supposed to ignore everything else? Don’t you think the system uses symbolism to pacify us? Neoliberalism is like a snake—it uses identity politics to make us feel represented, but it doesn’t change reality on the ground. We have to look at what’s really being offered. Sure, Kamala might look like us, but if she’s pushing policies that won’t help the working class or create a sustainable middle class, then how is that progress? It’s a distraction—a way to keep us quiet while the system stays the same.”
She pauses, considering my words. “But can’t you see that by not supporting her, you’re playing into that same game?” she asks. “By not supporting a Black woman when she’s this close to real power, aren’t you feeding into the system that’s been undermining Black women and Black families for generations?”
It’s a valid point, one that gives me pause. I’ve seen how the system pits Black men and women against each other, turning us against each other’s ambitions and dreams.
For centuries, we’ve been told that our value lies in who we can “protect” or “lead,” as though our worth is defined by proximity to either control or subservience. It’s a setup that keeps us divided, viewing each other through lenses crafted by forces that want us powerless.
This conversation is bigger than Kamala, bigger than Stein, bigger than either of us. It’s about the way patriarchy, racism and white supremacy have entrenched themselves in our communities, subtly guiding us to mistrust each other’s choices. In some ways, both of us have been shaped by those narratives—her frustration rooted in centuries of being ignored or undervalued, mine rooted in a skepticism about representation as a substitute for change.
“Look, I want to see Black women succeed, and I want us to have real power,” I tell her. “But not just symbolic power. If we’re going to put someone in that office, I want to make sure they’re really working for us, all of us, and not just playing the game. We’ve seen too many Black leaders get elevated only to compromise or get used to controlling us. We’re so focused on getting a seat at the table that we’re forgetting who set the table and what’s being served. Neoliberalism keeps us striving for individual success without changing the systems that keep us down. Meanwhile, we’re being torn apart, our communities weakened, because we’re being told that not supporting someone is the same as betraying our own.”
Nik nods slowly, her anger softened but still present. “I get that. But sometimes, you have to take that step, even if it’s not perfect. Change doesn’t always look how we expect it to. And if we keep waiting for the perfect candidate, we’ll be stuck waiting forever.”
In the end, we’re still not fully aligned, but there’s a new depth in our understanding of each other.
Her yearning for representation and my insistence on accountability aren’t opposites; they’re intertwined, each vital to the future we’re both fighting for—a future where Black men and women can thrive in true unity, free from resentment, mistrust, and manipulation.
It’s not lost on me that the system is designed to exploit our differences, to make us question each other’s motives, feeding mistrust that keeps us divided and weak.
For a long time, I believed conversations like these—painful, raw and honest—were the way forward. But I’ve come to realize that even this discourse is just the starting point. True communal growth demands not just dialogue but a relentless commitment to the alignment of purpose and action. We’re bombarded with forces that try to convince us our struggles are isolated, that her fight for visibility and my demand for economic justice are in opposition.
I think back to my vote for Obama years ago.
It was my last time placing faith in symbolism alone. Since then, I’ve written in “The Honorable Minister Louis Farrakhan” on my ballot as an act of defiance—a reminder to myself that the change I want to see will come from within, from a radical reimagining of how we see power and representation in our own terms.
Recently, I’ve challenged myself to look deeper, questioning my own maleness, my Black maleness, and what it really means to be a man in a world that has historically denied our manhood, all while enforcing a model of patriarchy that was never built with us in mind.
This same patriarchy puts me in a cycle of fear for my son—fear that he’ll be harmed on his way to his dreams, by the police or by another young Black man who sees his life as disposable.
This is the system I’m up against, a setup that keeps us fighting battles on all sides, while failing to protect us where it matters most. I cast my vote for Farrakhan as a reminder that I refuse to play by these rules, that my loyalty isn’t to symbols or empty promises.
His words ring in my ears: “Be careful—if your woman is a slave, she will make it her mission to make you one as well.”
This isn’t about my wife or any one person: it’s about all of us.
Black love is, indeed, revolutionary, but it’s only revolutionary if it resists the forces that would have us divided.
Today, I declare war on every tactic, every barrier, every division put in place to weaken us. Identity politics be damned—our power lies in unbreakable unity, a unity that doesn’t settle for symbols but pushes for substance, that doesn’t fracture under the weight of someone else’s design.
We deserve a future where we fight for one another, not against each other. And that’s the future I’m committed to building.
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