March 20, 2026

In a video clip I watched a few days ago, well known Black content creator and Internet personality Deanté Kyle returned to a metaphor many Black thinkers have used before him: the burning house. The "burning house" metaphor, famously used by James Baldwin and feared by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., characterizes America as a structure engulfed in the flames of racism.

Returning to Kyle, he imagines a man pouring gasoline over his home, determined to see it go up in flames, while a concerned neighbor tries to intervene. Kyle points out that even though the arsonist never lifted a finger to invite his neighbor to enjoy the parties and gatherings at his home unless it was to work, the concerned neighbor made every attempt to try to reason with him that burning his house down wouldn’t benefit him or anyone else.  

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As I listened, I leaned in, quietly admiring how each word landed. It felt affirming, because I have privately reached a point of exhaustion as a Black woman creative who took time to engage white people through #RacismIsASickness. I remember the questions I posed in 2015: Do white people suffer in this racist society? Can they recognize it in ways similar to ours? What can be done to disrupt its contagious patterns, and how can we protect ourselves? Ten years later, as I revisit this work with #10YearsofRacismIsASickness, I see the urgency of reflection and renewed voices, and I understand where Kyle is coming from—even as I prepare to speak to a different audience than he addresses.

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To understand why Kyle’s words resonated so strongly, it helps to look back at what I was doing ten years ago. In 2015, through #RacismIsASickness, I posed questions that were both inquiries and warnings: Do white people suffer from living in this racist society? In what ways are their experiences similar to ours, and in what ways are they different? What can be done to disrupt the constant spread of racial harm, and how can we protect ourselves? I was documenting, inviting reflection, and sounding an alert at the same time. But I was deliberate about whom I was speaking to. I was not addressing the “gas can” people—the would-be “arsonists” —because history had already shown they could not be reasoned with. Instead, I directed my work toward the so-called liberal, progressive, woke white people who lived near the flames, who knew where the matches were, who had proximity to the chaos, and who could have intervened. In those conversations, I asked what they would do. They told me they would not act. I believed them, and I decided that I would not put myself on the line to stop what they refused to confront. That decision, made then, frames how I watch America today—and how I now witness a broader collective of Black people arriving at the same conclusion I reached years ago.

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Today, I am speaking to you—the liberal, progressive, woke white people I engaged in 2015 and 2016, the ones who lived near the flames, who knew where the matches were, and who had the opportunity to intervene. I asked you then what you would do. You told me you would not act. You said you would not confront your racist family members. You said you did not believe things could get worse. I heard you. I believed you. And I decided, based on your words, that I would no longer put myself on the line to fight on your behalf. Over the past decade, that decision has shaped everything I have done, every effort I have made to engage with this society, and every boundary I have set around my labor and my creativity. Today, as I watch the trajectory of events unfold—post-2024, post-elections, post-missed opportunities—I am not surprised. Your inaction has been consistent, and its consequences are clear. This is not a demand, a rebuke, or an invitation to step in now. It is a statement: I heard you. I believed you. And now I and so many others here and across the world, bear witness to exactly what your decision meant.

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Through it all, my alignment with Black people has never wavered. In 2016, I made a conscious decision about where I would place my labor, my energy, and my creativity, knowing full well what some white participants would do—or refuse to do. That clarity has guided me for a decade. Today, I watch with recognition as a broader collective of Black folks arrives at the same conclusion: we will not intervene in a system that refuses to reckon with itself. This is not anger, nor resignation; it is measured witness. It is a reaffirmation of boundaries, foresight, and solidarity. And as I reflect on #10YearsofRacismIsASickness, I see that the work was never just about persuading others—it has always been about documenting, understanding, and protecting ourselves, and standing firmly on the side of my people.

Thank you Deanté Kyle.