Buried not Broken: Reclaiming the Stolen Identity of Black Indigenous America

The Forgotten Power of Builders 

Like Annie Turnbo Malone

They didn’t just build businesses.  

They built towns.  

They built legacies.  

They built freedom.

Before integration, before civil rights legislation, before the illusion of inclusion there were Black visionaries who carved out entire economies from the margins. Annie Turnbo Malone was one of them. A chemist and entrepreneur, she created the Poro brand and trained thousands of Black women in business. She built Poro College in St. Louis a hub of education, manufacturing, and empowerment. She paid the highest taxes in the city. She gave millions to HBCUs and orphanages. She was a force.

But she wasn’t alone.

There was William “Gooseneck Bill” McDonald in Fort Worth, Texas the first Black millionaire in the state. He didn’t just found a bank. He funded schools, newspapers, and political campaigns. He mentored generations of Black leaders and helped build a thriving Black business district in Fort Worth. His motto? “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

There was O.W. Gurley, who purchased 40 acres of land in Tulsa and founded Greenwood what would become Black Wall Street. A self-sustaining Black city with its own banks, hospitals, schools, and theaters. A place where Black wealth wasn’t a dream—it was a daily reality. Until white mobs burned it to the ground in 1921.

There was Mound Bayou, Mississippi, founded by formerly enslaved men Isaiah Montgomery and Benjamin Green. A town built by Black people, for Black people complete with schools, businesses, and a hospital that served the community when no one else would.

There was Boley, Oklahoma, one of the most prominent all-Black towns in the early 1900s, with its own electric company, banks, and bustling main street. It was so successful that Booker T. Washington called it “the most enterprising and in many ways the most interesting of the Negro towns in the United States.”

These weren’t isolated miracles. They were intentional blueprints.  

Their names should be in textbooks. Faces should be on murals. But instead, They’re a whisper. A footnote. A ghost in the archives. And that’s not by accident.

These prominent figures existence disrupts the narrative. This is proof that we were not just survivors, we were builders, landowners, strategists, and economic powerhouses. We weren’t waiting to be integrated into someone else’s dream. We were living our own.

But what happens when stories like Norma’s are buried? When thriving Black towns like Rosewood, Seneca Village, and Greenwood are burned down or paved over? When the brilliance of our ancestors is erased, and we’re told we’ve always been broken?

We forget. We forget who we are. And worse we start to believe the lie.

This is where the unraveling begins. Not with poverty. Not with crime. But with the theft of memory. The theft of legacy. The theft of truth.

Integration as Erasure

They told us integration was the dream. That sitting beside white children in classrooms, shopping in their stores, and eating at their lunch counters was the pinnacle of progress. But they never told us what we’d lose in the process.

Before integration, we had our own. Our own schools, our own doctors, our own banks, our own towns. We had Rosewood. We had Greenwood. We had Seneca Village—an entire Black community in what is now Central Park, bulldozed and buried under the illusion of “public good.” These weren’t just neighborhoods. They were ecosystems of sovereignty. Places where Black excellence wasn’t exceptional it was expected.

Integration didn’t just open doors. It closed others. It told us that proximity to whiteness was the prize, and in chasing that prize, we were encouraged to abandon our own institutions, our own languages, our own ways of knowing. We were taught to forget the names of our originators. To trade Annie Turnbo Malone for Madam C.J. Walker. To trade self-sufficiency for symbolic inclusion.

And what did we get in return?

Tokenism. Assimilation. A seat at a table that was never built for us.

Meanwhile, the systems that destroyed our towns, our businesses, our schools—they never integrated. They absorbed. They extracted. They erased.

Integration didn’t liberate us. It diluted us. It scattered us. It made us forget that we were already free in many ways free in our minds, in our communities, in our economies. It made us forget that we were never meant to be “included” in someone else’s empire. We were meant to build our own.

And we did. Until they burned it down. Until they paved it over. Until they rewrote the story..

But we’re remembering now.

Hijacked Movements and the Myth of Black and Brown Solidarity

They’ve always known how to infiltrate.

From COINTELPRO to corporate sponsorships, from watered-down slogans to performative coalitions, every time Black people have moved toward sovereignty, someone has stepped in to redirect the current. And now, we’re watching it happen again this time under the banner of “Black and Brown unity.”

But let’s be clear: solidarity is not a costume. It’s not a hashtag. And it’s not a one-size-fits-all narrative.

The original Black Panther Party was rooted in self-defense, community control, and radical love for Black people. It was not a multicultural brand. It was a liberation movement born from the specific conditions of Black suffering and Black resistance. Today, we see groups claiming the Panther legacy while diluting its purpose aligning with agendas that have little to do with Black liberation and everything to do with assimilation, optics, and funding.

And then there’s the myth of “Black and Brown.”

We are told to stand in solidarity with “Brown people,” but no one wants to define who that includes. Are we talking about the Indigenous peoples of Mexico who once sheltered escaped Africans and fought alongside them? Or are we talking about mestizo elites and white-presenting Latinos who uphold anti-Blackness in their own communities while claiming proximity to oppression?

Let’s not forget: many of the people now labeled “Brown” descend from Spanish colonizers the same empire that enslaved, raped, and erased Indigenous and African peoples across the Americas. And yet, we’re told to link arms without question. To forget the colorism, the caste systems, the anti-Black policies, and the silence when we’re under attack.

This isn’t about division. It’s about discernment.

True solidarity requires truth. It requires reciprocity. It requires that we name the differences in our histories, our struggles, and our goals. Because if we don’t, we become pawns in someone else’s narrative. We become the footnotes in a story that was never written for us.

And we’ve been footnotes long enough.

The Republican Flip and Political Amnesia

They say history repeats itself. But what they don’t say is how often it’s rewritten first.

There was a time when the Republican Party was the party of abolition. A time when Black people newly freed from bondage—aligned with Republicans because they were the ones who had fought to end slavery. The first Black U.S. senators and congressmen? Republicans. The party of Lincoln, they called it. The party of Reconstruction. The party that, for a fleeting moment, seemed to support Black freedom.

But that moment didn’t last.

As soon as Black political power began to rise, the backlash came. The Compromise of 1877 ended Reconstruction and handed the South back to white supremacists. Jim Crow laws swept in like a second wave of bondage. And the Republican Party? It pivoted. Slowly, then all at once.

By the mid-20th century, the parties had begun their ideological shift. The Democrats, once the party of the Confederacy, began courting Black voters through civil rights legislation. Meanwhile, Republicans through Nixon’s “Southern Strategy” began appealing to white voters disillusioned by integration and civil rights gains. The party that once stood for abolition now stood for “law and order.” For “states’ rights.” For “Make America Great Again.”

And yet, here we are decades later watching people argue over which party is “for us.” As if either one has ever truly been. As if the game hasn’t always been about control, not liberation.

This is political amnesia.

But it’s not just the parties that have been flipped. It’s the symbols too.

Red and blue once sacred colors in Indigenous cosmologies have been weaponized into tools of division. In many Native and African traditions, red symbolized life force, vitality, the blood of the ancestors. Blue represented protection, truth, and the spirit world. These weren’t just colors they were cosmological codes, woven into regalia, painted on faces, etched into pottery and prayer.

Now? Red and blue are gang affiliations. Bloods and Crips. Left and Right. Republican and Democrat. Enemy lines drawn in pigment.

Even the Confederate flag once a battle standard of white supremacy has been rebranded as “heritage.” The swastika, once a sacred symbol of balance and harmony in Indigenous and Eastern cultures, was hijacked by Nazis and turned into a global emblem of hate.

No one asks why these symbols were stolen. No one asks who they belonged to first.

Because to ask that would mean tracing them back to the original people. To the copper-colored ones. To the ones whose cosmologies were so powerful, they had to be inverted, corrupted, and weaponized to keep us from remembering.

This isn’t just about politics. It’s about spiritual warfare. About the theft of meaning. About how even our colors our sacred codes have been turned against us.

But we’re decoding now. We’re remembering. And we’re reclaiming every hue, every symbol, every truth they tried to bury.

The Identity Crisis and Strategic Confusion

We are not confused by nature. We are confused by design.

For centuries, systems of power have relied on one tactic above all: disorientation. If you can keep a people unsure of who they are, where they come from, or what they’re owed—you can control them. You can rename them. Relabel them. Redefine them. And eventually, you can replace them.

That’s what’s happening now.

We are watching the slow-motion hijacking of Black Indigenous identity. The copper-colored people of this land the ones who built, farmed, traded, governed, and thrived long before colonizers ever set foot here have been renamed “minorities,” “African Americans,” “people of color,” “Black and Brown,” “urban,” “at-risk,” “marginalized.” Every label a layer. Every layer a veil.

And under that veil? Confusion.

We’re told we’re African, but our grandmothers speak of Choctaw, Blackfoot, and Yamasee bloodlines. We’re told we’re immigrants, but our bones are buried in this soil. We’re told to unite with everyone who’s ever been oppressed, but not everyone who’s been oppressed stands with us. We’re told to fight for inclusion, but not for restitution. We’re told to be proud, but not too specific.

This is not solidarity. This is strategy.

Because when we’re confused, we don’t reclaim land. We don’t demand reparations. We don’t trace our lineage. We don’t question the census. We don’t challenge the maps. We don’t ask why our tribal names were erased, why our languages were outlawed, why our skin tone was used to divide us from ourselves.

Instead, we argue over labels. We fight over crumbs. We align with movements that don’t align with us. We forget that our ancestors were not confused. They were clear. They were sovereign. They were rooted.

And now, we must be too.

This isn’t just about identity it’s about inheritance. About knowing what was stolen so we can reclaim it. About remembering who we are so we can stop being who they told us to be.

Because confusion is a cage. And clarity is the key.

Call to Action: Reclaim, Reframe, Remember

We are not lost—we are layered. Buried beneath centuries of renaming, reframing, and redirection. But the truth? The truth is still in our blood. In our bones. In our memory.

This is not just about history. This is about inheritance. About reclaiming what was stolen, reframing what was distorted, and remembering what was deliberately erased.

We must reclaim our names. Our tribal lineages. Our land-based identities. We must ask the questions they hoped we’d never ask: Who were we before the census? Before the slave ships? Before the treaties they never honored?

We must reframe the narrative. Stop chasing inclusion in systems that were never built for us. Stop measuring progress by proximity to whiteness. Stop mistaking confusion for complexity. We are not confused—we are being strategically misled.

And we must remember. Not just the pain, but the power. Remember Annie Turnbo Malone. Remember the women who paid the highest taxes in cities that tried to erase them. Remember the towns that were burned because they were thriving. Remember the symbols that were stolen because they were sacred. Remember that we were never meant to assimilate—we were meant to sovereignly exist.

This is the work now:  

- To dig.  

- To document.  

- To disrupt.  

- To dream beyond the binaries they gave us.  

We are not minorities. We are not margins. We are the origin. And we are rising not to be included, but to reclaim.

Reclaim. Reframe. Remember.  

That’s the trinity. That’s the medicine. That’s the mission.

The Jesuit Veil—Hidden in Plain Sight

We’ve been watching the puppets. It’s time we name the puppeteers.

While we argue over left and right, red and blue, Black and Brown, the real architects of global influence have remained cloaked in robes and ritual. The Society of Jesus—better known as the Jesuits—is not just a religious order. It is a geopolitical machine. A master of infiltration. A global network operating in over 112 nations, embedded in education, diplomacy, intelligence, and media.

Founded in 1540 by Ignatius of Loyola, the Jesuits were never just missionaries. They were empire builders. Strategists. Confessors to kings. Architects of colonial conquest. And today, their fingerprints are everywhere—from Ivy League universities to Hollywood studios, from Vatican diplomacy to U.S. intelligence agencies.

Music. News. Entertainment. Politics. All shaped by the same invisible hand.

They don’t need to censor the truth. They just bury it beneath spectacle. They flood the airwaves with distraction, distortion, and division. They give us idols to worship, scandals to obsess over, and narratives to consume. They don’t silence dissent they drown it in noise.

And while we’re busy decoding lyrics and debating headlines, they’re writing the next chapter of control.

This might as well be the United States of Israel. Because the same Jesuit-Masonic networks that orchestrated colonial conquest now operate through Zionist proxies, banking cartels, and intelligence alliances. The Vatican, the Crown, and the State of Israel are not separate empires they are branches of the same tree. And that tree was planted in blood, watered with lies, and grown in the shadows.

They hide the truth in plain sight.  

They encode it in symbols, in architecture, in ritual.  

They tell us what they’re doing—because they know we won’t believe it.

As Jesuit priest Pierre Teilhard de Chardin once said:  

 “In the end, only the truth will survive.”

But they’ve spent centuries making sure we never get there.

They wrote their agenda into our institutions. Into our textbooks. Into our entertainment. Into our laws. And yes into our universities. The very places we go to “learn” are often the places we’re most deeply programmed.

This isn’t conspiracy. This is continuity.

From the Thirty Years’ War to the World Bank. From the Inquisition to the intelligence agencies. From the papal bulls that justified slavery to the media empires that justify war. The Jesuit Order has always played the long game.

And we? We’ve been the pawns. The performers. The programmed.

But now we see it.  

Now we name it.  

Now we break the spell.

Because once you see the strings, the puppet show loses its magic.  

And once you know the script, you stop playing your assigned role.

This is not just a blog post.  

This is a reckoning.  

A resurrection of memory.  

A declaration of war on the lie.

We are not confused. We are awakening. And the veil is burning.