This post was originally published on Defender Network
By ReShonda Tate
Recently, I was traveling through Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson Airport — an airport I’ve walked through countless times in my three decades of travel.
But this time was different. The line for TSA security was like something out of a disaster movie: snaking through terminals, full of frustrated travelers, with agents shouting updates to a restless crowd. I asked one of them what was going on, and they shrugged, “DOGE cuts. Limited staff and we’re all suffering.”
I felt the same rush of frustration I imagine others felt. I was two and a half hours early, had priority lane privileges and STILL barely made my flight. As I often do, I pulled out my phone to post about it to my private social media account — a space where I’m not shy about my political views. But just before I hit “post,” I paused.
I’m just a writer from Texas, I thought. There’s no way anyone from the Trump administration would see this. But I hesitated because…what if they did? What if someone flagged it? What if, in the vindictive spirit of this new era, someone decided to revoke my travel credentials or add me to a watchlist?
Some might say I’m being extreme. But that fear? It was real.
And that’s the point. That’s what Donald Trump wants.
“Real power is fear.” That’s what Trump once said — and he’s made good on that philosophy every step of the way. His political playbook isn’t built on inspiration or unity; it’s built on intimidation, vengeance and control. And for Black Americans, who have always lived under the shadow of structural fear, that kind of leadership is not just threatening — it’s dangerous.
This is a man who has weaponized public shaming, social media attacks, frivolous lawsuits and government authority to punish those who dare to dissent. He’s gone after journalists, judges, prosecutors — even ordinary citizens who speak out. His administration treated criticism as betrayal and disagreement as criminal.
But the impact on Black communities has been especially chilling.
Under Trump, voter suppression reached new highs, cloaked in the lie of “election fraud,” especially targeting cities with large Black populations like Houston, Atlanta, Detroit and Philadelphia. Black-led movements like Black Lives Matter were labeled “terrorists,” and peaceful protesters were tear-gassed for photo ops. Civil rights protections were gutted. Affirmative action dismantled. Fair housing policies rolled back. Police accountability weakened. The word “woke” became blasphemous.
And all of this was wrapped in a campaign of fear: fear of “crime,” fear of “illegals,” fear of change, fear of Black power.
This is not new. Throughout history, African Americans have been silenced through fear—through lynching, through voter intimidation, through job threats, redlining, surveillance and censorship. Trump is not the inventor of this tactic. He’s simply its loudest, most shameless modern-day champion.
What scared me most about that moment in the airport wasn’t the line. It was realizing that I was self-censoring out of fear. I eventually posted my message, but I watered it down. I muted my outrage. And afterward, I sat with the sadness of that.
Because what kind of “free” country do we live in if a journalist — someone whose job is to speak truth — is afraid to voice frustration over an airport delay, for fear that it might be held against her?
That’s not democracy. That’s dictatorship.
Fear works best when it isolates us — when it convinces us that speaking out isn’t worth the risk. When it persuades us to be quiet, to fall in line, to sit down. That’s why Trump leans on it so heavily.
But here’s the truth: Fear can only win if we let it.
Black America has always resisted — even when it was risky, even when it cost us everything. We’ve marched, organized, voted, protested and created, knowing that silence was never an option. And now, more than ever, we must continue to push forward — unafraid, unbought, and unbossed.
So yes, I posted my (albeit watered-down) update. But I’ll keep posting, writing and raising my voice. Because if we stop speaking, they’ve already won.
Stay vigilant. Stay loud. And never, ever let fear decide your truth.
