The work begins after the funeral
Grief has a strange rhythm. First, you deny. Then, you bargain. Then, if you’re honest, you get angry. But eventually—if you’re strong—you begin to recover. Not forget. Not excuse. But rebuild something from what was broken.
That’s where I’m at.
If you read Part 1, Better (Not) Call… then you already know: I’ve buried somebody I love. Not physically, but spiritually. He’s still alive, still walking around, still talking that mess, still getting his daily bread from the far edges of the algorithm—but I’ve stopped waiting for him to come home. I wrote a eulogy because the man I knew is gone.
But now it’s time to talk to the rest of us who are still here.
Still awake.
Still angry.
Still trying to figure out how to love our people when some of them are sprinting toward the very system designed to erase them.
This is for the ones who haven’t crossed that line. Not yet.
This is Part 2: The Recovery.
Step 1: Call It What It Is
Let’s stop softening the truth to keep the peace. What we’re watching isn’t “politics.” It’s not “difference of opinion.” It’s psychological warfare, wrapped in flags and filters. When a Black man starts defending Trump—and believes he’s doing it for the good of Black people—that’s not an opinion. That’s evidence.
Evidence of coercion.
Evidence of trauma.
Evidence of spiritual malnourishment.
Recovery starts when we stop pretending, when we stop responding, when we stop the twitter fingers.
Step 2: Cut the Cord of Approval
Somewhere along the line, a lot of Black men confused “being free” with “being accepted.” They started thinking that if white folks pat them on the back, it means they’ve made it. I cannot lie to you I was one of them for the better part of my life. That if they vote red, quote scripture, wear a suit, and bash the hood, they’ll get a seat at the table.
And they might.
But don’t confuse that seat for power. Hey Timmie Scott!
That’s called being decor, not decorated.
The recovery means we stop looking for acceptance from people who never planned to include us in the first place. You don’t have to assimilate into madness just to prove you’re worthy.
Step 3: Build Community with the Willing
Let the lost be lost—at least for now. Because there are people still on the fence, still reachable, still listening. And they need places to land. That means we need barbershop truth without the performative misogyny. Church spaces that prioritize healing over hellfire. Friend groups that don’t clown you for being too “woke.”
We need gatherings.
We need real ones.
We need our own algorithms.
Recovery isn’t done alone. It’s done with people who love you enough to remind you who the hell you are.
Step 4: Fight Propaganda Like It’s Crack
Because it is. It’s addictive, it’s cheap, and it’s everywhere.
YouTube clips. TikToks. “Did you know Lincoln was Black?” conspiracy reels.
Black men are getting pulled down rabbit holes that end with them thinking slavery was a job-training program and Jim Crow was a just for course correction.
We need to fight back with truth, but not just facts.
We need storytelling.
We need content.
We need counter-programming that’s as loud, as raw, and as undeniable as the lie.
The recovery requires us to stop letting tech companies radicalize our people one suggested video at a time.
Step 5: Keep the Door Open—But Not Unlocked
This is where it gets tricky.
Because we can’t spend our lives chasing people who don’t want to be found.
But we can leave a light on.
If the day comes when they realize what they’ve done—when the illusion breaks, when the algorithm glitches, when the rally flags start to feel like nooses—then maybe, just maybe, they’ll remember the people who told them the truth.
Recovery doesn’t mean we give them a key to the house again or invite them to the cookout.
But it does mean we don’t change the address.
Final Word: Black Love Is Still Revolutionary
The recovery isn’t a program. It’s a promise.
That we will not let confusion take root where truth should be.
That we will not let soft words win wars.
That we will not let our brothers die slow deaths in silence.
If you’re still here, still reading, still listening, then you are part of the recovery.
And if you’ve buried someone too, I see you.
Say your prayer. Write your eulogy. Grieve the loss.
But don’t stay there too long.
We’ve got work to do!
