It is very hard to be a writer from any community held outside of the promises of an order and be “content with a partial view of reality.” It is impossible to write truthfully of Black people, in all our genius and folly, in all our joy and anguish, and not disturb those who “care neither to have the world revealed nor to see it transformed.” So it was with Phillis Wheatley and Thomas Jefferson. So it is with Nikole Hannah-Jones and Donald Trump. In between Wheatley and Hannah-Jones, we are David Walker disappeared, Frederick Douglass brawling through the lecture circuit, Ida B. Wells run out
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