The Land That Slavery Made Us Hate

Pusillanimity

Pusillanimity refers to a lack of courage or resolution, especially in the face of danger, difficulty, or challenge. It describes a state of being timid, faint-hearted, or cowardly, where someone avoids taking bold or decisive action due to fear or weakness. The term comes from the Latin pusillus (very small) and animus (spirit), literally meaning "smallness of spirit." It often conveys a moral or emotional deficiency rather than just physical fear.

America, 

Theater of the American Indian Wars

Education, indoctrination, 

mass deportation

of the cotton-picking mind

A sworn oath to pusillanimity

A curriculum of anonymity

concentrated on slavery

Hocus pocus

suddenly freedom is the focus

And the land under your feet 

Is the stage of a great sin

Once, this land was our sanctuary, the cradle of our stories and the keeper of our dreams. Its rivers carried our reflections, and its forests echoed our voices. Yet, somewhere along the timeline of bloodshed and broken treaties, we became strangers in our own land. The soil, once warm with familiarity, now feels foreign beneath our feet. It wasn’t only taken—it was taught to us as a thing despised, a burden too heavy to bear.

This estrangement was not an accident. It was engineered through the narratives of conquest, through wars labeled as progress and captivity repackaged as labor. As prisoners of the American Indian Wars, Black and Indigenous People of Color were stripped not only of freedom but of the connection to land that anchored them. And in that disconnection, space was made—for industry, for factories, for the birth of a new servitude fueled by machines and smoke. The illusion of progress made us turn from the earth to the factory line, believing in the false promises of industry, all while surrendering the land that had given us life.

And then there were the labels. The agents of division were clever, masters of name and narrative. They understood that a name is not just a word; it is a story, a category, an expectation. They branded us—enslaved, primitive, savage—not just to define us, but to control us, to pit us against one another. For every identity forged was a wedge placed, driving division and feeding isms that splintered solidarity. Some say we were made with a worship gene, a yearning for connection to something greater. Perhaps it is that same yearning that makes us susceptible to branding, to illusions of belonging wrapped in gold foil. And so we followed the false gods of labels and factories, wearing them like crowns while trading our birthrights for fool’s gold.

Programs and programming, whether video or audio, represent curated narratives or streams of content delivered through various forms of media. These can range from radio shows and podcasts to television series, online videos, and digital campaigns. Media programming is not just about entertainment—it’s a powerful tool for communication and persuasion, shaping perceptions and embedding ideas into public consciousness. Through repetition, visual storytelling, and emotional resonance, programming has the potential to frame issues, dictate norms, and influence individual and collective thought. Often, it operates subtly, using music, imagery, and script to guide the viewer's experience and response. In this way, it becomes a vehicle for indoctrination—deliberately or inadvertently embedding cultural values, ideologies, or biases into the audience’s worldview. While programming can inspire and educate, it can also manipulate, exploiting the brain's responsiveness to patterns and narratives. Understanding the interplay of video and audio programming with societal dynamics is essential to discern whether media serves as a mirror for reality or a lens through which reality is constructed. As consumers of media, we must approach programming critically, examining not just what is being presented but how and why.

The "damsel in distress" narrative perpetuated through the lens of BIPOC history is an intriguing and disconcerting phenomenon. By continuously framing Black and Indigenous histories through suffering, pain, and desperate struggle, cultural programming traps BIPOC consciousness in cycles of trauma. Observances such as Black History Month and Juneteenth, while intended to honor resilience and celebrate progress, often center narratives of victimization rather than empowerment. This repetitive focus inadvertently conditions collective consciousness to associate identity with hardship, overshadowing centuries of innovation, thriving communities, and cultural richness.

Media productions like the movie Roots or literary works on figures like Nat Turner and Harriet Tubman play a significant role in reinforcing these dynamics. While these stories are critically important in preserving historical truths, the repetitive focus on despair risks freezing progress in an endless loop of retrospection. This creates a pervasive idea that "freedom" is something to be granted—an act of permission rather than a fundamental right—and keeps the narrative dependent on external validation rather than self-actualization.

This cycle of victimization is compounded by the deliberate takedowns of BIPOC legacies. Across history, the sabotage of communities and leaders—from thriving Black towns like Greenwood (Tulsa, Oklahoma) to cultural icons dismantled by oppressive narratives—has worked to unravel the fabric of resilience. These actions sow division not only across racial lines but within BIPOC communities themselves, echoing tribal rivalries that were exploited during the era of enslavement.

The tragedy lies not just in the external forces that seek to suppress unity but also in the ways BIPOC communities have, at times, participated in this sabotage. Whether through internalized competition, mistrust, or the perpetuation of divisive narratives, the scars of tribalism are still felt today. Slavery, and the stories told about it, often shield us from self-examination and deed-evaluation, keeping us trapped in cycles of historical pain without turning the lens inward.

To examine these cycles deeply is not to absolve external forces but to confront the uncomfortable reality that healing requires accountability at all levels. It means recognizing how the construct of slavery has been weaponized to instill perpetual feelings of helplessness. It means questioning how much power is ceded when communities focus solely on victimhood without reclaiming agency. And it means breaking free from the narratives designed to keep autonomy and solidarity just out of reach.

Moreover, the manipulative use of "white privilege" in this scheme acts as a diversion, a sleight of hand by the puppet masters of media, education, and political frameworks. By convincing poor whites that they possess inherent superiority over BIPOC communities, they distract them from realizing their shared disenfranchisement. This illusion of privilege blinds marginalized groups across racial lines to the larger systems of exploitation, robbing them of autonomy and connection to truth.

This engineered division is devastatingly effective in maintaining societal hierarchies. It compartmentalizes pain and oppression, ensuring solidarity cannot bloom across racial and socioeconomic lines. As individuals grapple with artificial labels—privileged, oppressed, freed—they miss the reality that these categories serve those in power, not those who live them. To reclaim identity is to shatter the illusions, to define history and truth by our own words, and to write futures rooted in unity and self-determination. Only then can freedom truly become freedom—not something to be given, but something to be lived.

Yet, the land remembers. The soil still holds the memories of a time when we were whole, when we danced in harmony with the rhythms of nature. It waits for us, not as strangers, but as heirs, to reclaim what was always ours. To see beyond the labels and isms, beyond the industrial plunder and divisive branding, is an act of rebellion. To return to the land, to hear its song and feel its pulse, is an act of healing—a reclamation of identity and humanity.

To fall in love with the land again is to rediscover its quiet strength and abundant gifts. It means planting seeds—literal and metaphorical—and nurturing them with care, patience, and intention. The soil beneath our feet holds the power to heal, to sustain, and to inspire. Gardening becomes more than an act of cultivation; it is a dialogue with the earth, a way to ground ourselves in the cycles of life. Exploring herbs like echinacea, lavender, and chamomile connects us to ancient wisdom and traditions, offering both wellness and wonder. Practices like foraging, community gardening, or simply walking barefoot on the grass awaken a sensory and spiritual bond. Resources such as the National Gardening Association, The Herbal Academy, and books like "Braiding Sweetgrass" by Robin Wall Kimmerer can guide the journey toward stewardship and reverence for the land. As we embrace the beauty of the earth and its cycles, we reclaim not only the land but a deeper love for ourselves and one another. This is the first step toward harmony—growing stronger, together, with every seed planted.

Jessica Holter