 White male dominance did not emerge from the earth like a tree, nor did it descend from the heavens like rain. It was built, stone by stone, with blood, with laws, and with lies. The legacy of this dominance, so thoroughly embedded in the world we know today, was crafted in the fires of colonialism, forged through the chains of slavery, and justified by the twisted ideals of patriarchy. It is a system sustained by confusion, contradiction, hypocrisy, and deception—designed to obscure the truth from those who both suffer under it and benefit from it.
Let us start where it began: colonialism. The first great deception was that white men came to civilize the world. They crossed oceans not to uplift but to conquer. With the Bible in one hand and the sword in the other, they sought to strip the land, bodies, and souls of all who stood before them. They fashioned themselves as benevolent rulers, but what they brought was a reign of terror. And in that terror, they sowed confusion—confusion that persists to this day. We are told that this dominance is natural, that history unfolded as it should. Yet the foundations of white male dominance were never natural; they were, and remain, a construction of human will and greed. It was law and violence, not nature, that decreed the superiority of the white man over the so-called savage. It was not biology but a deliberate system of exploitation that justified the theft of land, the enslavement of Africans, and the subjugation of women. But the story told to the masses—both colonizer and colonized—was always a lie: that the white man had earned his place at the top through the grace of God and the power of civilization. This system, this monument to white male dominance, is global. It spread across continents, leaving in its wake the wreckage of lives, cultures, and nations. Eurocentrism was not just a worldview; it was a weapon. It imposed a narrow, hierarchical structure on the vast diversity of human experience. In Africa, in Asia, in the Americas, the myth of white male superiority became law, policy, and custom. Even non-Western societies, those who had their own rich histories and traditions, were made to bow before the altar of whiteness, forced to assimilate or perish under the weight of colonization. Consider, for a moment, those of us who call ourselves Black. Do we ever stop to wonder how it is we know this, who told us, and in what quiet ways that voice has ruled over us? We inherit this word—this name—without asking, as though it were something of our own. But, deep within, it is not. No, it is an inheritance from a power that insists we be defined by it, severed from any tether to the tribes we came from, the lives we would have lived. We wear this imposed identity like armor, and yet it cuts us down at every step, erasing the possibility of being anything other than what the colonizer saw fit to label us. And so, we live, and we die, under names we never chose. Colonialism’s cleverest trick is perhaps that very ease, that silence with which we carry the names of our conquerors to our graves, seldom questioning why or how we could ever imagine being something else. It would have us accept, without contest, that the weight we bear is natural, that our histories, our bloodlines, are best forgotten. And so we move through life, buried under the pretense that our identity—our very selves—are a gift, rather than a wound that we are yet to heal. The truth is this: white male dominance has been maintained through a conspiracy of laws and institutions, through cultural norms that uphold the lie of supremacy. It has persisted because it has never been truly challenged on its terms. It is a construct, and like all constructs, it can be unmade. But let us not be confused any longer. There is nothing natural about white male dominance. It is not an inherent trait, passed down through blood. It is a system of power, meticulously crafted and viciously protected. And like all systems, it can be dismantled. Yet to dismantle it, we must first acknowledge its existence and its origins. We must understand that it survives not through strength but through the confusion it sows: the confusion that tells us this is just the way things are, that nothing can be done. We must confront the contradictions at its core—the hypocrisy that speaks of freedom while denying it to all but a select few. And so, we must debunk the myth of inevitability. We must tell the truth: that white male dominance was built, not ordained. It is time to look beyond the confusion, the contradictions, the hypocrisy, and the deception. It is time to see it for what it is—a historical aberration, not a human destiny. Thulani Conrad Moore
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  There has always been a "they," hasn't there? Always some faceless, remorseless force looming just beyond our vision, always hunting someone, always coming for some “other.” And we would do well to remember what Martin Niemöller tried to teach us after the horrors in Germany: "First they came for the Socialists," he said, "and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Socialist. Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me."
But America has its own version of this story, though they don’t often tell it. Here, history is buried so deep in the books and films and archives that you wouldn’t know it unless you went digging. You see, they know that if they control historical information, they control empathy; and by controlling empathy, they control advocacy. Because if you don’t feel for your neighbor, you won’t raise your voice when they come to take them away. And if you don’t raise your voice, who will be left to raise it when they come for you? So I ask you, what did your ancestors do when a mob of white men, outraged by the Chinese Exclusion Acts, decided the law didn’t go far enough and violently expelled nearly 600 Chinese people from Seattle on November 3, 1885 What did they do when Mexicans—Americans, mind you—were rounded up and deported in the early 1920s, their citizenship papers no shield from the indifferent, accusing eyes of white supremacy? And tell me, where did your ancestors stand on September 11, 1851, when the Fugitive Slave Act came to Christiana, Pennsylvania? When a former slave owner—a forebear of a Supreme Court justice—tried to kidnap his neighbor, did your people turn a blind eye? Or did they stand shoulder to shoulder with their Black neighbors, like the people of Christiana, ready to say, “Not today. Not here”? And what about when their Japanese neighbors were herded up and imprisoned during World War II, entire communities left to sit behind barbed wire and guard towers while their homes and businesses were ransacked or stolen. Did anyone protest? Did anyone make a sound? And what will you do, America, when they come for your neighbors? Or perhaps the real question is this: Do you even know who they are? For if you don’t, if you’ve let yourself forget the face of those who came before, those who lived and died to warn you, then you’ve already given up the right to claim any outrage at all. Because you see, there is a fear. A fear so deeply ingrained that it drives them, generation after generation, to maintain their grasp over a world that they’ve decided must forever remain in white male hands. And that fear means that they’re always coming for someone, for some "other," to remind them that they hold power. And in time, if history’s unyielding march is any teacher, they will come for you too. So, I ask you, America—when the dark forces of intolerance, apathy, and hatred come, will you be able to say what your family did when they came for “them”? Or will your voice falter, searching for words and actions that were never taught, never passed down, because too many of you didn’t speak out when there was still someone to speak for? And if you wonder what that kind of love and determination looks like, just think of that moment in the movie “Taken.” when Liam Neeson’s character says, “Hell, no,” and crosses every line and boundary to get his daughter back. And then think, who will be left to advocate for you when they come for you? The answer, perhaps, is up to you. Written By: Thulani Moore, Roots of Justice Trainer |
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