I broke up with a founder friend

(yes, it was over the election)

I’ve made it through two Trump cycles without losing any friends or having to block anyone. So my experience last week was an unsettling first — learning that a white woman in my life had such room to surprise me.

For context, I’m mostly emotionally detached from politics. I don’t label myself as liberal or conservative, and though I’m open about my views, I tend to keep political conversations at arm’s length—not only because they drain me, but because I prefer to exist on a different plane of reality 90% of the time. In that sense, I’m probably more apolitical than most.

I’ve never felt super attached to the outcome of any election. I remember wanting Obama to win, but I wasn’t going to die if he didn’t. With the Trump win in 2016, I was shocked, but in a damn, that’s crazy — America is trashy as fuck kind of way. Only with this current election cycle have I felt genuine gutted emotion — a first.

While I’ve never supported Donald Trump, I confess, I have laughed at his ‘isms, his tackiness, his rudimentary way of speech — I found him to be such a joke. But an election cycle where we’re talking about eating cats and dogs? That joke of a tariff plan I wouldn’t have put together in high school economics? Are we dead ass? When it came down to this election cycle, I found the mechanics behind it all boiled down to one thing: white supremacy.

This election was never about policy—it was about preserving whiteness, plain and simple. There’s no grand economic, foreign, or immigration strategy at play here; the man openly admitted he didn’t even have a plan, but rather, “concepts” of a plan, while Kamala had to dance on the head of a pin while somehow still remaining deemed as unqualified (despite her thorough political work history). Let’s call it what that is: Not white privilege — that term makes them feel good. It’s WHITE SUPREMACY. Yet we’re still skirting around it, as if it’s too extreme to say out loud, like Lord Voldemort. Let’s cut the bullshit.

For the first time in my voting history, I felt personally invested—maybe even a little naively optimistic. I wanted to see white people choke on this win, especially after being physically threatened during a MAGA rally outside of the Beverly Hills Erewhon.

My decision was a no-brainer. I strategically requested an absentee ballot from my home state, Pennsylvania, which didn’t get counted over “signature issues”—so bizarre (I had to reassign my mom to vote in person on my behalf at the 11th hour). And I wanted to push back on the belief that when it comes to Us, we’re expected to be overly critical, hyper-rational, and endlessly scrutinizing in our voting decisions. So, yes, I proudly voted for Kamala, highly in part because she’s a Black woman. Duh! Just like the people who voted for Trump voted for him because he’s a white man. Cry about it.

On election night, I got drunk and found myself texting a founder friend of mine — a white woman whose former clean skincare brand had benefited from the press visibility of being “Black-owned” due to her bi-racial co-founder.

This friend and I had known each other since late 2020 or early 2021. We’d quickly hit it off after connecting on Instagram, admiring each other’s brands and design sensibilities. As time unfolded, we bonded over more intimate things— among them our obsessions with The Universe, our upbringings, current life tribulations, brand strategy, and the pressures of growing our businesses.

When my phone buzzed with a text back from her that read: “I don’t think we voted for the same person, girl,” my jaw hit the floor. I replied, “Why am I so gagged?” Her response?

I think Trump is best for our country right now.

Say sike.

While I knew Trump would likely have the majority white woman vote, truthfully, I would have taken her for somebody who would have not voted, before she voted for Trump. She doesn’t fit the Revolve wearing, Instagram influencing bleach-blonde Alix Earle archetype. The friend I came to know was a tasteful, open-minded and insightful business woman, who had even been an extra in a Tyler Perry film. She didn’t wear hair extensions, she never tried to be down. Over the years and through our endless conversations, and 10-minute voice notes, I began to see her as thoughtful and in tune with the world around her.

We’d never delved too deeply into politics, which wasn’t unique to my relationship with her. But I did understand her to be pro-choice; a staunch believer in bodily autonomy. Just two weeks ago, when I joked about maybe dating a nice guy from the South, she’d warned, “you don’t want to date a conservative man, girl, trust me”—drawing from her own experience, it seemed. When Texas started rolling back reproductive rights, she talked about her decision to leave the state, despite living in its most 'liberal' city, because it was getting too conservative for her.

So when my phone buzzed with this revelation, frankly, I was immensely taken aback.

She sent over a paragraph saying she loved me despite our political differences and wouldn’t judge me for my views — therefore I shouldn’t judge her for hers; that there’s no way we should ever let something like politics get between us. Spoken like a true closet conservative white woman. I found this ultimatum to be emotionally manipulative, and it was — a way of her wielding her whiteness in an attempt to dominate and steer the direction of our relationship without my say.

I hadn’t asked her reasons for voting. Frankly, there was no justification she could have given that would make me feel like she was anything other than fake and a complete moron. As I went silent for a little, she quickly spiraled into defense mode, following up with a long paragraph, her language taking on an edge I’d never seen before.

“Letting millions of undocumented immigrants is just not safe or smart. Other countries would never allow us to come to their country like that!”

Her words ignited a collected back-and-forth.

“Are you saying Trump is racist or his supporters?” - Her

“Umm, both?” -Me

“I agree that he did some racist shit in the 70s and 80s but at this point all he’s trying to do is protect our border. That’s why we’re not safe!!”

I said to myself — oh, this bitch is crazy.

At some point, she sent me a video of Joe Biden using the N-word, as if to say, If Trump is so racist, what about Biden? (No shade, but any Black intellectual on Twitter since the early 2010s has seen that video — she really thought she was breaking some news to me). She also argued that plenty of Black people don’t find Trump racist, which I dismissed by saying that no self-respecting Black person would ever vote for him (how embarrassing would that be).

They’re crazy on both sides, girl, - Her

She’s not endorsed by the KKK? - Me

Things didn’t get overtly heated, but I felt so icky and I couldn’t help but feel that this conversation was getting to be beneath me. I also couldn’t help but think that she’d chosen to reveal this side of herself because it looked like the Trump win was solidified.

Her final words before I wrapped things up were that I should be open to giving it a chance (despite having told her about my racist experience outside of Erewhon). “That’s just me, though,” complete with a shrug emoji. Not this girl telling me to brush off racism, crime, corruption and misogyny. That's how much of yourself they expect you to abandon in deference to their perceived superiority. I responded — "Girl, I’m Black!” and then I blocked her. Everywhere except here, where she is likely to read this essay.

I’d be dishonest if I told you that this experience didn’t massively rattle me, and here’s why: it pulled the rug out from under my belief in my own discernment, showing me just how much more covert and ingrained white supremacy can be — even when you think you understand how deep it lives. Many of us Black folk have come to understand it in its modern form by now — it’s lives within the girl who takes the reformer next to yours at pilates, it’s the toxic girl-boss that claims female empowerment and champions women-owned brands. On the other side, it’s the ones who secretly follow Jayda Wayda and The Shade Room to keep an eye on the culture. This isn’t news. But I’m still left struggling to reconcile that even with this awareness — how I could still come so far in missing the mark — and what cues may I have had that I possibly missed?

On Thursday night, I opened my laptop to see that a couple of messages snuck through to my iCloud.

I’m interested in her assumption that I haven’t done my own research. Again, whiteness always attempts to assert itself as superior and more all-knowing.

The Truth always prevails, she writes — capitalized, which was no accident. How 1933 of her.

I responded.

Her response.

This is where it ended.

I had no idea Joe Rogan had my phone number!

Her alt-right spiral was likely not about the loss of our friendship. It was about having to confront the destructive side of her whiteness, and me having the gall to call it out; she, as I expected, was offended that I wasn’t allowing her to ignore it.

This is my fundamental issue with white supremacy: it thrives on a silent, collective willingness to hierarchize and exploit those perceived as beneath, in order to preserve a level of personal comfort for a concentrated few — even if it harms those who choose to opt into it. Whiteness ensures that everybody else misses the memo. It operates through the illusion of outside danger, when its own danger is the ways in which it so purposefully hides behind performance, slips past your defenses, and operates comfortably within your safe space, until it feels at home enough to say BOO.

It’s not that this ex-friend is incapable of understanding why she can’t uphold systems of white supremacy and heteronormative patriarchy while in community with me—she just doesn’t care. And that spirit in her was unleashed the moment I held up the mirror. That’s because white people fear being considered racist more than they fear actually being racist. And every time we tiptoe around that, hesitant to call it out for what it is, it only becomes more pervasive.

Lastly, a bone to pick

In the heat of the moment, I confided in a Black male founder friend (voted for Kamala; reluctantly it sounds like). In a bizarre twist, instead of sharing my outrage, he shared sentiments that he probably wouldn’t have responded if he were me, followed by a message pondering “whatever happened to just wanting the government to give people healthcare, affordable housing, stop bombing etc.” I don’t like that none of this is at the center of the conversation in the aftermath of all this, he wrote.

Black woman sigh and massive eye-roll. My immediate thoughts were that I see why Harriet Tubman had to leave some people behind.

To dismiss my experience further, his following texts focused on defining my personal negligence, attempting to weaponize the circumstances to justify how I ended up in that situation. You couldn’t have been that good of friends, then, it sounds like. You haven’t talked about your political beliefs with this person? Why not?

I asked him why it felt like I was being victim-blamed. It felt very akin to “well what were you wearing?” Was it that hard for him to just accept that white women can be that deceptive?

His response: “Deceptive? Aren’t they racist until proven not?” He then suggested matter-of-factly that I talk about politics upfront with any non-Black friends — advice I did not ask for and will not be adhering to as I’m skeptical of the difference it would make.

I’m not sure why it may have been such a challenge for him to pause and think that maybe I’ve already gone through the process of being frustrated with myself, wondering what I missed, or questioning if I was naive to expect anything different.

How was any of this helpful?

To him and anyone else questioning my judgment, I ask: has it ever crossed your mind that—hmm…I don’t know—I’m fucking human? People love to miss out on that part when it comes to Black women. It’s not because they can’t comprehend that I have homo sapien DNA and a beating pulse. Again—it’s because they just don’t care. At least, that’s how it feels this week, especially. Why is there this expectation that I should be more accountable for my disappointments — like I should’ve known better like my god damn name is Monica?

Am I supposed to live my life in a constant state of hypervigilance? Am I not allowed to be caught off guard? It feels very unfair to be victim of such an egregious level of manipulation and coercion, and yet still somehow manage to have the finger pointed at me. The reason I’m sharing this is because this experience is not a first, nor is it isolated. 

I reject the burden that I should somehow be omniscient, all-knowing, and fine with having none of the power that should come along with it. Not the girl that knew the Best of Gil-Scott Heron cassette from front to back by the age of 10. Please.

This brings me to an interview Allison Williams gave on Late Night with Seth Meyers after the release of Get Out, where she discussed how people would come up to her and insist on justifying her character, Rose. They’d ask things like “She was hypnotized, right?”—trying to find any way to soften her character’s villainy (which, I’d argue, places undue culpability onto the Black lead).

In the interview Allison says, "She literally is a white supremacist who eats cereal with the milk and cereal separate...she’s just evil. How hard is that to accept?"