Scripture tells us to “love your neighbor as you love yourself,” and RuPaul says, “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you gonna love somebody else?! Can I get an amen?” To both of which — I agree. Chef’s kiss, actually. Love is very much the answer and the anecdote. It’s patient, it’s kind, it’s all that stuff they be saying in the Bible and on the Home Goods decor.

Howbever.

Sometimes hate is required. Or, if the word “hate” is too strong — a highly intentional, well-researched, ethically sourced dislike. It ain’t never hurt nobody.

You cannot convince me that Jesus was cool with everybody he met. Please. That man was flippin’ tables. He walked away from people mid-conversation. He blocked people in real life. Shoot, he ghosted entire cities. I know there were folks following him around that made him suck his teeth. More often than not, I’d like to imagine he could not stand some of them niggas…same.

Love does not mean access. Grace does not mean vibes. To be a hater of some magnitude is not a defect in character — it is a sign that you have preferences, a nervous system, at least one working boundary and some self-awareness to speak the truth.

If you ask any of my close friends, they can quickly tell you the top three people on my hateration list. The list is short, curated, and sometimes gets updated. I hold a visceral — but controlled — fuck you for each of them, within reason. And if I’m being completely honest, the origin of that feeling almost always starts with me.

My disdain is not rooted in malicious intent. I am not waking up plotting downfalls or lighting candles with nobody’s name on them. It’s rooted in recognition of the ick. The things that irritate me most in other people that are sometimes fossilized versions of traits I worked hard to unlearn. When I see arrogance without accountability or power without self-awareness — especially in people who benefit at the expense of others or claim to be a representation of my people— it makes my ass itch. Whenever I come across qualities similar to those I have long abandoned in someone of high societal standing, they are more than likely getting rotated into the club of hateration.

It’s not jealousy. I don’t want what they have. I don’t want to be them. I’m not really judging them for who they are (sometimes this is a half truth because some of these folks deserve harsh judgement). I actually just want them to shut up.

It ain’t that deep, but it is all that deep at the same time.

So what is a hater? By definition, a hater is someone who expresses intense dislike or criticism. It’s giving clinical. It’s giving Webster’s. By my definition, a hater is someone who has accepted that they do not have to like everyone, do not have to rationalize that dislike into something palatable and do not have to pretend neutrality is a moral achievement. It is a healthy dose of realizing that discernment is not the same thing as bitterness, and that saying “I don’t like them” is sometimes more honest than saying “I wish them well” through gritted teeth and rolled eyes.

We’ve been lied to about “being the bigger person.” Sometimes being the bigger person just means being quieter about how much you hate something while it continues to bother you. Michelle Obama’s “Go high when they go low” just means compromising parts of who you are. I’m not interested in being a peacemaker. I’m interested in being real. The one who names the feeling, inspects it, and decides what to do with it instead of spiritually bypassing my way into resentment.

Why expend all that energy? Because repression is costly — mentally, spiritually and sometimes physically. Because pretending to be above your feelings doesn’t make you evolved — it makes you exhausted and I’m tired of being tired. Someone has to be honest about their inner being, and I decided long ago to stop running from my reactions in the quest to be perfect, healed, or universally likable.

This type of hate, when examined, is rarely just hate. It’s information. It points directly to your values, your growth edges, and your hard no’s. Unless you really are just a nasty, grimey, stank hater (derogatory) like some folks I know, but I digress.

I keep my list close — not out of obsession, but out of curiosity. I study them the way you reread an old journal entry: partly to cringe, partly to confirm that I really have changed. They help me check my alignment. Am I reacting because they’re wrong, or because they’re familiar? Because they’re harmful, or because they remind me of something I still haven’t forgiven myself for? Or do they just really fucking suck?

In that way, my hate is not a flaw. It’s a compass. It tells me where I’ve been, where I refuse to return, and who I am no longer willing to make excuses for — including myself. Is this reasonable or delusional — I will take that up with my therapist, but for now it makes sense to me.

And yes, I still believe in love. I just don’t believe it requires me to like everybody, or everybody to like me up in the dancery.

August 29: 68 Days to the Election – A warm Savannah rain poured over a never-ending stream of Harris supporters waiting to enter the arena. I stood drenched among the flood — still undecided, but still curious enough to show up. I was in search of the truth behind the screen. I wanted to witness the woman branded “for the people” actually be for the people.

As Vice-President Harris began her spiel of policy and democracy, a pair of determined voices rose from the stands echoing loud enough to reach the floor of the arena.

“No more votes for genocide!”

“How many Palestinians have to carry their children’s bodies home in bags?”

“How many dead journalists? How many families in tents?”

“Free Palestine!”

“Arms embargo now!”

And then, after prolonged pause, came hers — firm, measured, wielded like a gavel.

“Let me just say something, let me…hold on…hold on…hold up for a second…hold up for a second…let me just say something…let me just say something. We are fighting for a democracy. Everyone has a right and should have their voices heard…I am speaking now…but on the subject I will say this the president and I are working around the clock. We’ve got to get a hostage deal done and get a ceasefire done now. So back to this election—and Donald Trump.”

After a chorus of boos had finally dissipated, the committed crowd shouted back “KAMA-LA! KAMA-LA!” The room had broken into an uproar of sounds meant drown out the protesters.

Her words and theirs collided midair — two truths speaking over each other. As protesters cried out for lives, she spoke of freedom. They shouted for Palestine, she countered with “the fight for democracy.” They demanded an end to bombs, she redirected to ballots and her opponent.

Once, hearing “I’m speaking” felt like fierce rebuttal— the sound of a Black woman demanding to be heard in a room that tried to silence her. Now, it felt like an unyielding command towards voices refusing to be silenced.

Still, the irony hung thick in the air: “Everyone has a right and should have their voices heard…” she’d said — as security swiftly escorted those voices out.

This is what contradiction sounds like. To be clear, it wasn’t chaos. It was a constitutional tango on display in real time. Democracy’s most honest duet, even if only one side had the power of a microphone.

And here’s the thing — Kamala knows this. She grew up at protests. She knows protest is not meant to be polite. It’s not meant to wait its turn. Protest is disruption — the sacred interruption of comfort in the name of truth and justice.

But standing at the podium, she treated that same disruption as a threat — as if the righteous noise that once raised her now risked derailing her. As if these people’s voices had grown too loud for her platform.

Her response was, at best, a pivot from her quick August 7 rebuttal — “If you want Donald Trump to win, say that. Otherwise, I’m speaking.” At worst, it was a deflection that betrayed the promise of the movement she came from. She became what she once opposed: a voice that speaks over rather than with.

She who inherited the language of protest had learned to speak fluent establishment. Where protesters pleaded to be acknowledged, she performed composure. Where they screamed to be heard, she smugly smiled through the noise. Where they asked for empathy, she offered political theater.

Her tone was no longer for the people — it was above them.

Exhibit 1: A Loyal Inheritance

As Vice President, Kamala Harris’ powers were both ceremonial and situational — tie-breaker, successor, surrogate, shield. They were powers nonetheless. She inherited not just these powers of her office, but the moral debt of the administration she served. A role that not only came with authority but it also came with allegiance.

However, where President Biden’s loyalty to Israel was explicit, Harris tried to straddle the moral line. She became fluent in the language of soft condemnation:

“I support Israel’s right to defend itself,”

she said again and again, softening later with,

“and how it does so matters.”

That “and” became the problem.
That “and” was the line between complicity and courage.

She reframed genocide as a “humanitarian crisis,” as though wordplay could mask bloodshed. She spoke of innocent Palestinians while approving arms shipments that killed them. She expressed concern for suffering while defending the structure that caused it. The contradiction wasn’t only political — it was moral.

And when called to account, she didn’t listen. She deflected. She redirected toward Trump — as though moral clarity could wait until after the election.

I’ve read the book. I’ve watched the interviews surrounding these 107 days. My biggest takeaway is that Harris is afraid — afraid to say what must be said, unwilling to give space for an open dialogue about genocide, and far too comfortable deflecting to the Trump administration instead of taking on any real accountability. There’s a growing frustration in that silence, a collective sense that she’s dodging more than just questions — she’s dodging the weight of her moral responsibility.

This was not just a fumble in messaging; it was a revelation of priorities. A woman whose childhood was spent at protests could not seem to stomach being protested herself.

And while Gaza has become the focal point — an easy and urgent place to measure the failures of power — it was not the only concern. The same patterns of avoidance, soft deflection and pivoting to center showed up across issues: immigration, policing, climate justice, healthcare and transgender rights just to name a few. The genocide may be the loudest mirror, but it was not the only one reflecting cracks in her leadership potential.

Exhibit 2: If Not Now, Then When

Many have asked, “Why protest her now? Why not protest the current administration?”

But protest does not expire with the election cycle. Protest is not a performance with an off-season. Accountability doesn’t end when the campaign does. To say “she’s no longer in office” is to misunderstand accountability. The policies she upheld still bear her co-signature. The weapons she defended are still in flight. The silence she maintained still echoes. Her loss does not negate any of this.

And honestly — it’s a slap in the face to suggest that a movement can’t do both. That justice can’t be demanded from those currently in power and hold accountable the ones we once dared to hope in. As if the same people filling the streets for Gaza haven’t already been shouting at the White House gates. As if protest is a one-lane road rather than a network of resistance. This isn’t the “gotcha” moment some folks think it is — it’s a continuation of the same fight.

Still, it’s fair to name the tension: protesting at her events does bring visibility and accountability, but it also feeds the very machine being challenged. Every disruption boosts engagement, every clip goes viral, every headline sells tickets and books. That’s the cruel paradox of modern dissent — that even resistance can become a form of marketing. But silence, too, is a kind of complicity. So people choose noise, knowing it’s both necessary and costly.

Protest is inheritance too — a lineage of resistance that follows power wherever it goes. And if a public figure can host book tours, sell memoirs, and appear on every major network — she can be protested. Visibility demands accountability.

Exhibit 3: The Optics of Empire

Harris’ book and press tour — for her retelling of those 107 campaign days — feels like reflection punctuated with “I told you so.” I get it and I can’t say I’m mad at it, but each viral clip, each profane moment, each carefully timed soundbite, each smirk or laugh turned meme — it all feeds the machine of optics.

She’s mastered the viral moment: the eyebrow raise, the laugh, the clapback. She makes a good meme — but she’s really another pawn in the American political system of imperialism.

Because this is what the system does: it polishes representation into performance. It rewards optics over outcomes, applause over accountability. Anything to maintain the status quo.

And that is the tragic inheritance of believing you can reform the system from within. We tell ourselves it’s possible — that if we just get inside, we can shift its gears. But once inside, you learn the walls don’t bend — they mold. You learn that to survive in the machine, you must move like one.

Exhibit 4: The Burden in the Mirror

Still, this is not just about Kamala Harris. It’s also about the impossible burden placed on Black women in power — to be both symbol and savior, revolutionary and respectable, untouchable and endlessly scrutinized.

A friend and I were recently talking about this — about how to critique Kamala and Black women in power without falling into the traps of misogynoir and racism. Because the truth is, most critiques of Black women in leadership are rooted in both. They’re dissected, demeaned, and dehumanized in ways white and male leaders never are. But that reality doesn’t mean they are above reproach.

Black women seated at tables of power are not above critique simply because they are Black and accomplished. Representation should not become immunity. Accountability is not betrayal. To love Black women in power is also to hold them to the same standards of justice and empathy we demand from everyone else. Harris’ rise was historic, yes. But history alone is not absolution.

And I’ll admit — I’ve wanted to just sit back and enjoy her goofy, nerdy, fun auntie personality. I wanted to celebrate the first Black woman Vice President, to uplift her brilliance and success. I wanted to relate to those more vulnerable and transparent moments. But to only do that would be dishonest. It would mean choosing comfort over truth. It would mean protecting symbolism over substance.

To protect Black women means to protect our right to question, to challenge, to demand integrity even from our own.

To respect Black women means to honor the platforms we build not as stages for self-preservation but as pulpits for collective liberation.

To protect Black women means to defend our right to critique each other with love and accountability.

To respect Black women means to ensure that when we enter systems of power, we do not become their conduit.

We are not tools of empire. We are its survivors, its proof that another world is possible. The “what could be, unburdened by what has been” that Harris loves to speak of.

In the end, Harris’ unwillingness to hold space for the people’s pain became her loudest silence. The protesters’ chants were inconvenient, yes, but they were also sacred — the sound of democracy in action still trying to breathe.

Closing: Sound of the People

And so, after that Savannah rain subsided, I stood listening — not to Kamala’s speech, but to the clash between power and people. Between image and integrity. Between I’m speaking and We are screaming.

It was a sermon on sound: how democracy becomes dissonance when the podium stops listening.

I didn’t leave feeling any more empowered or enthused than when I arrived. I wasn’t moved by her speech, but by the duel that made national headlines.

Maybe that was the lesson: that no matter how loud the podium gets, the people — like rain — always find a way through the cracks.

Maybe the question isn’t whether Kamala Harris will listen — maybe it’s whether the people will keep speaking until someone with a true thirst for justice finally does.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been punished for having a voice. Told children are to be seen and not heard. Chastised for advocating for myself. Labeled “bad” and “mouthy” just for telling the truth. I used to think once you grew up, those labels would fall off and fade away. That adulthood meant finally being allowed to speak freely.

What I didn’t factor in was the part where I’m a Black woman. One who used to be a little Black girl. So instead of “bad,” they say “radical.” Instead of “mouthy,” they say “defensive.” Same disrespect, just dressed up in mature vocabulary.

I got my first big-girl, corporate-adjacent job last October. I came in telling myself not to take up too much space. Be myself, but not too much and not too loudly. I paid attention, followed directions, studied the culture like it was a syllabus. Did all the things they teach you in school: blend in, follow rules, be “good.” But it wasn’t enough. It never is when folks expect you to fail from the jump.

At my 3-month review, I got blindsided. My “superiors” came to the meeting with a thick-ass packet full of commentary that had been collected since day one. Some issues were brought to me directly. Some got filtered through passive-aggressive moments. A whole bunch? Never mentioned at all.

You would think folks in leadership positions would know how to lead. But when given the opportunity, they folded. And because I was the newest, the youngest, the Black girl on the bottom rung—I took the hits. But I digress.

They put me on a performance improvement plan. Not because they wanted me to grow, no, they were prepping to fire me. Thing is, my spirit has never lied to me. I pride myself on my discernment, and I knew—before they brought it to me—that my time there was almost up. I even went ahead and cleared my desk of my personally belongings. Playing small and staying silent wasn’t protecting me. It was killing my spirit. Then when I did start speaking up, I was told I lacked “initiative” and labeled “defensive.”

My community work—the same work that uplifts people outside these four walls—was brought up in my review. Framed like a positive on paper, but really it was a red flag. A quiet accusation: “She’s doing too much. She’s connected to too much. She might be a problem.” Funny how being rooted in your community becomes a threat in spaces that aren’t truly built for us.

Mind you, this was a brand-new team in a brand-new department. We were supposed to be building something from the ground up. Supposed to be offering each other grace. But one thing I’ve learned: when you’re a young Black woman, the only grace guaranteed to you is the grace of God and the grace you give yourself. Any time a white woman gets the chance to throw you under the bus—and back up over you a few times—she will. And she’ll do it with a smile.

Needless to say, I lost that role. But instead of getting fired outright, I got transferred to a different position with a more supportive team. Still, the message was clear: the old team wanted me gone. But like Maya Angelou said… still I work…or something like that.

That whole experience taught me a few things. First: I’m never shrinking or silencing myself again. I’ve always been unapologetic, and I owe it to myself—not to any job—to stay that way. I don’t fit in boxes, and trying to force myself into one is a kind of violence. I’ve fought too hard for this voice to let it go now.

I wish I could say this new position is perfect. It’s not. It has its own challenges. But I feel safer here. Happier. I can show up as my whole self, not a diluted version. And I have no hesitation speaking up—especially to higher ups. You’d think that’d come easy since I’m a spoken word artist, a former TEDx speaker (we’ll circle back to this later), a public speaker by trade. But survival rewires your instincts. Even the loudest voices can go quiet when the stakes are high enough.

So I’ve made myself a few promises:

• Never cower in the face of authority.

• Treat everybody—from the janitor to the CEO—with the same dignity I expect in return.

• Give myself more grace than the world ever will.

• Take micro-aggressions for what they are: not a reflection of me, but of them.

• And most importantly? Never disrespect the little Black girl who fought so damn hard to be heard. She deserves better from me. Always.

What they thought they got away with? Yeah, that’ll come back around one way or another. But that’s no longer my burden to carry. I let that go. I truly wish the new girl in my old position the best of luck—I really do. She’ll need it.

As for me, I’m back to doing what I was always meant to do: being boots on the ground in my community, showing up with love, care, and fire. If anything, I’m grateful. Grateful for the lesson. Grateful for the return to myself—even if the journey hurt like hell.

— cj giovanni