WHITE PEOPLE ARE VAMPIRES: A DIATRIBE FOR VIOLA

There. I said it again.

And this time, I’m not hiding behind the scholarly frame of whiteness as property, though the deed is the fucking blueprint. I’m not softening it for the delicate sensibilities of the vampires who want to sip my blood but can’t stand the sight of it on their lips.

White people are vampires.

This is not a metaphor. It is a diagnosis. A clinical observation of a 400-year-old pathology.

What else do you call a people whose social, political, and psychic economy is based on consuming the lives of others to sustain their own delusion of immortality? Their delusions of grandeur?

Viola Ford Fletcher lived to be 111 years old. A century and eleven years on this earth. She was a living archive. Her memory was a crime scene that had not been cleaned up. She held the entire, stinking truth of this nation in her mind, a mosaic — the smell of smoke, the sound of screams, the sight of a paradise built by ADOS/Black hands, burned to ash by white jealousy. No one has ever been held accountable for the Massacre of May 31,1921 involving 300 deaths, and the destruction of a Black Wall Street, by a white mob.

And what did the Oklahoma Supreme Court, robed high priests of the vampire covenant, do? They dismissed her. They looked at this living monument to their own barbarism and said, No remedy. They looked at a 111-year-old woman seeking justice for the murder of her world and declared the case closed. Mother. Fuckers

What is that if not vampirism? They have sucked the labor, the land, the lives, and the futures of our people for centuries. And when one of the last living witness to one of their most infamous feasts comes to court, they suck the very hope from her veins before she can even be buried.

They are not just draining us. They are draining history itself. They are consuming the evidence.

This is the Frankensteinian Urge made manifest: the desperate, psychotic need to destroy the living proof of your own monstrosity. They burned Greenwood to the ground in 1921, and in 2024, they tried to extinguish one of the last ember of its memory. They are vampires terrified of the light a 111-year-old Black woman was still casting.

And H. Rap Brown — Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin — transitioned. A man who looked this vampire nation in its pale eye and declared, “Violence is as American as cherry pie.” He wasn’t advocating; he was diagnosing. He named the virus. He saw the fangs behind the smile and the bloodlust beneath the flag.

They have always been this way. The the watchful slavemaster on the porch, sipping sweet tea while his plantation pulsed with our blood, our sweat, our fear and screams. The “pioneer” family, praying over a meal grown on land they stole from a people they slaughtered. The Karen, (dastardly Carolyn Bryant, Fannie Taylor, et.al.), calling the police to suck the freedom from a Black body for the crime of existing in her sightline.

It is the same fucking act. The same hunger.

They put on different costumes — the judge’s robe, the policeman’s badge, the developer’s hardhat — but the mission is always the same: to feed. To feed on our labor, our neighborhoods, our culture, our joy, and when there’s nothing else left, on our memory.

So no, I will not be diplomatic. I will not make myself digestible for the very creatures who have feasted on my family, on our community, and on our Blackness for generations and centuries.

To the vampires of AmericKKKa: Your deed is written in our blood. Your covenant is a curse that has hollowed you out. You are not a superior race; you are a parasitic species, and your endless hunger is your own damnation.

We. Are. Still. Here. MF’s.

We remember Viola.

We remember H. Rap.

We remember the Black Panthers.

We remember The Tulsa Race Massacre — Greenwood.

We remember The Elaine Massacre.

We remember The Rosewood Massacre.

We remember Ocoee Massacre.

We remember The Atlanta Massacre.

We remember The East St. Louis Massacre.

We remember The Springfield Race Riot.

We remember The Colfax Massacre.

We remember The Wilmington Insurrection — the only successful coup d’etat in U.S. history.

We remember all the unnamed fallen — the sacrificed ADOS/Blacks.

Our memory is the stake we will one day drive through your cold, dead heart.

The curse is yours.

The blood is on your hands.

And the dawn is coming.