I Don’t Negotiate with White Supremacists

A roast, a reality check, and a refusal to break bread with bigots—no matter how polite they sound.

There’s a new movement brewing—one where progressives are doing their best impersonation of a guidance counselor at a Klan rally. You’ve seen it: the “we need to talk to MAGA people” crowd. The “let’s just hear them out” crowd. The “maybe if we share avocado toast and talk about our feelings, we can find common ground with people who stormed the Capitol in camo and buffalo horns” crowd. And I can’t help but laugh—because it’s 2025, and apparently “Don’t feed the racists” is too controversial now.

I was born in Los Angeles, California—in Inglewood to be exact—in 1981. I spent the first 12 years of my life in L.A., then the next 12 in Knoxville, Tennessee. After that, I did a stretch in the DMV before moving back to Los Angeles in 2005, where I’ve been ever since. But make no mistake—I’m a Los Angeles kid through and through. Lakers, Dodgers, In-N-Out, Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles. That city raised me, whether I was in it or away from it.

By the time the LA Riots hit in ‘92, the city was already vibrating with tension. My family, all women and brothers and cousins and noise and gospel and “turn that off before I slap you,” decided the hustle and chaos of South Central might eat us alive. It wasn’t paranoia; it was self-preservation. I had an uncle who got shot in a gang and almost died as a teen. My father didn’t make it—he died at 19 from a gunshot wound, likely tied to that same life. And my mom? She had me when she was 15. So when the grown folks said, we’re moving to Knoxville, Tennessee, my nine-year-old self had no idea what the hell was coming. Reverse Beverly Hillbillies, except instead of moving to riches, we moved to trees and strange stares.

At first, I hated it. Not because South Central was perfect—I was bussed to school on the West Side—but I knew what it was. Knoxville? All scenic hills, Smoky Mountain backdrops, and where are all the Black people? Eventually I found them, and many of them are still my friends today. But I also found something else: racism had layers. Like a soggy, unseasoned onion.

In LA, racism was systemic, insidious, coded. I learned early how to roast white kids who made fun of the way I talked or the way my hair looked. It was easy: you snapped back fast and hard. If they hit you with a weak jab, you gave them something so cutting they started rethinking their whole personality. It was verbal warfare, and I was fluent.

Knoxville, though, was different. There, the first time a white boy called me “nigger,” my instinct wasn’t to joke—it was to fight. And I did. But even in Tennessee, after a while, you learn that sometimes the best counter to ignorance isn’t just fists—it’s language. So I sharpened my roasting game again. You had to. Because in Knoxville, racism wasn’t sneaky. It wore camo, smiled at your mom, and invited you over before calling your cousin “boy.”

There were categories. You had your open “I hate niggers” racists, the polite-but-wouldn’t-let-you-date-their-daughter racists, the “I love the Confederate flag because it’s heritage” racists, and the racists who would never show you the flag but definitely had it folded up in their garage next to the shotgun and moonshine.

One thing I’ve come to appreciate in hindsight: my white friends never invited me over to “have a talk” with their racist grandpappy. Not once. Nobody ever said, “Hey Ealy, Grandpa thinks the Civil War was about states’ rights—you should totally come over and change his mind.” Why? Because even in their young suburban hearts, they knew that would be ridiculous. Maybe they were trying to protect me. Maybe they were trying to protect him—because on the wrong day, I might’ve verbally body-slammed Paw Paw into retirement.

I had white friends who would hit me with, “Yo, Ealy, my mom likes you, but my dad’s home, so probably not a good time to come over.” Or the ever-polite racism translator: “Sorry, man, my mom said there’s already too many Black people in the house.” You learn to laugh to keep from choking them out. You learn to roast. If someone made fun of your hair or the way you talked, you verbally uppercutted them like you were playing Killer Instinct and hit ‘em with a full combo break. You had to weaponize wit like it was self-defense.

Still, back in the ’90s, even the racists knew Black people didn’t like them. They didn’t expect you to. They weren’t trying to be understood. That’s the difference. Now? Now it seems like so-called liberals and progressives want us to hug it out with people who would have happily watched Bull Connor turn fire hoses on us.

Take Gavin Newsom. California’s own has started hosting a podcast where he platforms MAGA supporters and election truthers like he’s running a political episode of Full House. The vibe is, “Can’t we all just get along, even if Uncle Jesse thinks the Civil War was a tie?” On one episode, he warmly engages a MAGA voter who pushes voter fraud narratives, listening like he’s about to offer them a Cabinet position. There’s no pushback, no facts, just nodding and neutrality—as if simply smiling at disinformation makes it palatable.

Then there’s The Young Turks, who once branded themselves as a progressive firewall. Lately, it feels more like they’re just another revolving door to the right. Ana Kasparian and Cenk Uygur appear on-stage with Charlie Kirk, not to dismantle his nonsense, but to civilly debate his bad-faith absurdity like it’s a college panel. This is a man whose whole career is built on race-baiting, anti-Black dog whistles, and pretending systemic racism is a liberal conspiracy. But sure, Ana—tell us more about how “we can’t ignore his platform.”

Chris Cuomo, my guy, bless his fallen prime-time heart, sits with Trump supporters and does the rhetorical equivalent of handing out free passes to a Klan bake sale. He’s out here trying to be the debate moderator at a demolition derby. These aren’t honest discussions—these are platforms where ignorance gets equal billing with evidence.

Ben Shapiro is the poster child of this intellectual cosplay. Multiple degrees, a fast-talking delivery, and absolutely no moral compass. He doesn’t “debate,” he cloaks prejudice in policy-speak. He knows exactly what he’s doing: laundering white grievance under the illusion of argument. Still so called “left leaning’ shit stains like Bill Maher are practically besties with him

Then there’s Megyn Kelly, who has a law degree and years of media experience, and yet she’s made a business model out of stoking outrage. She’s smart enough to know what she’s doing—and what she’s doing is capitalizing on fear, division, and willful ignorance. Her persona thrives on provocation, even when she knows it’s harmful, because provocation sells. But don’t tell that to Ana Kasparian who was on Kelly’s show bad mouthing lefties like like she was hoping Megyn would hand her a monogrammed ‘I Survived Wokeness’ mug after the show.”

And for the record, I’ve heard the argument: “But don’t you want to reach across the aisle? Don’t you want to understand the other side?” Sure—except “the other side” includes people who literally say slavery wasn’t that bad. People who say things like, “If Black people don’t like America, they should leave.” People who think the Confederacy was just misunderstood. In one panel, you’ve got a so-called moderate shrugging while a guest refers to multiculturalism as a threat.

We are not talking about a disagreement on tax policy. We are talking about full-blown, Fox-fed, Facebook-verified white supremacist nonsense—and the “left” wants to toast marshmallows over the flames of it.

As a scholar, I genuinely don’t understand how anyone in 2025 can deny Horseshoe Theory—the idea that the extremes of the political left and right begin to resemble one another. After watching so-called progressives indulge in fascist-adjacent panel discussions with a “both sides” grin, it’s not a theory. It’s a group project between people who hate Black folks and people too polite to say so.

So no—I don’t negotiate with white supremacists. I don’t believe their opinions need airtime. I don’t think “debate” is worth giving a platform to people who would’ve chained my ancestors for a profit and still think the Confederacy had a point. You want real discourse? Start by not asking me to sip tea with someone who thinks Gone with the Wind was a documentary

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Back in the day, even racists knew Black folks didn’t mess with them. They didn’t expect us to. Now they want dinner invitations and podcast slots. This new wave of white progressive kumbaya ain’t it.

And if I catch one more liberal suggesting we “try to understand MAGA,” I’m hitting the block button so fast it’ll look like I’m rage-quitting a game of Killer Instinct. Ultra Combo. No rematch.