In recent weeks, a familiar accusation has resurfaced: that the African-American community is being “nonchalant” or indifferent about the actions and policies of President Donald Trump—particularly regarding immigration and sweeping changes to social and economic programs.

But this reaction misunderstands something fundamental about Black history in America.

Black people have always lived under scrutiny, surveillance, and systemic pressure from government institutions. There has never been a period in this nation’s history where African-Americans were not navigating policies that threatened their stability, safety, or future. From slavery to Jim Crow, from redlining to mass incarceration, from discriminatory GI Bill practices to the dismantling of social programs, Black communities have learned how to endure what others are only now beginning to experience.

So when people ask, “Why aren’t Black people more outraged?” the answer is complicated—and rooted in history.

We tried to tell you.

Donald Trump did not hide his intentions. His rhetoric about immigrants, government authority, policing, and nationalism was clear from the beginning. Many in the Black community recognized familiar patterns: language that framed certain groups as threats, policies that favored some while marginalizing others, and an approach to power that felt deeply reminiscent of eras we have already survived.

For Black Americans, government mistrust is not theoretical—it is inherited. Social programs that were supposed to help were often designed in ways that excluded or punished us. Redlining destroyed generational wealth. Black soldiers returned from war to segregation and denial of benefits. Urban renewal uprooted thriving communities. The War on Drugs criminalized neighborhoods. Voting rights were repeatedly challenged. These were not accidents of history; they were policies.

So today’s political turmoil does not feel new. It feels familiar.

That does not mean Black people are indifferent. It means we have developed a kind of historical endurance. We have learned to survive waves of policy shifts, cultural backlash, and political disappointment. We have learned how to thrive in systems that were never designed for our success.

This resilience is sometimes mistaken for apathy.

It is not.

At the same time, Black Americans are not celebrating the pain of others. There is sympathy for families impacted by immigration policies. There is empathy for workers fearful of losing healthcare or security. There is concern for communities now experiencing instability and uncertainty. Pain is pain, regardless of who feels it first.

What stings for many in the Black community is being blamed for not reacting loudly enough—when we warned loudly before.

We saw what was coming because we have lived through versions of it before.

Still, the goal is not division.

The goal is unity.

This moment should not be about pointing fingers at Black Americans for their composure. It should be about listening to the lessons of history. About understanding how quickly rights can be reshaped. About realizing that policies affecting one group today often reach others tomorrow.

Black people have always believed in the promise of a better America—even when America struggled to believe in us. And that belief still stands.

We pray not for chaos, but for clarity.

Not for anger, but for understanding.

Not for separation, but for a country that chooses compassion over conflict.

Don’t get mad at us.

We tried to tell you.

And now, like always, we will survive.

We will adapt.

And we will continue hoping for a nation that becomes stronger—not more divided—through this moment.