There was a time when being “woke” meant something sacred. A quiet, powerful awakening. It wasn’t a trend. It wasn’t a hashtag. It wasn’t a political slur thrown across podiums and TV screens. It was truth. In its original form, “woke” meant you saw what most chose not to see. You understood the systems built to keep you blind, and you decided—despite how heavy that truth might be—to keep your eyes open.
In the Black community, “woke” wasn’t performative. It wasn’t flashy. It was survival. It was your uncle pulling you to the side and saying, “Don’t believe everything they tell you.” It was the whisper from your grandmother warning you how the world might treat you differently for simply existing. It was music, poetry, protest, and pain. It was being alert in a dream everyone else was still lost in. And at its core, it was love—love for your people, your identity, and the raw, unfiltered truth.
But somewhere along the line, they hijacked the word.
They turned “woke” into a punchline. A weapon. Something to be mocked or feared. They twisted it into something grotesque, something “radical” or “deranged,” just because it refused to bow to ignorance. Political figures started throwing it around like a curse word, a scapegoat for anything that threatened their comfortable narratives. Suddenly, being aware meant being crazy. Speaking your truth meant being dangerous. Seeing the world for what it really is meant you were “soft” or “brainwashed.”
But let’s be clear: woke was never the problem.
The problem was the mirror it held up.
To be woke is to no longer sleep through injustice. To be awake is to no longer tolerate fake smiles masking hate, or systems that thrive on silence. It’s recognizing patterns, calling them out, and refusing to sit down when the truth gets uncomfortable. That discomfort? That’s growth knocking at the door. But growth threatens power. So instead of opening the door, they try to burn the whole house down.
The irony is, the ones screaming the loudest about “wokeness” are often the ones most terrified of what it represents: accountability. Because when someone sees clearly, they can’t be lied to as easily. They can’t be distracted with gimmicks or gaslit into submission. They become immune to the illusion.
That’s why the term had to be demonized.
Because your clarity? Your voice? Your vision? That’s a threat to their comfort.
But don’t let them twist the narrative.
Being woke isn’t a weakness. It’s a blessing. It’s an unspoken connection to those who came before us—those who couldn’t afford to be blind. It’s a responsibility to carry forward the torch of truth, no matter how much shade they throw. It’s not about being perfect or preaching. It’s about being honest, aware, and human.
So if being “woke” means refusing to pretend everything’s fine when it’s clearly broken…
If being “woke” means choosing truth over comfort, justice over silence, and love over fear…
Then let them call us whatever they want.
We’ll still be awake.
And awake is where the healing begins.
Because once your eyes open—like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz—you realize your dreamworld doesn’t mean you’re in Kansas anymore.
And that’s okay.
Because the real world, as messy and painful as it can be, is where the truth lives.
And we choose to live in truth.
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