May 20, 2025
This post is not a reaction. It’s a refusal.
A refusal to dilute what still needs to be named.
100 years after the birth of El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz—Malcolm X—the performance continues.
White fragility dressed as fatigue.
White grievance cloaked in language it never earned.
A growing chorus of “we’re oppressed too” from those who mistake discomfort for erasure.
So let’s name it plain.
White fatigue is boredom with not being praised.
It’s what happens when the applause fades, and the mirror stays.
When our pain stops being poetic and starts being political.
When the dopamine of protest selfies wears off, and all that’s left is accountability.
And instead of leaning in—they leave.
What many white Americans call oppression is simply the ache of no longer being the gravitational center.
It’s not censorship.
It’s decentering.
And for some, that feels unbearable.
Malcolm warned us: when you are no longer silent, you will be labeled dangerous.
This piece is dangerous in that way—clear, unsoftened, necessary.
Because whiteness has never been asked to witness without editing.
Because supremacy doesn’t only legislate. It algorithmizes.
It funds the slur, rewards the confession, and comforts the one who caused the harm.
So if this lands heavy, let it.
If it stings, good.
Malcolm didn’t die for civility.
He died with his eyes open—and his integrity intact.
May we honor him not with silence, but with sentences that cut.
—Taylor Allyn
Editor, UNSPUN
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