OPINION: Stop Weaponizing Wisdom: A Word to Our So-Called Black Authorities

“When rage becomes performance, strength turns spectacle". In a cloud of dust and noise, a lone figure emerges — colossal, commanding, unyielding. Yet behind the muscle is the metaphor: our community’s exhaustion from performative fury masquerading as leadership.

By Cheryl Morrow

A viral Instagram clip from a recent “Black economics” gathering has been making its rounds — and not because of the brilliance on display. No, what went viral was the yelling. The rage. The spectacle. Killer Mike, among others, took the mic like a preacher on fire and delivered a sermon of fury — in my opinion, it was adrenaline masquerading as intellect. And here we go again.

There’s a new trend in the Black intellectual class — or rather, among those who believe they represent it — of weaponizing motivational quotes borrowed from white men. They quote Napoleon Hill, Tony Robbins, Grant Cardone, Warren Buffett, and call it “Black economics.” I don’t mind influence. But let’s be honest: where were these great men of motivation when their own continents were starving in Europe? When literacy vanish? When was Europe the weakest landmass on the planet? Where were their philosophers when Africa still pulsed with gold and genius? We must stop mistaking noise to nurture.

These “rage-stage” performers have turned the art of public speaking into an emotional hazing ritual. They scream and posture in the name of truth-telling — exhausting both the listener and the legacy they claim to defend. In these spaces, speaker after speaker takes the stage as if they hold the silver bullet. They push the audience’s tolerance, testing how much verbal abuse can be absorbed, as though endurance itself were proof of Blackness. The crowd claps — not from inspiration, but intimidation. And if you flinch? You’re “not a real Black person.”

Frankly, I’m burned out from watching this cycle. What I saw in that video wasn’t leadership. It had a terroristic tone — shock appeal dressed up as “tough love.” But isn’t this getting old? There were children in that room. Families. People are hungry for strategy, not trauma.

Let’s be clear: passion does not harm. Passion is conviction with purpose. What we witnessed was unhealed anger cosplaying as authority. And that’s precisely why so many Black men need to press pause on the “advisory” business — not because they lack value, but because they haven’t done the inner work.

That kind of platform must be reserved for the builders and the keepers — the progenitors and successors who can show receipts, not just rhetoric. Those who can convert philosophy into valuation, not validation. Because truth isn’t violent — it’s surgical. And to the brothers who rage from the shame of centuries of powerlessness: welcome to a Black woman’s world. We have lived in the wound, healed in it, and built empires from it — all without humiliating our own. For the most part, Black women don’t weaponize their education. They repurpose their pain. The sharpest she might say is, “You’re in Kansas, baby — not Oz.”

As my colleague Bernard Bronner once told me: “Our fathers may not have done everything right, but they did enough right.” So perhaps while we give our elders their flowers, we should give our youth their seeds. Grace. Patience. Calm assertiveness. That's how nations are built — not by those who yell the loudest, but by those who listen the deepest.

As MAGA scrambles to re-engineer its youth for another century of control, this is our moment to recommit — not to old wounds, but to the rising generations of millennials and Gen Z. Speak to them with the dignity you want them to reflect. Give them your vision. Give them soil, not sermons.

We must turn the corner into the 21st century with emotional and mental health at the center of how we speak to one another. In the life of our people, there comes a season when counsel must emerge not from the loudest voice, but from the most consistent efforts. True authority is neither inherited through ego nor purchased through proximity to a bully pulpit. It is earned — brick by brick — across generations.

As my father used to say: If one has built an enduring enterprise, weathering the hands of time and competition...If one has hired and sustained the livelihoods of many from one’s own tribe, offering dignity, work, and craft for over a decade...If one has secured and transmitted a living wealth instrument to one’s children, ensuring that the river of legacy does not end at one’s own cup...If one has tended a company beyond its infancy until it becomes a recognizable heirloom — a brand whose name evokes respect rather than need...If one has mentored others into their own brilliance, producing successors who surpass the teacher...If one is second or third generation, toiling within one’s ancestral estate, blazing trails where others only dreamed...If one has risen to guide their own business while pouring into the business of their community, giving wisely as a philanthropist and statesman would —Then such a person may speak freely to the People — not in rage but in reason, not in scolding but in stewardship. But if any one of these is absent —The raised voice becomes mere bravado The admonishment becomes theater. The lecture becomes a whipping post masquerading as love.

These words were among my father’s personal creeds.

Why is this important? Because clarity demands we call things by their rightful names. What we’re seeing is not discipline. It’s bully-leadership.

So, I submit my own creed. I speak for myself, as an educator. I, too, have had to learn to control my ego — to temper my passion. I must remember that my words spread across social media feeds like a contagion. Our youth are watching as we applaud humiliation as if it were gospel. Let us remember: our words can deepen the wounds we pretend to heal. If we are honest, what we truly desire is compassion — benevolence with boundaries, justice with reverence.

Can we not just say things differently? Speak with the end in mind? We hunger for honesty — the vulnerable utterance that admits its own scars. And for forgiveness — the only tool that can break generational chains without swinging them first.

There should be no reward for those who know better but choose not to do better. No more applause for downward punching — for performative chastisement that reeks of guilt unprocessed. For power — true power — to grow, there must be a quiet fire. One is cardinal in nature. Self-aware. Governed inwardly.

It's cadence is balanced — mind and heart in communion. It's tone is smooth, elegant, and unforced. A genuine leader does not lead their people into a constant dialogue of lack. They do not celebrate obedience; they reward awakenings. They do not demand docile uniformity; they nurture sovereign minds.

People should not have to rise from underneath their own boots. We do not scold a nation to greatness. We cultivate it — patiently, lovingly, truthfully — until it recognizes the full measure of its own becoming.

And truthfully? I don’t think I’ve ever remembered a screamer.

Can you?