The Extraction Economy: When Black American Pain Becomes Everyone Else’s Profit

It’s been a while since I’ve written, but in case anyone was wondering—yes, of course, I’m still here. Growing, thinking, learning, and doing so at my own pace and on my own terms.

I refuse to write if I’m not sparked to do so. These days, I’m learning the power of following my intuition and spirit rather than simply doing for the sake of doing and keeping busy.

In doing so, I’ve noticed that things aren’t always linear or structured. Sometimes the path can feel chaotic. It may not look “sequential” to someone on the outside looking in. But hey, in order to yield different results, we have to be willing to try something new—something different, right?

For me, that has meant learning to live in alignment with my spirit. It has meant no longer ignoring my body, but centering it instead. And I’ve been feeling good these past few months as I’ve begun putting these things into practice for myself.

Anyway, more on that another time.

What I actually wanted to write about today is something that has been sitting on my mind for a while, and it hit me again this morning:

This society—this world—is addicted to Black American pain, struggle, and suffering.

There is an obsession with it, particularly within a society historically structured around extracting value from Black Americans. And the more I think about it, the more I believe extraction is often at the center of what happens when our community is attacked, destabilized, or kept in a perpetual state of struggle.

Because struggle produces something.

It produces labor.
It produces art.
It produces language.
It produces music.
It produces innovation.
It produces culture.

And then that culture can be extracted, repackaged, controlled, and monetized by somebody else.

Rinse and repeat.

Once I started seeing this pattern, I couldn’t unsee it.

It appears everywhere, even in seemingly mundane ways. Black Americans can create a phrase or piece of vernacular that spreads organically through our community, and before long, you’ll see a corporation worth millions—or billions—using the same language in an advertisement or social media campaign, often completely detached from the people and culture that created it.

And language is only one example.

We see similar patterns with our music, dances, fashion, aesthetics, humor, hairstyles, ideas, and creative movements. Things that emerge organically from Black American communities can become valuable commodities once they are separated from the people who created them.

That realization led me to another question:

As I watched our aesthetics increasingly adopted by some of the very groups and institutions that simultaneously discredit Black American creativity, I began asking myself: What have these same groups contributed at the level at which Black Americans have contributed to the culture they consume?

I’m still looking for a satisfying answer.

But the deeper issue, for me, is not simply whether someone enjoys or participates in something Black Americans created. Culture travels. People influence one another. That is human.

The issue is the recurring pattern of extraction without reciprocity.

Wanting the culture without respecting the people.

Wanting the creativity without acknowledging the creators.

Wanting the labor without sharing the power.

Wanting the political support without demonstrating the same concern for Black American interests.

Wanting access to what Black Americans produce while simultaneously minimizing, disrespecting, or dismissing Black Americans themselves.

That last part has become particularly visible to me in conversations surrounding immigration today. There are moments when Black Americans are expected to lend our voices, political energy, organizing traditions, and moral support to other communities while being told that our own grievances, history, or specific interests should take a back seat.

And when disrespect toward Black Americans occurs, there can still be an expectation that we overlook it for the sake of someone else’s cause.

I think more Black Americans are beginning to question that expectation.

Maybe we’ve finally reached a tipping point.

Maybe the answer isn’t endlessly proving our humanity, usefulness, solidarity, creativity, or willingness to fight on behalf of everyone else.

Maybe the answer is collective self-preservation.

Not hatred.

Not isolation.

Not believing that other people cannot matter.

But understanding that we matter too.

Understanding that our resources are finite. Our energy is finite. Our labor is finite. Our political power is finite. Our creativity deserves protection. Our communities deserve investment. And our empathy should not require the abandonment of ourselves.

There is nothing inherently wrong with a people deciding that their survival, stability, families, history, resources, institutions, and future deserve to be centered by them.

Perhaps one of the most radical things Black Americans can do now is learn when not to give.

When not to perform.

When not to rescue.

When not to explain.

When not to allow our labor, creativity, political energy, emotional capacity, or cultural production to become endlessly available for extraction.

To preserve ourselves—collectively.

And this conversation becomes even more layered when we center Black American women.

Because if there is anyone who understands what it means to be expected to give, produce, nurture, organize, endure, protect, advocate, create, and somehow continue functioning through it all—it is us.

And that is where I want to go next.