The Ghosts in Our Genes: Why They Hate the Mirror We Hold Up

 

The Ghosts in Our Genes: Why They Hate the Mirror We Hold Up

Have you ever cracked open a history book and felt like half the pages were ripped out? Not the dramatic parts with kings and conquests, but the gritty truth about the folks who actually sweated and bled to stack the bricks of this so-called "land of the free." We're talking about people like us—Puerto Ricans with our island rhythm mixed into the mainland grind, Black families tracing roots back to chains that no apology can loosen, Mexicans whose border was drawn right through their backyards, Native Americans who were minding their business for millennia before some ships showed up uninvited, Dominicans carrying the fire of resistance from sugarcane fields, Cubans whose exile stories echo the same old tune of displacement. All of us, tangled up in that beautiful, messy mix of bloodlines that screams "diversity" louder than any slogan. And yeah, even if there's a splash of European in there, it doesn't matter—once that Black heritage peeks through, the attacks start flying like clockwork. It's not random; it's a pattern etched in centuries of denial. Oh, and MAGA folks? Save your keyboard warriors for someone who cares—I'm not here to hash this out in your echo chamber. I said what I said, and that's the end of it.

This hatred isn't some abstract vibe; it's a gut punch to the gut of anyone who's ever been told their story doesn't fit the fairy tale. Dig into the archives, and you'll see how our very presence yanks the curtain back on the ugly secrets their great-grandpappies buried deep. We remind them of the whips cracking on backs that built fortunes, the treaties shredded like yesterday's news, the villages torched to make room for "progress." They can't stomach that mirror because it shows the abuse wasn't ancient history—it was the foundation. So what do they do? They scramble to rewrite the script, airbrushing us out so future kids learn about "manifest destiny" without the body count. They dream of erasing us altogether, not just from books but from breathing, so the truth stays locked away and the cycle spins fresh. Because facing it? That would mean admitting the empire they worship was forged on stolen sweat. How convenient for the folks in the big houses—pretend it never happened, and poof, guilt-free barbecue every weekend. What a load of pearl-clutching nonsense.

Flash back a generation or two, and it's the same script playing on repeat. Our grandparents didn't just "contribute"—they were the backbone, bent under loads that would break lesser spines, all while the overseers tallied profits. Puerto Ricans, shipped over after 1898 like some colonial afterthought, faced "Americanization" campaigns that stripped our language and culture faster than a hurricane. Schools beat Spanish out of kids with rulers, jobs dangled citizenship like a carrot on a stick, and when Hurricane Maria hit in 2017, the feds treated us like second-class squatters, leaving bodies to pile up while aid trucks sat idle. Blacks, of course, carried the heaviest chains—from slavery's auction blocks to Jim Crow's "separate but equal" lie that meant schools with leaky roofs and lynchings as weekend entertainment. Mexicans got the border patrol boot after the Bracero Program chewed them up for cheap farm labor and spat out deportations by the millions in Operation Wetback. Native Americans? Trail of Tears wasn't a hike; it was a death march, with thousands dropping from disease and despair as the U.S. cavalry "relocated" them to make way for cotton kings. Dominicans fled Trujillo's slaughterhouse regime, only to hit U.S. shores where "model minority" myths masked the sweatshops and redlining that kept neighborhoods fractured. Cubans, post-Castro waves, got the red-carpet refugee treatment at first—white enough to pass— but even they felt the chill when policies shifted to "send 'em back" for darker-skinned kin from Haiti or Central America. Every decade, every crisis, the elites tweak the tale: "It was tough times," they say, or "both sides suffered." Bull. It was calculated cruelty, and we're the living receipts. Nice try at the whitewash, history hackers—too bad facts don't fade like your alibis.

Our DNA? That's the smoking gun they can't confiscate. Science doesn't lie; those swirling markers in our cells map migrations, mixings, and massacres that no spin doctor can delete. A Puerto Rican like me might trace to Taíno roots, African survivors of the Middle Passage, and Spanish conquistadors who thought they owned the joint— a cocktail that terrifies the purists because it proves America was never "pure" anything. Same for Mexicans, with Aztec blood pulsing alongside mestizo resilience; Dominicans, where Haitian borders blur into shared suffering; Cubans, whose santería spirits whisper of Yoruba gods smuggled in slave ships. They hate immigrants because we arrive carrying that proof—stories of grandmas who crossed deserts or oceans, dodging bullets and bureaucrats, only to be called "invaders" at the gate. Blacks, descendants of the 12 million shipped across the Atlantic, embody the original sin of this nation: free labor that minted billionaires while chaining souls. And Natives? Their genes scream sovereignty, a reminder that this land had thriving cities and trade routes long before Columbus got lost. The elites want us silenced forever, not just muzzled but memory-holed, because one viral ancestry test could unravel their whole "great replacement" fever dream. Sorry, not sorry—our helixes are history's hard drive, and they're backed up in billions of us. Keep clutching those pearls; evolution's got receipts.

We won't roll over, though. Hell no. They've abused our grandparents—whipping field hands till dawn, herding families into reservations like cattle, bombing barrios in the name of "urban renewal"—and their parents before that, turning every promise into a punchline. These crimes against our people aren't footnotes; they're the foreword to the fraud they call exceptionalism. And every 10 or 20 years? They hit the reset button on the narrative. Post-Civil War, Reconstruction gets romanticized as "healing" while Black Codes lock folks back in peonage. After WWII, the GI Bill builds suburbs for whites only, stranding vets of color in slums. Now, in 2025, with Trump back in the saddle, it's executive orders scrubbing "divisive" truths from federal sites—bye-bye, Tuskegee Airmen pages; hello, sanitized Smithsonian exhibits that pretend racism was a "phase." They spoon-feed us enemies—commies, cartels, "woke mobs"—to keep eyes off the mirror. But nah, the real bogeyman is the Illuminati elite: those shadowy boardroom barons and political puppeteers who've been gaslighting generations. Think Rockefellers funding eugenics while preaching progress, or today's billionaires bankrolling book bans on CRT. We're not buying the redirect anymore. Your diversion tactics are as tired as your tax loopholes, you history-hijacking hypocrites.

Let's talk shop—the real sweat equity that built this beast. We worked for free, or damn near it, laying the tracks that stitched this country together. Chinese immigrants blasted through Sierra Nevada granite for the Transcontinental Railroad, dying by the thousands from dynamite blasts and scurvy, but Black folks like Elijah McCoy were the grease that kept those iron horses humming. His automatic lubricator? Saved engineers from oil baths mid-run, patented in 1872, yet folks still say "the real McCoy" like it's some white-guy wisdom. Granville Woods, the "Black Edison," wired the signals that stopped head-on collisions, his multiplex telegraph letting trains chat without crashing—over 50 patents, and what does he get? Obscurity in the margins. Buildings? Enslaved Africans mixed the mortar for the White House, their fingerprints baked into the bricks while Jefferson penned "all men equal" with ink from their sweat. Mexicans and Puerto Ricans poured concrete for Hoover Dam and Empire State, 24-hour shifts under sun that scorched souls, thirsting for water rations doled like mercy. Lights? Lewis Latimer, son of escaped slaves, drew the carbon filaments that made Edison's bulb practical—without him, you'd be groping in the dark, genius. Cables for the grid? Madam C.J. Walker's empire started with hair products, but her wealth funded Black education that lit minds brighter than any wire. Envelopes? Sure, minor, but Jan Matzeliger's shoe-lasting machine revolutionized factories, freeing feet from blisters—and hands from drudgery. Everything you see—the rails snaking west, towers scraping clouds, bulbs flickering on—was invented, innovated, endured by our ancestors. America just rebrands it, slaps a patent on the theft, and calls it "Yankee ingenuity." They cashed in while our great-grandparents starved, bellies empty after 24-hour hauls, dreaming of a meal that wasn't scraps. Steal the spark, claim the fire—classic elite move. How's that bootstraps myth tasting now, you credit-stealing clowns?

And who kicks off this whole farce? The Natives, our original fathers and mothers, dancing on soil that was paradise before the pilgrims crashed the party. They weren't "discovered"—they were displaced, their 10 million-strong nations whittled to shadows by smallpox blankets, scalp bounties, and the Doctrine of Discovery that basically said "finders keepers" for God-fearing thieves. California alone saw state-backed militias hunt Indigenous folks like game in the 1850s-60s, a genocide Jerry Brown finally copped to in 2019, but by then the damage was done: populations cratered 90%, languages silenced, lands "allotted" into checkerboards of poverty. Wounded Knee in 1890? Not a battle—a massacre, Hotchkiss guns mowing down Ghost Dancers waving white flags. These demons in deerstalker hats wanted it all: the buffalo herds for hides, the sacred sites for strip malls, the stories for sports mascots. Mass genocide? That's the blueprint they followed, from Sand Creek to the Long Walk, turning sovereign nations into footnotes. We can't allow this rerun in 2025, with pipelines snaking through reservations and "border walls" eyeing sacred canyons. It has to end—full stop. Your "taming the wilderness" fairy tale is just genocide with a folksy filter, you land-grabbing liars.

Blame isn't on "America" as some monolithic monster; we're all in the crosshairs, victims of that European fever dream called colonialism that hopped the pond and never left. Irish indentures, Italian anarchists bombed in their tenements, even poor whites sharecropped into oblivion—they brainwashed us all, pitting pit against pit so the top dogs stay fat. "Divide and conquer," they whispered, and we bought it: Blacks vs. Latinos in factory lines, Natives vs. settlers over scraps, immigrants labeled "threats" to keep wages low. But peel back the propaganda, and it's clear: the real con is keeping us from linking arms against the machine. Trump's MAGA circus amps this up, turning anti-immigrant bile into policy—family separations at the border echoing the boarding schools that stole Native kids, or "shithole countries" rants that could've come from a 1924 quota act. In 2025, with rallies spewing "poisoning the blood" nonsense, it's the same old racism rebooted for red hats. They hate us because we expose the fraud: a nation built on our backs, now trying to boot us off the porch. We're the heartbeat, the hustle, the unerasable ink in the story. Time to rewrite back—our way. Your "heritage not hate" bumper sticker is just a band-aid on a bullet wound, you denialist dinosaurs.

So here we stand, on September 30, 2025, with the air thick from another round of elite games—government teetering on shutdown edges while they golf through the gridlock, but our fight's deeper than D.C. drama. We've got the proof in our veins, the patents in the archives, the graves mapping the greed. Puerto Ricans rallying in the Bronx, Blacks marching from Selma's echo, Mexicans reclaiming the Rio Grande's true banks, Natives at Standing Rock's fires, Dominicans and Cubans fusing merengue with hip-hop anthems of defiance. We're not letting them vanish our fathers, our truths, our tomorrow. This cycle breaks now— with votes, voices, and unyielding vibe. The elites can hoard their holograms of history; we'll live the real one, loud and legacy-loaded. And to the MAGA cult chanting "fake news" from the sidelines: I don't debate this. My words stand, rooted and real. Debate's for equals; this is revelation.

Santiago Del Carmen Maria (Crowning Thoughts)

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© 2025 Independent Writer – “Crowning Thoughts- Truth Speaker” – AI Video Content Creator – Writer – Blogger Santiago D.C. Maria. All Rights Reserved.

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