18th, May 2025
- Black Lawyer
- May 18
- 2 min read
Entry Title: A Conservatorship of Silence
Filed under: Velvet Gags & Legal Gaslighting
Dearest Diary,
One does not scrawl “Help! Wendy!!” on a crumpled piece of paper, toss it from a luxury care facility window, and not mean it.
And yet—there it went. A desperate cry launched from the hands of a woman who once commanded millions with her voice. It should’ve stopped the world.
Instead, it was a blip between scrolls.
Because on that same March day in 2025:
A grand jury refused to indict the officers who killed Jaylen Richards, a 17-year-old Black teen in Louisiana. Bodycam off. Public fury on.
Yet another viral courtroom clip of Diddy’s legal reckoning dropped—slick, tragic, monetized.
And Kanye’s hologram tour (because of course) was trending for its bizarre inclusion of the late Queen Elizabeth rapping “Through the Wire.”
Meanwhile, Wendy—a legend, a lighthouse, a loudmouth with layers—was reduced to a silent ward of the state.
We watched her documentary.
We performed our digital grief.
We posted her catchphrases and captioned them “justice for Auntie.”
And then?
We moved on.
Because rage fatigue is real. And curated chaos is currency.
You see, Diary, we live in a loop of engineered distraction.
Every time we begin to organize—truly organize—another spectacle drops: a scandal, a shooting, a court case with enough racial trauma to reboot our cortisol.
One week it’s a Black man sentenced like a statistic.
The next, a Black woman humiliated on-air.
The next, a protest crushed under police boots while we livestream it in real time.
We’re being emotionally waterboarded.
Not to kill us—just to keep us too wet and too weary to fight back effectively.
Wendy doesn’t need a guardian.
She needs a guard.
She needs a public not too tired to care after three back-to-back trauma cycles.
She needs what Britney got—full-throated public outrage, prolonged legal intervention, and the freedom to spiral on Instagram with impunity.
But Britney is blonde and vulnerable.
Wendy is Black and inconvenient.One gets sympathy.
The other gets silencing with a signature.
And the worst part?
The people holding the pen don’t wear hoods or badges anymore.They wear cardigans and carry clipboards.
So no, I don’t believe Wendy’s being protected.
I believe she’s being softly, quietly erased. And I fear we’re so busy dancing between distractions—rage, grief, gossip, grief again—that we’ve lost the muscle memory to follow through.
But not me. I remember. I write. I rage in writing.
I remain still, Poised. Petty. Permanently Booked.
Disclaimer: This diary entry is a work of satirical legal fiction. All names, vibes, and velvet shade are intentionally, deliciously crafted. If you're uncomfortable, you were meant to be.
Tag someone who sees the pattern, not just the performance.
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