In the 1987 sci-fi thriller Predator, a group of elite soldiers enters the jungle expecting a standard mission. What they encounter instead is a hyper-advanced alien killer—a being with cloaking technology, thermal vision, and a twisted code of warfare. The Predator doesn’t fight head-on. It tracks. It records. It studies. It waits. Then it strikes—one target at a time, isolating the strongest and silencing them before the rest even understand what’s happening. That film now feels eerily familiar for courageous leaders. We aren’t just navigating difficult systems. We’re being watched—by entities we often can’t see—until, suddenly, we’re in the crosshairs.

The hunt is very real. Equity-minded administrators, faculty, and DEI staff—the ones I call the Uppity Minorities—are being tracked with precision. Surveillance footage. Secret recordings. FOIA requests. Ghost-written media campaigns. It’s no longer about disagreement or debate. It’s about elimination. Like the Predator, these actors are using technology and stealth to identify and neutralize what they see as threats: people who lead openly, who speak truth, who glow too brightly to be ignored. Our visibility has become the excuse for our erasure.

This post isn’t just a metaphor—it’s a field report. What happened to leaders like Megan Pugh and Janique Sanders isn’t incidental. Across the country, a pattern is taking shape. And when you connect the dots, it begins to look unmistakably like a hunt: bait, surveillance, isolation, termination. A hunt fueled by strategy, funded by resources, and driven by an insatiable appetite for public takedowns. If you’re among the courageous, you’re already on the radar. They’re watching.

But just like in the hollywood movie plot, awareness changes everything. In Predator, the soldiers only begin to fight back effectively once they stop underestimating the enemy and start recognizing its methods. They adapt. They build new tools. They stop playing by old rules. We need to do the same. The threat isn’t just the visible backlash—it’s the cloaked forces hiding in institutional structures, posing as colleagues but operating as executioners. Our power lies in calling it what it is. Naming it. Exposing it. And organizing to protect ourselves and one another from the crosshairs we were never supposed to see.

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Surveillance as the First Strike

Just this week, Megan Pugh, formerly the Dean of Students at UNC Asheville, was terminated after being secretly recorded by Accuracy in Media, a conservative watchdog group. In a casually spoken, offhand comment, Pugh joked about DEI work continuing quietly: “We probably still do anyway, but, you know, gotta keep it quiet… But, I love breaking rules.” A harmless remark? Perhaps to a colleague. But in the hands of her enemies—heavily edited and stripped of context—it became an execution tool. Like the Predator’s laser sight, the moment was marked, captured, and turned into a kill shot. Within days, she was gone.

And she wasn’t alone. Just days earlier, Janique Sanders at UNC Charlotte was dismissed following a similar undercover video. Her so-called crime? Telling the truth—that DEI efforts hadn’t disappeared, but had been renamed and reorganized to survive hostile scrutiny. “We’ve recalibrated, so to speak,” she said. It was an honest answer, shared in good faith. But that’s the trap. When you’re being watched by a cloaked enemy, everything you say can—and will—be used against you. The Predator doesn’t engage in dialogue. It listens. It records. And then it takes the shot.

What’s most disturbing is how quickly institutions abandon their own. UNC Asheville and UNC Charlotte didn’t push back. They didn’t contextualize. That’s exactly what the Predator counts on: fear, disarray, betrayal. In the film, it’s the soldier who panics who goes down next. In education, it’s the administrator who distances themselves with silence.

These are not isolated incidents. This is the first phase of the hunt: use surveillance to create fear, then exploit that fear to eliminate anyone who dares to keep standing. And as with the Predator’s infamous trophies, these firings are meant to be displayed in public. They’re examples. They’re warnings. The message is clear: if you keep doing equity work out loud, you’ll be next. And the institutions? Too many are choosing to let it happen, hoping they’ll be spared.

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Baited, Not Just Watched

Surveillance is only the beginning. In the movie, the Predator doesn’t just hunt from trees—it sets traps. It uses mimicry. It lures its targets into the open. And now, something similar may be happening to justice-centered educators. A growing theory among equity leaders is that honey pot tactics—calculated baiting attempts—are being used to entrap. These don’t look like attacks. They look like invitations. “Let’s connect on Zoom.” “We’d love to learn more about your work.” “Can we schedule a quick conversation?” But what’s behind those asks may be surveillance cloaked in collegiality.

I received one such request recently. A vague message with no clear affiliation. No agenda. Just a friendly request to talk. It felt off. After consulting trusted colleagues, I declined. The pattern was consistent: unclear intent, flattery up front, minimal traceable credentials. In the context of public firings and surveillance videos, these messages no longer feel benign. They feel like bait. Like the Predator’s recorded human voices luring victims into the open, they mimic what feels familiar—and use it to kill.

Considering the recent happenings in North Carolina and on LinkedIn, in this moment of intensified scrutiny and political targeting, we have to assume that some forms of outreach are not what they seem. The purpose may not be dialogue—it may be data collection. A phrase clipped out of context. A screen capture. A recorded call used to discredit. These tactics seek to expose, isolate, and undermine with technological precision. And the worst part? They exploit our generosity—our willingness to engage, to mentor, to share. That generosity is what makes us human. But in the jungle we now operate in, discernment must be our new armor. This isn’t a call for paranoia. It’s a call for community awareness. If you’re a justice-oriented leader, especially one of color, be cautious. Verify identities. Ask for context. Protect your time and your voice.

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Internal Betrayal Is Part of the Hunt

Not every attack comes from a distant treetop. Sometimes the Predator is right behind you—inside the camp, wearing the same uniform. In a recent executive role, I was falsely accused by colleagues of secretly recording meetings. The accusation wasn’t really about technology—it was about silencing me before I could speak. About muddying my credibility before the time when I come forward and tell the truth publicly. Like the Predator’s ability to cloak itself while hiding in plain sight, internal actors can use the institution itself to carry out quiet assassinations of character.

What struck me wasn’t the accusation—it was what it revealed. Why would someone fear being recorded unless they knew their words were indefensible? Unless they were preparing to gaslight later and needed plausible deniability? The accusation wasn’t defensive—it was offensive. It was a preemptive strike meant to protect bad behavior from being exposed. It was an attempt to shift focus from injustice to suspicion. It redirects the narrative. It makes the Uppity Minority a subject of scrutiny, instead of those who deserve it.

Florida: Financial Weapons and Board-Level Snipers

Florida is where the hunt has become institutionalized. Governor Ron DeSantis didn’t just dismantle DEI—he created a blueprint for politically weaponizing higher education. At New College of Florida, he replaced the entire board with far-right operatives and installed Richard Corcoran as president. The results were swift and sweeping: the Gender Studies program was eliminated, student life was gutted, and a costly new athletics program was launched. But beneath these headline moves lies something even more insidious: financial predation. The school began using donor-restricted funds—gifts meant to support low-income students and student services—to pay Corcoran’s million-dollar compensation package.

This is what institutional capture looks like. Political appointees become executioners of dissent. Financial watchdogs are replaced with loyalists. Donor money is funneled into political pet projects while students are left behind. Former board members have now threatened legal action, demanding a forensic audit of how foundation funds were used. And yet, the institution continues to deny wrongdoing.

The Florida model is dangerous because it shows just how far the Predator is willing to go. It doesn’t just eliminate DEI staff. It reconfigures the entire landscape—programs, boards, finance, governance—to ensure that justice is no longer structurally possible. The most dangerous enemies aren’t the ones who strike first. They’re the ones who study you, mimic you, and then take you out with chilling precision. That’s what DeSantis has done to New College. And other states are taking notes.

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Texas: Compliance by Coercion

Texas may not have DeSantis’ media theatrics, but it’s no less aggressive. Governor Greg Abbott’s strategy is quieter, but just as deadly. In 2023, he ordered all public universities to report every DEI-related initiative and budget line. The implication was clear: identify yourself so we can decide whether you survive. The University of Texas Board of Regents folded quickly. DEI offices were closed. Programs were stripped. Staff were reassigned or laid off. The message to equity leaders was unmistakable: comply or vanish.

This kind of coercion operates like a psychological collar. You’re not fired for saying the wrong thing—you’re silenced before you even speak. It creates a chilling effect across campuses, where faculty and administrators second-guess every word, every email, every syllabus line. What makes it more insidious is that it often masquerades as policy reform. “Accountability,” they call it. “Transparency.” But it’s a surveillance state dressed in HR language. And it’s designed not to fix DEI, but to kill it slowly—by fear, attrition, and exhaustion.

I worry deeply for colleagues like Dr. Angela Valenzuela, Dr. Richard Reddick and Dr. Victor Saenz—national figures who have dedicated their lives to making higher education more inclusive. They now lead in a context where their very presence is politicized. Where visibility becomes liability. Where the more effective you are, the more dangerous you seem. In Predator, it was the most skilled soldiers who were eliminated first. The enemy didn’t take out the weakest—it went for the strongest. That’s what Abbott’s machine is doing: targeting the leaders who have done the most good, the most visibly, and trying to make examples of them.

Texas’ model doesn’t need a viral video. It doesn’t need a public execution. It operates by anticipation. By making leaders of color do the emotional calculus of survival every single day. Should I say this? Should I post that? Should I speak out? When every choice is weaponized, it’s no wonder so many choose silence. But silence doesn’t save us. It only makes us easier to hunt.

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The Final Word: The Predator Chose the Wrong Prey

What DeSantis, Abbott, and groups like Accuracy in Media fear isn’t chaos—it’s clarity. It’s the leader who refuses to cower. The one who stands in a room full of bureaucrats and says, “This isn’t justice.” Who keeps mentoring students even after the funding disappears. Who keeps building even after being torn down.

They fear the Uppity Minority—those of us who glow even while being hunted. Who lead and won’t apologize for it. You may not be able to see the scope aimed at you, but if you’ve ever been called “too much,” if your emails are suddenly being FOIA’d, if your performance is being quietly questioned—welcome to the jungle. You’re already being tracked.

But here’s the good news: you’re not alone. There are hundreds of us. Thousands. Leaders who’ve survived the hunt and emerged not silenced—but stronger.

So here’s the final truth:
You can record us.
You can fire us.
You can smear us.
But you will not erase us.

Our communities lived on this land long before your political agenda—and they will endure long after it. Our movement—rooted in justice and powered by liberty—doesn’t fear being hunted. Our ancestors stood their ground and gave their lives fighting the Predators of their time. They prepared us for this moment.

We were born to defeat the Predators of now.