In every movement, there are enemies outside the gate—and then there’s Stephen. You may remember him. Samuel L. Jackson’s unforgettable character in Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained—not just the most dangerous villain in the film, but perhaps the most haunting. Because Stephen wasn’t the slave master. He wasn’t the bounty hunter. He wasn’t the man with the whip. He was the loyal house servant. The one who limped with theatrical humility. The one who greeted visitors with a crooked grin and deferential eyes. The one who, on the surface, seemed harmless. Safe. Even pitiful. But behind that mask was a man who wielded immense influence on the plantation. Not because he challenged white power to enslave—but because he protected it. Because he enforced it. Because he believed in it. Stephen wasn’t just complicit in the system’s brutality—he was one of its most ruthless enforcers.

Not out of ignorance. But out of investment.

He had internalized the plantation so deeply that his very sense of self was bound to it. He believed his survival, his identity, his worth depended on his proximity to the master. And when Django arrived—unshackled, fearless, refusing to bow—it wasn’t the master who panicked first. It was Stephen. Because he knew that Django’s existence shattered the lie Stephen had built his life upon. The lie that freedom was dangerous. That submission was safety. That justice was naïve. So Stephen did what colluders do. He didn’t just disagree. He moved to destroy.

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Collusion Isn’t Fiction. It’s Institutional Strategy.

Stephen is fictional, but his playbook is not. His spirit still roams—through university boardrooms, school districts, nonprofits, corporations, and philanthropic foundations. He’s there in the closed-door meetings, in the unsigned memos, in the behind-the-scenes maneuvering. He smiles at DEI luncheons and claps at equity strategy meetings. Says they right things about “we see you, we hear you, we care.” But when someone dares to lead with authenticity—when a Black or Brown leader refuses to be ornamental, when they speak plainly, act boldly, and center community over compliance—Stephen gets to work. Today’s colluder doesn’t carry a whip. They carry bylaws. They don’t demand silence. They demand “professionalism.” They don’t call you “boy.” They say you lack “fit.” And when institutions decide to eliminate the threat of courageous leadership, they don’t always need to launch the attack themselves.

They just need a Stephen.

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When the Knife Comes from Within

There’s a unique kind of betrayal that occurs when the attack doesn’t come from your enemies—but from the people who look like you. The ones who’ve walked your road. Who’ve attended the same conferences. Who’ve given the same speeches on equity, liberation, and inclusion. And yet, when the pressure builds, when moment gets uncomfortable, when systems begin to shift—they pivot.

Let me tell you about Rema Vassar.

In 2024, at Michigan State University, Rema Vassar, the first Black woman ever to chair the Board of Trustees, faced precisely this kind of betrayal. She had led with principle. She had asked hard questions. She had challenged business-as-usual, defended student interests, and disrupted the comfortable insider culture that had long protected institutional mediocrity. She wasn’t just a figurehead as Board Chair. She was a force. And some of her colleagues didn’t like that. The backlash came quickly: quiet resistance, strained meetings, anonymous complaints. Then came formal accusations—of “bullying,” of “interference,” of “overstepping.”

The institution launched an “independent investigation”—the kind that carries the illusion of neutrality but is often designed to deliver a predetermined outcome. The report didn’t allege financial misconduct or criminal behavior. No abuse of students. No scandals. Just the classic charges that have long been used to erase unapologetic leaders of color: “ethics violations,” “disruptive conduct,” “loss of confidence.” But what stung the most? The source of the complaint wasn’t an outside agitator. It wasn’t a politician. It wasn’t a right wing activist.

It was another Black trustee.

One of her own.

That is the wound of the colluder. It’s not just political—it’s deeply personal. Because when institutions want to take down an Uppity Minority, they know it’s easier—and cleaner—if someone who looks like you delivers the first blow.

In a recent development, Governor Gretchen Whitmer declined to remove Rema from the Michigan State University Board of Trustees.

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The Psychology of the Colluder

Why would someone do this? Why would a person of color help undermine another leader of color? The answer isn’t always simple—but the patterns are clear. Some collude out of fear. They believe resistance will cost them their seat at the table. Some collude out of ambition. They believe betrayal is the price of elevation. Some collude out of internalized racism. They’ve absorbed the institution’s discomfort with unapologetic Blackness. And some simply believe that preservation is more important than progress. Some need to find someone to blame their mistakes on.

For the colluder, proximity and access to power becomes identity. They no longer see themselves as part of a liberation struggle. They see themselves as the “exception.” The “trusted one.” The one who can explain the community to the boardroom—and the boardroom to the community. They play respectability politics not just because it’s strategic—but because they believe it’s correct. To them, courage is chaos. Candor is a liability. Audacity is a threat. So when a new leader steps in—unflinching, unfiltered, unrelenting—they don’t just feel exposed.

They feel endangered.

Because that new leader is a mirror.

And in that mirror, the colluder sees everything they abandoned.

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The Tactics They Use

Colluders don’t always shout. They often whisper. They don’t always oppose you in public. They often do it over coffee. Their tools are subtle—but deadly:

• Language: They cloak opposition in institutional jargon—words like “civility,” “fit,” “tone,” and “collaboration” become tools to silence rather than engage.
• Process: They weaponize bureaucracy, using policies, charters, and procedures as armor to deflect moral clarity and avoid accountability.
• Silence: When it matters most, they vanish. Support is withdrawn, and targeted leaders are left to twist in the wind—isolated, exposed, and unprotected.
• Performance: They still show up at DEI events. They might even hashtag #EquityMatters. But behind closed doors—in the spaces where real decisions are made—they’re advancing a problematic agenda. Pay close attention to who or what they blame, both in public and in private. They often position themselves as perpetual victims and use performative displays of trust and inclusive language to conceal their true intentions.
• Deflection: When confronted, they label truth-tellers as “divisive,” “unprofessional,” or “too emotional.” But here’s the irony: they’ve often already been rejected—excised by the very communities they claim to serve—for their lack of support, disingenuous actions, or inappropriate behavior. Projection is their final refuge.

And it works. Because institutions are always looking for a reason to maintain the status quo. And when that justification comes from someone with melanin and credentials, it’s irresistible.

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The System Loves Its Stephens

Here’s the bitter truth: institutions reward collusion because of their fragility. They promote it. They protect it. They elevate those who will advance equity just far enough to look progressive—but never so far that it costs real power. The colluder is praised for being “reasonable.” They’re invited to lead “healing conversations.” They’re asked to step in when “tensions rise.” But their true role? To make student, faculty, and staff resistance manageable. To help the institution survive a crisis without ever transforming. I recently heard a colluder say, in response to the Gaza protests, something similar to: “The institution is going to pay a price for being aggressive toward student protestors in the middle of the night—but let’s go ahead and arrest them anyway. Better to rip the band-aid off quickly than peel it off slowly.”

And when their usefulness ends? They’re discarded too. Because the master’s house may use Stephens—but it never truly values them.

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The Cost of Collusion

The impact of collusion isn’t limited to the betrayed leader. It’s systemic:

• It gives cover to Isms without ever invoking those terms.
• It teaches young leaders of color that betrayal is the price of success.
• It erodes trust in our movements and coalitions.
• It slows down the work of justice by confusing visibility with accountability.
• It signals to institutions that they can maintain power without ever truly sharing it.

And perhaps most tragically: it keeps us divided. Suspicious. Wary of one another. Because every time a Stephen rises, a Django may hesitate. Though he didn’t, he burned the house down.

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When Leadership Becomes a Mirror

Leadership, especially as a person of color, is not just administrative—it’s symbolic. When a leader of color rises with integrity, they reflect back our possibilities. They show us what courage looks like under pressure. They embody the audacity of truth-telling in spaces built for silence.

But to a colluder, that same leadership reflects shame. Regret. Unfulfilled promise. And sometimes, jealousy.

They may envy that the Django in the room is the first. Or the only. Or the one finally getting national attention for making visible, measurable progress on the very issues the institution claims to care about. The spotlight that should inspire becomes a threat. The headlines that should be celebrated become a source of resentment. The applause feels like a rebuke to the years the colluder spent playing it safe.

So they turn.

Not always loudly. But deliberately.

Because they would rather see that mirror cracked than face what it reveals about their own compromises.

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So What Do We Do?

We don’t cancel the colluders. We confront the conditions that create them. We don’t stay silent. We name what’s happening. We build networks that protect the Djangos—not punish them for daring to be free. We:

• Organize support systems in the community. If your only safety is within the system, the system owns you.
• Teach young professionals to value principle over proximity.
• Build solidarity across racial lines and within them—by distinguishing between skinfolk and kinfolk.
• Amplify the stories of leaders like Rema Vassar who didn’t break under pressure.
• Remember that survival is not the goal. Liberation is.

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A Final Word for the Colluders

If you see yourself in this story—this isn’t condemnation. It’s an invitation. An invitation to return to your purpose, to remember who you were before the fear set in. It happens slowly, almost imperceptibly. First, you quiet your voice to keep your seat and a large paycheck. Then you shift your gaze, soften your language, delay your decisions—until one day, you realize you’ve become more loyal to the comfort of the table than to the people who built it. But here’s the truth: you can come back. Redemption is possible—but not without reckoning. Not without courage. You must decide, and do so without illusion: is your loyalty to comfort—or community?

This article is a call to consciousness. Because the system will always offer rewards for silence, promotions for compliance, and praise for decorum—but never justice. Justice isn’t given from above. It’s demanded from below. So ask yourself: Who are you protecting? And what are you preserving? This is your moment to reclaim your voice. To disrupt the performance. To stop mistaking table scraps for sustenance. Your fire was never meant to warm power—it was meant to ignite change.

And the people are still waiting.

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Vilified by Colluders, Vindicated Now

And let’s be clear: betrayal from within—by those who share our skin, our language, our struggle—is not new. The colluders have always been with us. Barack Obama faced critics of color who appeared on Fox News to parrot right-wing narratives, weaponizing identity to lend credibility to lies about his citizenship. Martin Luther King Jr. was denounced by Black clergy who feared that his radical calls for economic justice and opposition to the Vietnam War would threaten their own access and standing. By the time he was assassinated, his public approval had plummeted—even among Black communities—because he dared to dream beyond integration and into revolution. James Baldwin, whose pen cut through illusion with surgical precision, was marginalized by Black intellectuals who traded sharp critique for invitations to elite salons and Ivy League panels. Malcolm X was allegedly sabotaged from within the Nation of Islam, his assassination preceded by isolation, surveillance, and silent nods of complicity. Cesar Chavez endured resistance from Latinos who aligned themselves with agribusiness and political expedience, undermining the very movement that sought dignity for the campesino. These were not mere ideological disagreements. They were calculated betrayals—strategic assassinations of voice, vision, and momentum—disguised in the language of caution, professionalism, and unity. Respectability was the dagger. Silence was the accomplice. And comfort was the price.

So where are those colluders now? History does not remember them—not the ones who chose titles over truth, who dimmed their fire to preserve funding, invitations, or a seat at the table. History remembers the ones who stood with courage. The ones who were vilified and targeted—not because they were wrong, but because they were right too soon. In time, their clarity became legacy. Their resistance became a roadmap. And though they were condemned in the moment, they were vindicated by history.

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