DEI Under Attack? Kendrick Lamar’s Halftime Show Just Sent a Powerful Response

Kendrick Lamar performs at the Super Bowl XIL Halftime Show in New Orleans, February 9, 2025. He is surrounded by dancers dressed in red, white, and blue.

The National Football League (NFL) Super Bowl halftime show is one of the biggest stages in America. And Kendrick Lamar used it to make damn sure we all got the memo:

We’re still here. We’re not going anywhere. And we will not be silenced.

At a time when Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion is under attack in boardrooms, classrooms, and legislation, Kendrick turned his performance into a statement of resistance—unapologetically centering excellence, activism, and the kind of storytelling that makes certain people very uncomfortable.

And then… there was Samuel L. Jackson as Uncle Sam.

Now, let’s be clear: he didn’t actually curse. But did he need to? The man who practically trademarked the word “motherf—” stood on that stage as the literal face of American power, and you felt the message:

“We see what you’re doing. We’re not going anywhere. And you can’t erase us.”

Speaking of trademarks, Kendrick himself has trademarked his own name with the USPTO, pretty cool!

This wasn’t just a show. It was a masterclass in subversion—and the fact that it happened while the sitting President of the United States was watching? Chef’s kiss.

In a political climate where DEI initiatives are being gutted, this was a defiant cultural moment. Kendrick reminded us that art has always been a tool of protest, and now, he’s carrying that torch, proving that no matter how much pushback DEI faces, the voices demanding justice aren’t leaving the stage.

Think That 2 A.M. Email Means Workaholism? Think Again

A dimly lit home office at 2AM, illuminated by a glowing computer screen displaying an email inbox with multiple unread messages. Coffee cups, papers, and an open notebook sit on the desk, evoking a sense of late-night work.

With all the uncertainty surrounding the federal workforce, the flood of emails, and my need to shut out the noise, I’ve been reflecting on how my coping skills and work habits often align with neurotypical norms.

The first time a colleague asked why I was working so late, I was caught off guard. It hadn’t occurred to me that a 2 a.m. email might seem unusual. But over time, I’ve realized that for many disabled and neurodivergent professionals, working outside conventional hours isn’t just a preference—it’s a necessity.

I often structure work around chronic pain flare-ups or medical appointments. Others align their schedules with fluctuating energy levels or assistive care needs. And then there are those who thrive when the world is quiet, free from the constant buzz of notifications and interruptions.

Late nights are when I do my best thinking. With an empty inbox and a silent phone, I can focus deeply and be productive. But I also understand that receiving a 2 a.m. email might seem urgent or unsettling to others. That’s why I’ve started adding a simple disclaimer:

“Please note that the timestamp on this email reflects when it was convenient for me to send it. It does not imply an expectation of immediate response. Please prioritize your work-life balance and reply during your regular working hours.”

It’s a small adjustment, but it helps. It reassures colleagues that I don’t expect them to match my schedule. Still, there’s a bigger issue: unconventional work hours are often misunderstood.

Managers might see off-hours emails as a sign of inefficiency. Clients may misinterpret them as urgent. Some assume the sender is overworked or struggling with boundaries.

But here’s the truth: flexibility makes sustainable work possible for many disabled and neurodivergent employees.

People often assume working odd hours signals poor time management or workaholism. The reality? It’s about playing to our strengths. When we work in ways that align with how our minds and bodies function best, productivity increases, stress decreases, and burnout is less likely. The traditional 9-to-5 schedule doesn’t work for everyone—and for many of us, it actively creates barriers instead of fostering success.

So, if someone’s best work happens outside the typical workday, why fight it? Why enforce a rigid system when flexibility leads to better outcomes for everyone?

If you’ve ever wondered why a colleague is sending emails at odd hours, consider that they might not be struggling—they might just be working when they’re at their best. And if you’re someone who thrives on a nontraditional schedule, how have you navigated conversations around it? I’d love to hear your experiences.

Trump Blamed DEI for a Plane Crash. Here’s Why That’s Dangerous.

Emergency response units assess airplane wreckage in the Potomac River near Ronald Reagan Washington Airport on January 30, 2025 in Arlington, Virginia.

I wish I could say I was surprised. But I’m not.

A tragic plane crash happens at Ronald Reagan National Airport, and instead of waiting for the facts, instead of mourning the lives lost, Trump rushes to the mic with an all-too-familiar playbook: Blame Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. No evidence, no logic—just another reckless attempt to weaponize tragedy to attack marginalized communities.

And this time? He went straight for disabled professionals.

In his press conference, Trump suggested that DEI efforts were responsible for putting “unqualified” people in roles like air traffic control, even going so far as to claim that under Biden, the Federal Aviation Administration was hiring people with “severe intellectual disabilities and psychiatric problems” as part of diversity initiatives. He made it sound as if DEI is about lowering the bar, as if safety has taken a backseat to inclusion .

Let’s set the record straight.

DEI doesn’t weaken standards—it strengthens them. It ensures that highly qualified individuals—people who have always had the skills but have historically been shut out due to bias—get a fair shot. The FAA’s hiring requirements haven’t changed. Air traffic controllers still go through the same intense screening, the same rigorous testing, the same high-pressure training. Nobody gets a free pass. The idea that disabled people are handed these jobs without meeting the same standards as everyone else is not just false—it’s insulting.

Maria Town, President of the American Association of People with Disabilities said it best, “Preventing the FAA from hiring people with disabilities does not make planes more safe, It just removes opportunities for disabled people."

And yet, here we are again.

For those of us in the disability community, these kinds of attacks aren’t new. We’re used to people questioning our qualifications, assuming we’re only here because of some imaginary quota. It doesn’t matter how hard we work, how much we achieve—someone, somewhere, will always suggest we don’t belong.

Trump’s words don’t just spread misinformation. They do real harm. They give people permission to question whether disabled professionals should be allowed in the workforce at all. They fuel narratives that say our presence in critical jobs is a “risk” rather than an asset.

Here’s the truth: Disability doesn’t make a person unqualified. It doesn’t make them less capable, less intelligent, or less deserving of responsibility. I know this firsthand. I have spent my career proving what I—and countless others—already knew: We belong.

Trump didn’t just attack DEI. He attacked the very idea that people like me, people like us, deserve to be here.

And we cannot let that stand. The only way to drown out falsehoods is with truth. And the truth is, DEI isn’t the problem—it’s the solution.

Trump Blames DEI, Democrats for Deadly Plane Crash

The Forgotten in the Flames: Why Emergency Planning Must Include Disabled People

A scene of intense wildfires, with palm trees and vegetation engulfed in flames, embers scattering through the air, and a vibrant orange hue dominating the environment.

Reading the recent story from Sonja Sharp at Los Angeles Times about Anthony Mitchell Sr. and his son Justin—a father and son who both had disabilities and died because of inadequate evacuation planning during the devastating LA wildfires—has left me angry and heartbroken. Their deaths were preventable, and yet they were left to wait, pray, and perish. This tragic event reflects systemic failures that disabled people, like me, fear every day.

I can’t ignore how often disabled people are overlooked in emergency planning.

Growing up, I was never truly part of evacuation plans. After 9/11, I remember my math teacher pointing to a football player and saying, “Ryan, that’s your escape plan.” That moment encapsulated the lack of planning, forethought, and value placed on the lives of disabled individuals. Now, as an adult living in a 25-story high-rise in D.C., those fears haven’t gone away. During fire drills or alarms, the elevator shuts down, the hallway doors automatically lock, and I’m left wondering: “Will anyone come?” I’m on supposed watch lists, but those plans are never practiced. The truth is, I don’t have faith that help will come when it matters most.

Anthony Mitchell Sr., an amputee who used a wheelchair, and Justin Mitchell, who had cerebral palsy, couldn’t escape on their own. Firefighters stopped family members from entering the evacuation zone to save them. As the flames closed in, they huddled together, waiting for a rescue that never came.

Officials have known for years that disabled individuals are disproportionately impacted by disasters. A 2019 state audit highlighted how emergency management agencies were woefully unprepared for this threat, despite California being home to 4 million disabled residents, including nearly a quarter-million in Los Angeles​

We can and must do better. Emergency response plans need to be inclusive, regularly practiced, and accessible to everyone. This means involving disabled individuals in planning processes, investing in assistive technology, and ensuring first responders are trained to address the needs of disabled people during disasters.

We’re one-fourth of the global population. Our lives are just as valuable, and our voices need to be heard. Let’s stop apologizing after the fact and start making proactive changes now. The cost of inaction is far too great.

The Two Faces of Language: Empowerment vs. Weaponization

A playground featuring a row of swing sets, with one adaptive swing in the foreground designed for children with disabilities. The swing is green with a yellow harness, contrasting with the standard black swings in the background. The scene includes a climbing structure, benches, and a large tree providing shade. A brick school building is visible in the background, and the area is surrounded by a chain-link fence. The muted lighting suggests an overcast or hazy day.

Yesterday I wrote about how reclaiming slurs like “cripple” or “spaz” has been a method for me of retaking control — words that once pierced can become emblems of resistance and empowerment. But today, I’m thinking about an uglier side of language: when those very words are intentionally used as weapons.

What we’re experiencing is a revival of slurs like the R-word not as ignorant throwbacks to a bygone era, but as instruments of malice. This is not the relaxed slip of someone who doesn’t know; this is on purpose. Public figures like Elon Musk have tossed the R-word into online exchanges as if it were nothing, fully aware of the reaction it inspires. It is part of a broader trend in which words are wielded to demean and dehumanize, particularly in digital spaces. As Miles Klee writes for Rolling Stone, "Today’s trolls use it because it crosses a contested boundary, as a deliberate (if uninspired) provocation." Trolls don’t use these words because they don’t know what harm they might do — they use them because of what threat they pose.

Here’s the thing: Intent and context matter. I reclaim a word within trusted circles, where it is understood as a shared joke, a way to turn pain into power. But when one person throws the R-word at another person, it’s intended as a hurtful attack. It’s not reclaiming; it’s entrenching ableist stereotypes, used mainly against oppressed classes to shut them up and push them aside. The contrast couldn’t be sharper.

This goes beyond words. It’s about the degradation of empathy. When words like the R-word are used, they don’t just hurt people in the moment — they remind people with disabilities that society still considers them “less than.” That isolation can become a far deeper wound.

But this is where we can change the narrative. Reclaiming words is one way to resist, but it’s not the only way. When we see hate speech, we need to call it out; we need to hold the platforms accountable; and we need to create environments where we can all feel safe to participate. This isn’t about being politically correct — it’s about human decency.

I still believe in the power of words to connect and to heal. I’ve witnessed it in my own journey, reframing constructive criticism into something enlightening. But I’ve also seen the destruction they can cause when they are used maliciously. So how do we know where the line is? How do we take back language while resisting weaponization of language? I’d really like to hear what you think. Have you felt the sting of hurtful words? Or how they managed to turn them into something meaningful? Let's continue the conversation.

The R-Word’s Comeback Is a Grim Sign of Our Political Moment

Reclaiming Disability Language: Empowerment, Humor, and Advocacy

A conceptual image of a large pane of shattered glass with the words "spaz," "special," and "dumb" etched into its surface. A bold red prohibition circle with a diagonal line crosses over the words, symbolizing rejection of harmful language. Cracks radiate outward from the center of the glass, emphasizing the fragility and breaking of outdated, offensive terms. The background is a gradient of teal and blue, adding depth and contrast to the image.

Words. They’re sharp, heavy, and at times, loaded. But they’re also fluid, malleable, and, most importantly, ours to shape. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the language surrounding disability and how it’s evolved—how words that once stung can now feel like a badge of defiant pride when reclaimed.

A recent TIME piece by Angela Haupt explored how to respond when someone says something offensive about disability, emphasizing the importance of educating others without assuming malice. This idea resonated with me deeply, but I kept circling back to a less discussed angle: reclaiming the very words that have historically marginalized us.

I’ve heard my fair share of slurs: cripple, spaz, retard. As a kid, these words cut deep. But as an adult, I’ve found joy—and, dare I say, humor—in reclaiming them. These words only hold the power we assign them, and I choose to wield that power on my terms.

For example, my close friends often call me “Broken Kid” or “Spaz” endearingly. It's not mockery; it’s camaraderie. “Don’t forget your broken kid card for parking,” they’ll say with a laugh. And yes, it’s hilarious to watch well-meaning bystanders recoil in horror: “You shouldn’t say that!” or “You shouldn’t refer to yourself that way.” Their shock, while understandable, underscores the power of reclaiming language. For me, humor is not only healing—it’s a form of activism.

It’s crucial to acknowledge that not every disabled person feels the same. As Katy Neas of The Arc of the United States pointed out, “So much of what we’re seeing is behavior grounded in either fear, ignorance, or the normalization of incivility.” Some prefer to challenge offensive language directly, turning these moments into educational opportunities. Others disengage entirely, protecting their peace.

Both approaches are valid. Disability is not a monolith. But for those like me, reclaiming words is about taking back agency. It’s about laughing in the face of stigma. And sometimes, it’s about asking the cheeky, yet pointed question:
“Can I ask why you think that’s funny?” (Thanks for the tip, Jennifer Gasner!)

That said, humor doesn’t erase the very real battles we face for access, opportunity, and equity. I don’t overlook the damage careless language can do, especially when wielded maliciously. But I choose to find the humor where I can, saving my energy for bigger fights. As Lachi ♫, a legally blind performer and advocate, wisely said, “We win when we include.” I’d add: We win when we laugh—on our terms.

This approach won’t resonate with everyone, and that’s okay. Reclaiming language is deeply personal. But for me, it’s a way to strip harmful words of their venom and inject them with power, resilience, and a healthy dose of comedy.

Do you find empowerment in reclaiming words, or do you see language differently?

Sebastian Stan’s Call to Normalize Disability: Hollywood’ Role in Cultural Change

Last night, Sebastian Stan stood on the Golden Globes stage and delivered an acceptance speech that was equal parts gratitude and a societal call for more disability inclusion in storytelling saying, “Our ignorance and discomfort around disability and disfigurement has to end. We have to normalize it and continue to expose ourselves and our children to it. [We should] encourage acceptance.”

We’ve come a long way in some ways, but the reality is that we still have miles to go. Disability is often treated as "other," whether it’s the barriers we face in accessing physical spaces, the battles we fight for workplace accommodations, or the simple dignity of being included in the stories society chooses to tell.

A Different Man brings that reality to life. It’s not just a film about disability—it’s a film with disabled voices at its core. This matters. Representation is the difference between being seen and being invisible.

And yet, disability remains woefully underrepresented. According to a 2022 GLAAD report, less than 4% of major studio films included disabled characters—and even fewer were played by actors with disabilities. Meanwhile, 20% of the population in the U.S. identifies as disabled. That disconnect doesn’t just hurt those of us in the disability community; it limits society as a whole. When stories exclude disability, they fail to reflect the full spectrum of human experience.

This isn’t just about Hollywood. It’s about workplaces that still treat accommodations like favors instead of rights. It’s about public spaces designed without us in mind. It’s about a culture that sees disability as something to overcome, rather than simply as part of life. As Stan put it, “These films are real and they’re necessary, and we can’t be afraid and look away.” That sentiment doesn’t just apply to film—it’s a challenge to all of us.

Disability will likely touch each of us, directly or indirectly, at some point in our lives. But we shouldn’t care about disability only because it might one day be our story. We should care because these stories are real, human, and powerful. They deserve to be told—not to inspire, but to be part of the fabric of who we are as a society.

Remote Work Isn’t a Perk—It’s a Lifeline for Disabled Federal Employees

People walking past the Department of the Treasury building, a historic structure with large columns and engraved signage, on a chilly day with some leaves scattered on the ground.

For more than a decade as a federal employee, I’ve been proud to serve the public. I’ve earned awards, glowing reviews, and built a career I love. But here’s the truth: my success wouldn’t have been possible without telework. As a disabled professional managing multiple disabilities, remote work is more than a convenience—it’s a lifeline. It enables me to thrive in an environment that meets my needs and eliminates barriers that might otherwise exclude me. Now, all of that progress is at risk.

The Wall Street Journal's John McCormick and Te-Ping Chen report on the newly envisioned Department of Government Efficiency effort to mandate full-time in-office work is alarming. Elon Musk and Vivek Ramaswamy, leading this charge, have made it clear that they expect resignations, with Ramaswamy predicting as many as 25% of federal workers could leave. To them, this might sound like trimming bureaucracy. In practice, this is a targeted assault on equity and inclusion.

Telework gave disabled employees the chance to participate in record numbers, eliminating barriers like long commutes and inaccessible environments. Meg O'Connell, PHR of Global Disability Inclusion, LLC explained it best to HR Brew ™️'s Kristen Parisi: “People with disabilities have what they need in their homes. They don’t have to ask for accommodation [because] they’ve already built out their space.” Why dismantle a system that works?

While many argue in-person work fosters collaboration, the private sector is proving otherwise. Glassdoor’s CEO Christian Sutherland-Wong told Fortune, “The biggest benefit we’ve seen…is being able to tap into talent all around the U.S. and the globe.” If companies like Glassdoor see remote work as a future-driven solution, why is the government pushing outdated practices?

This isn’t just about where we work; it’s about who gets to work. Forcing disabled employees back into offices undermines principles of diversity, equity, inclusion, and access. Policies like DOGE’s mandate send a clear message: “We don’t trust you or value your contributions unless we see you at a desk.” As Dannie Lynn Fountain, DBA, EA, SPHR, CDR of Google said, these practices are “still disability discrimination.”

The pandemic proved remote work’s transformative potential. It shattered barriers for disabled workers and redefined productivity. Now, that progress is being reversed. The stakes couldn’t be higher—not just for me but for all of us. Are we building workplaces of the future or clinging to systems that exclude?

Remote work empowered me to thrive, but it also redefined what’s possible for our workforce. Let’s not let fear of change erase that progress. Inclusion is more than a checkbox; it’s a commitment to creating workplaces where everyone can succeed.

Musk, Ramaswamy Want Federal Workers in the Office Full Time. There’s a Hitch.

The Power of Words: Trump's Harsh Views vs. Biden's Compassion

A disabled parking logo is depicted with blood dripping down, symbolizing the erroneous belief that disabled people should die. The scene is a dark and eerie, with the surrounding environment having a grim and foreboding atmosphere, including dark, leafless trees and a misty background.

I can’t stop thinking about President Biden’s address to the nation last night—his first since deciding to exit the 2024 race. His speech was filled with humanity and a focus on inclusion, qualities that starkly contrast with sentiments expressed by Donald Trump, as revealed in a recent TIME Magazine article by Fred Trump III.

Biden’s words from the Oval Office were profound: “We have to decide: Do we still believe in honesty, decency, respect, freedom, justice, and democracy? In this moment, we can see those we disagree with not as enemies but as fellow Americans.” This message of unity and respect is essential, especially as we celebrate the 34th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act. The ADA, passed under the George H.W. Bush administration, is more contested than ever in today’s political climate. I’m not sure it would pass Congress in 2024.

Contrast this with the shocking statements from Donald Trump, as recounted by his nephew Fred Trump III. Fred’s article reveals a chilling disregard for disabled people. President Trump reportedly said at the height of COVID-19, “The shape they’re in, all the expenses, maybe those kinds of people should just die,” in reference to his own blood. These words are not just hurtful; they are a stark reminder of how far we still have to go in fighting for the rights and dignity of all Americans.

Biden’s commitment to disability rights has been evident throughout his administration. His support for updates to Section 508 of the Rehabilitation Act is a critical step forward. “The federal government has an obligation to ensure that its services are accessible to people with disabilities, including its websites and technology,” said Senator Bob Casey, co-sponsor of the proposed updates. This legislation aims to make federal technology accessible to all Americans, ensuring that no one is left behind.

I use a wheelchair. I handle a service dog. I leverage assistive technology to navigate the web due to my visual impairment. These updates are not just necessary; they are vital. It’s not just about physical barriers; it’s about breaking down attitudinal ones as well.

Biden’s words remind us that we are all in this together: “We are a great nation because we are a good people...The power’s in your hands. The idea of America lies in your hands. You just have to keep faith.” In contrast, Trump’s comments reflect a divisiveness that undermines the progress we’ve made and the values we stand for.

As we approach this significant anniversary of the ADA, let’s remember the work that still needs to be done. Let’s continue to fight for a world where everyone, regardless of their abilities, has equal access to opportunities and resources. When given the respect and dignity we deserve, we not only thrive, we persevere. The only thing that needs to die is ableism.

My Uncle Donald Trump Told Me Disabled Americans Like My Son ‘Should Just Die’