Cinemorphosis

Author: Jeffrey McMahon

  • 12 Essential Lexicon Terms for Understanding Social Media-Spawned Pathologies

    12 Essential Lexicon Terms for Understanding Social Media-Spawned Pathologies

    #1: Doppelganger Effect

    When your online double becomes hotter, louder, meaner—and more successful than you.

    #2 Likelepsy

    A convulsive need for validation triggered by spikes in engagement and followed by a crushing dopamine crash.

    #3 Privacide

    The voluntary and cheerful execution of your privacy in exchange for predictive weather, curated playlists, and targeted ads for pants you only thought about.

    #4 TMI-rrhea

    An unstoppable stream of personal disclosures that nobody asked for and everyone wishes they could unsee.

    #5 Confessistan

    A nation where every citizen is legally required to document their feelings, bowel movements, and brunch choices for public consumption.

    #6 Cringe Fatigue

    A pang of cringe, sadness, and vicarious embarrassment experienced mid-scroll as you witness your friend’s dignity dissolve into hashtags and hot takes.

    #7 Narrativitis

    The chronic compulsion to turn real life into a curated, melodramatic storyline, complete with mood lighting and sad indie music.

    #8 FOMOblivion

    A cognitive blackout where the fear of missing out completely eclipses the joy of being present, addressing your real needs, and the real needs of others because you’re constantly seething in envy and anxiety over hyped-up trifles.

    #9 Scrolloticism

    The act of finding emotional pleasure in self-inflicted torment via outrage consumption and doomscrolling and compensatory self-aggrandizing content posing.

    #10 The Narrative Trap

    When your life becomes a story written by everyone else, and the only thing you can’t do is rewrite your part.

    #11 Feedgret

    A soul-curdling regret triggered by the realization that you’ve been publicly cosplaying as your best self while quietly decaying inside.

    #12 InstaShame Spiral

    A violent emotional plunge brought on by rereading your old captions and realizing you’ve been subtweeting your own dignity for years.

  • Case Studies in Performatosis: Black Mirror’s “Joan Is Awful” and “Nosedive”

    Case Studies in Performatosis: Black Mirror’s “Joan Is Awful” and “Nosedive”

    In the grand medical theater of Black Mirror, few disorders are as virulent and tragically funny as Performatosis—the compulsive need to live life as if constantly auditioning for an invisible panel of social media judges. Two episodes in particular, “Joan Is Awful” and “Nosedive,” offer prime case studies in this terminal condition. Both protagonists—Joan and Lacie—aren’t just victims of technological dystopia; they’re emotionally exhausted performers collapsing under the weight of their own curated identities. And like all great tragicomedies, they bring it on themselves with a smile, a filter, and a legally binding Terms of Service they definitely didn’t read.

    “Joan Is Awful” is what happens when you outsource your entire identity to an algorithm and then act surprised when it turns on you. Joan, a blandly competent tech middle-manager with questionable morals and a perpetual expression of secondhand guilt, becomes a literal character in a TV show about her own life. But this isn’t just surveillance—it’s a forced performance, one she never auditioned for but can’t stop starring in. Her daily decisions are reinterpreted, exaggerated, and broadcast to a global audience craving content, not character. The real tragedy? Joan begins modifying her behavior to match the awful version of herself the algorithm is producing, proving that once Performatosis sets in, the line between self and spectacle evaporates faster than a TikTok trend.

    Meanwhile, in “Nosedive,” Lacie lives in a pastel-colored prison of positivity, where smiles are currency and emotional repression is a public service. Her entire life is a performance designed to earn ratings—every cup of overpriced coffee, every chirpy interaction, every dead-eyed compliment is another step up the social ladder. But like all performances, hers eventually cracks, and when it does, it’s not just a fall—it’s a nosedive into social exile. Her descent is more than a narrative arc; it’s a diagnosis. She’s suffering from terminal Performatosis, unable to stop performing even as her audience turns on her. The episode’s final, cathartic scream-off in jail is less an act of rebellion and more a final gasp of unscripted truth.

    What links Joan and Lacie is not just the technology that invades their lives, but the deep, internalized need to be seen—and more dangerously, to be liked. They are not characters living in dystopias; they are mirrors of us, the perfectly average user who has confused validation with identity. The systems they’re trapped in are just more honest versions of the ones we already use—systems that reward curated personas, punish messiness, and encourage self-policing with a faux-empowering smile. In both cases, the platforms don’t just reflect reality; they rewrite it, edit it, and package it for mass consumption—leaving the person behind feeling like a glitch in their own story.

    Performatosis, as diagnosed through these episodes, is not about ego. It’s about survival in a world where being real is risky, but being performative is profitable. Joan and Lacie suffer not just because they’re being watched, but because they’ve handed over their stories to people—and systems—that care more about ratings than reality. Their eventual breakdowns are not mental collapses; they’re acts of resistance. Unscripted, unbeautiful, and gloriously human. And if we’re smart, we’ll take the hint: stop performing before you forget the script was never yours to begin with.

  • Tuned In, Checked Out: Confessions of a Radio Enthusiast

    Tuned In, Checked Out: Confessions of a Radio Enthusiast

    When I catch sight of my black Tecsun PL-680—hulking, angular, unapologetically retro—I freeze like a Victorian child glimpsing a forbidden mechanical marvel through a shop window. My eyes widen, my breath catches. It’s the same reverence I once felt, age six, face pressed against the glass of a toy store, transfixed by the GI Joe helicopter with working rotors and the implied promise of war-zone adventure. Only now the battleground is a cluttered kitchen table, and the artillery is AM talk radio, jazz on shortwave, the solemn murmur of world news drifting in from another hemisphere.

    The desire to switch it on and be swallowed by its frequencies is so intense, it borders on insanity. I feel embarrassed by the depth of this longing, but not enough to stop. My smaller Tecsun PL-330 elicits the same pulse of joy—compact, stealthy, and with an antenna that telescopes like it’s reaching for God. These machines are not just radios; they’re sanctuaries. Each one is a cozy cockpit where I can retreat from reality and tune in to something more orderly, more measured, more mine.

    “On the spectrum,” my wife jokes, watching me cradle a shortwave receiver like it’s a newborn or a detonator. I laugh, but I know she’s not wrong. The way I look at these devices—mouth slightly open, posture slack, eyes glazed with devotion—is not what you’d call neurotypical. It’s the gaze of a man who has found something he understands in a world that too often makes no sense.

    I have no interest in being cured. Therapy doesn’t come with a frequency dial. Meditation never once pulled in Radio Romania International. And no mindfulness app can match the primal, analog thrill of catching a faint station through the hiss of the void.

    These radios are my proof—of eccentricity, yes, but also of what keeps me sane. They hum. They glow. They speak in languages I don’t understand but need to hear. And if that’s madness, I’m fine with it. I’ll be here with my Tecsun, smiling at static, laughing at myself, and tuning in to everything that doesn’t ask me to explain why.

  • Ozempification and DeBrandification in Black Mirror

    Ozempification and DeBrandification in Black Mirror

    In the dystopian funhouse mirror that is Black Mirror, two episodes—”Joan Is Awful” and “Rachel, Jack and Ashley Too”—serve as cautionary tales about the perils of Ozempification and the arduous journey toward DeBrandification. These narratives dissect how individuals relinquish their identities to external forces, only to embark on a tumultuous quest to reclaim them.

    Ozempification, much like the quick-fix weight loss drug it’s named after, represents the seductive allure of outsourcing personal agency for immediate gratification. In “Joan Is Awful,” Joan’s passive acceptance of Streamberry’s invasive terms leads to her life being broadcasted without consent, morphing her into a grotesque caricature for public consumption. Similarly, in “Rachel, Jack and Ashley Too,” Ashley O’s acquiescence to her aunt’s overbearing control transforms her into a commodified pop puppet, her authentic self suppressed beneath layers of marketable artifice.

    The consequences of Ozempification are stark. Joan becomes a prisoner of her own life, scrutinized and vilified by an audience oblivious to her reality. Ashley O’s existence is hijacked, her consciousness commodified into AI dolls like Ashley Too, symbolizing the extreme exploitation of her identity. Both women find themselves trapped in narratives dictated by others, their true selves obscured by the demands of an insatiable audience.

    Enter DeBrandification: the messy, rebellious process of dismantling the curated personas imposed upon them. Joan’s revolt against Streamberry’s AI-driven exploitation and Ashley O’s defiance against her aunt’s manipulative machinations epitomize this struggle. Their battles underscore the difficulty of reclaiming authenticity in a world that thrives on manufactured images.

    However, DeBrandification is not a seamless endeavor. Joan’s attempt to obliterate the quantum computer orchestrating her televised torment results in legal repercussions, highlighting the societal resistance to such acts of defiance. Ashley O’s liberation, while cathartic, leaves her navigating an industry that may still view her as a product rather than a person. Their stories illuminate the complexities and potential fallout of shedding a commodified identity.

    Black Mirror masterfully illustrates that while Ozempification offers the tantalizing ease of relinquishing control, it leads to an existence dictated by external forces. Conversely, DeBrandification, though fraught with challenges, paves the path toward genuine selfhood. Joan and Ashley O’s journeys serve as stark reminders that in the age of digital commodification, reclaiming one’s identity is not just an act of rebellion, but a necessary step toward true autonomy.

  • Will the Real Jesus Please Stand Up? Elaine Pagels and the Search for a Transformative Truth

    Will the Real Jesus Please Stand Up? Elaine Pagels and the Search for a Transformative Truth

    In Miracles and Wonder: The Historical Mystery of Jesus, Elaine Pagels—now in her eighties—recounts her lifelong obsession with the figure of Jesus, not as a doctrine, but as a presence: a message of love and transformation in a world saturated with darkness. From a young age, she noticed a glaring contradiction. The Jesus of her local Methodist church was soft-edged and suburban, tailored to soothe middle-class anxieties. Meanwhile, the Catholic church she visited with a friend introduced her to a far more shadowy vision—one where sin reigned, and a priest, cloaked in mystery, handed out judgment like grades on a cosmic report card.

    Hungry for something real, she threw herself into faith. She attended a Billy Graham “Crusade for Christ” at Candlestick Park and, in a moment of tearful surrender, accepted Jesus as her savior and joined an evangelical church. But the honeymoon didn’t last. When her Jewish friend died in a car accident, she turned to her church community in anguish—only to be met with a chilling theological shrug. Was he saved? they asked. When she answered no, they calmly consigned him to hell. That moment of smug certainty shattered something in her. She walked away from the church—and never looked back.

    But the ache didn’t go away. Instead, it deepened into a lifelong question: Why did the story of Jesus strike me so deeply? Was it about Jesus himself? Or was it something broader—something in the architecture of religious experience that opened people up to realities they couldn’t explain?

    That question led her to Harvard’s Study of Religion, where she discovered a Christianity far more fractured, contested, and diverse than the one she’d been taught. The four canonical gospels were only a sliver of the story. Written decades after Jesus’ death, by authors who retrofitted their names to evoke apostolic authority, these texts were shaped by literary tropes and cultural myths of the Greco-Roman world. Beyond them were the apocryphal books and the Gnostic gospels, each offering competing visions of who Jesus was. Even after Constantine made Christianity the state religion and tried to enforce orthodoxy, believers couldn’t agree on what “true” Christianity actually meant.

    Still, Pagels returns to the core question: What kind of person was Jesus? Why did he endure when gods like Zeus faded into mythology? Why are there so many versions of him—prophet, rebel, savior, mystic, divine son?

    As she peels back the layers of history and doctrine, Pagels isn’t looking for the “correct” Jesus. She’s looking for the one that moved her, the one that cracked open the world with possibility. And in this, her search feels less like an academic pursuit and more like a human longing—to believe that, in spite of the noise and contradiction, there is still something true at the heart of the story.

    Like the old game show To Tell the Truth, we’re all watching the contestants declare, “I am Jesus.” And the question still echoes: Will the real Jesus please stand up?

    ***

    As usual, Pagels’ book is engaging. As I read about Matthew and Luke’s different accounts of the virgin birth and church people blithely telling Pagels that her Jewish friend is in hell, it occurs to me that I despise piety; but moral debauchery and smug nihilism are just as odious. 

  • The Algorithm Always Wins: How Black Mirror’s “Joan Is Awful” Turns Self-Reinvention Into Self-Erasure: A College Essay Prompt

    The Algorithm Always Wins: How Black Mirror’s “Joan Is Awful” Turns Self-Reinvention Into Self-Erasure: A College Essay Prompt

    Here’s a complete essay assignment with a title, a precise prompt, a forceful sample thesis, and a clear 9-paragraph outline that invites students to think critically about Black Mirror’s “Joan Is Awful” as a cautionary tale about the illusion of self-reinvention in the age of algorithmic control.

    Essay Prompt:

    In Black Mirror’s “Joan Is Awful,” the protagonist believes she is taking control of her life—switching therapists, reconsidering her career, changing her relationship—but these gestures of so-called self-improvement unravel into a deeper entrapment. Write an essay in which you argue that Joan is not reinventing herself, but rather surrendering her privacy, dreams, and identity to a machine that thrives on mimicry, commodification, and total surveillance. How does the episode reveal the illusion of agency in digital spaces that promise self-empowerment? In your response, consider how algorithmic platforms blur the line between self-expression and self-abnegation.

    Sample Thesis Statement:

    In Joan Is Awful, Joan believes she is taking control of her life through self-reinvention, but she is actually submitting to an algorithmic system that harvests her identity and turns it into exploitable content. The episode exposes how digital platforms market the fantasy of personal transformation while quietly demanding the user’s total surrender—of privacy, agency, and individuality—in what amounts to a bleak act of self-erasure disguised as empowerment.

    9-Paragraph Outline:

    I. Introduction

    • Hook: In today’s digital economy, the idea of “reinventing yourself” is everywhere—but what if that reinvention is a trap?
    • Introduce Black Mirror’s “Joan Is Awful” as a satirical take on algorithmic surveillance and performative identity.
    • Contextualize the illusion of self-improvement through apps, platforms, and AI.
    • Thesis: Joan’s journey is not one of self-reinvention but of self-abnegation, as she becomes raw material for a system that rewards data extraction over authenticity.

    II. The Setup: Joan’s Belief in Reinvention

    • Joan wants to change: new therapist, new boundaries, hints of dissatisfaction with her job and relationship.
    • Her attempts reflect a desire to reshape her identity—to be “better.”
    • But these changes are shallow and reactive, already shaped by her algorithmic footprint.

    III. The Trap is Already Set

    • Joan’s reinvention is instantly co-opted by the Streamberry algorithm.
    • The content isn’t about who Joan is—it’s about how she can be used.
    • Her life becomes a simulation because she surrendered her terms of use.

    IV. Privacy as the First Casualty

    • Streamberry’s access to her phone, apps, and data is total.
    • The idea of “opting in” is meaningless—Joan already did, like most of us, without reading the fine print.
    • The show critiques how we confuse visibility with empowerment while forfeiting privacy.

    V. Identity as Content

    • Joan becomes a character in her own life, performed by Salma Hayek, whose image has also been commodified.
    • Her decisions no longer matter—the machine has already decided who she is.
    • The algorithm doesn’t just reflect her—it distorts her into something more “engaging.”

    VI. The Illusion of Agency

    • Even when Joan rebels (e.g., the church debacle), she is still playing into the show’s logic.
    • Her outrage is pre-scripted by the simulation—nothing she does escapes the feedback loop.
    • The more she tries to assert control, the deeper she gets embedded in the system.

    VII. The Machine’s Appetite: Dreams, Desires, and Human Complexity

    • Joan’s dreams (a career with purpose, an authentic relationship) are trivialized.
    • Her emotional interiority is flattened into entertainment.
    • The episode suggests that the machine doesn’t care who you are—only what you can generate.

    VIII. Counterargument and Rebuttal

    • Counter: Joan destroys the quantum computer and reclaims her autonomy.
    • Rebuttal: The ending is recursive and ambiguous—she is still inside another simulation.
    • The illusion of victory masks the fact that she never really escaped. The algorithm simply adjusted.

    IX. Conclusion

    • Restate the central idea: Joan’s self-reinvention is a mirage engineered by the system that consumes her.
    • “Joan Is Awful” isn’t just a tech horror story—it’s a warning about how we confuse algorithmic participation with self-determination.
    • Final thought: The real horror isn’t that Joan is being watched. It’s that she thinks she’s in control while being completely devoured.

  • Becoming Someone Real: Literacy, Transformation, and the College Classroom in the Age of Digital Fakery: A College Essay Prompt

    Becoming Someone Real: Literacy, Transformation, and the College Classroom in the Age of Digital Fakery: A College Essay Prompt

    Below is a full setup with a focused essay prompt, a potent sample thesis, and a detailed 9-paragraph outline. The argument draws a hard line between the hollow self-curation of the digital age and the hard-won, soul-deep transformation through literacy and education, as seen in Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass and The Autobiography of Malcolm X.

    Essay Prompt:

    In an age when social media promises effortless self-reinvention through curated personas and algorithmic visibility, the genuine, hard-earned transformations of Frederick Douglass and Malcolm X—rooted in literacy and the pursuit of knowledge—stand as powerful counterpoints. Write an essay that analyzes how their autobiographies depict education as a vehicle for authentic self-reinvention, moral clarity, and long-term empowerment. In your essay, compare their transformations to the superficial “branding” culture of today, and argue why the college classroom remains one of the last credible spaces for real personal evolution.

    Sample Thesis Statement:

    While today’s digital culture rewards the illusion of instant self-reinvention through filtered images and empty performances, the autobiographies of Frederick Douglass and Malcolm X remind us that true transformation comes through literacy, discipline, and critical thinking. Their stories demonstrate that college—when pursued earnestly—can be a rare and radical site of self-reinvention that is empowering, morally clarifying, and enduring in a way that social media reinvention can never be.

    9-Paragraph Outline:

    I. Introduction

    • Hook: In an era obsessed with reinventing oneself through TikTok bios and LinkedIn résumés, real transformation has become a rare currency.
    • Context: The difference between performative self-reinvention (branding) and authentic self-reinvention (education).
    • Introduce Douglass and Malcolm X as icons of transformative literacy.
    • Thesis: Douglass and Malcolm X exemplify how education, not performance, produces lasting moral and personal change—making college one of the most powerful tools for true self-reinvention today.

    II. The Nature of Fake Reinvention in the Digital Age

    • Explore the Instagram/TikTok economy of identity: branding, personas, micro-celebrity culture.
    • Emphasize speed, shallowness, and lack of introspection.
    • Reinvention as escape rather than excavation: it masks who we are, rather than revealing a deeper self.

    III. Frederick Douglass: Literacy as Revolution

    • Douglass’s hunger for books after learning the alphabet.
    • Reading The Columbian Orator shapes his moral framework and awakens political consciousness.
    • His reinvention isn’t cosmetic—it is intellectual and moral, a refusal to remain enslaved in mind or body.

    IV. Malcolm X: Prison and the Page

    • Describe Malcolm’s transformation in prison: copying the dictionary, devouring books, reshaping his worldview.
    • Literacy as a form of liberation: he begins to see systemic oppression and his place within it.
    • This is not rebranding—it is rebirth.

    V. The Moral Weight of Their Reinventions

    • Both men become truth-tellers and justice-seekers, not influencers or entrepreneurs.
    • Their new selves come with responsibility and sacrifice, not followers or monetization.
    • Their transformations lead to social change, not clicks.

    VI. The College Classroom as a Modern Parallel

    • When it works, the college classroom can replicate this kind of rebirth: reading, writing, critical dialogue, moral challenge.
    • Students unlearn propaganda, challenge assumptions, and write their way into adulthood.
    • Education becomes a confrontation with self, not a presentation of self.

    VII. Counterargument: Isn’t College Itself a Branding Game Now?

    • Acknowledge the growing trend of college as a résumé-builder, a branding ritual.
    • Rebuttal: These pressures exist, but they don’t nullify the potential. Professors, books, and real intellectual work still offer space for transformation—if students are willing to engage.

    VIII. Why Authentic Reinvention Matters Now

    • The stakes are higher than ever: misinformation, polarization, and performative wokeness are rampant.
    • We don’t need more self-marketers; we need people who’ve undergone intellectual and moral development.
    • Douglass and Malcolm X remind us that the self is not something you launch—it’s something you build.

    IX. Conclusion

    • Reiterate the contrast: shallow, cosmetic reinvention vs. meaningful transformation through literacy and education.
    • Douglass and Malcolm X stand as enduring proof that education changes lives in ways that last.
    • Final thought: In an age of digital fakery, the classroom remains one of the last sacred spaces for becoming someone real.
  • Radio Reclaimed: The Proxy Friendship That Saves Your Sanity

    Radio Reclaimed: The Proxy Friendship That Saves Your Sanity

    A couple of months ago, as the Los Angeles wildfires raged, I found myself glued to a radio for live reports. A thought struck me like a lightning bolt: I had missed the radio. This ancient relic had been eclipsed by streaming devices, which, over the past decade, had somehow become my personal cocoon—a space where I meticulously curated my music and podcasts like a hyper-intelligent hermit with a PhD in self-isolation. I was alone, yes, but at least I had the comforting hum of algorithmically chosen tunes to keep me company. Then I realized: this wasn’t comfort. This was madness in a cocoon. My little silo, built to keep out the noise of the world, was also keeping out everything else that made me feel connected. I was losing my grip on reality, like the woman in “The Yellow Wallpaper” who could only see the world through the eyes of her claustrophobic madness.

    So, I did what any self-respecting, slightly paranoid adult would do: I bought a batch of high-performance radios, like the Tecsun PL-990, and I tuned back into the real world. I started listening to Larry Mantle’s voice again on LAist, to KJAZZ and KUSC—the classical music station that claims to be the most popular in the country. And after a few months of basking in their sonic embrace, I understood why KUSC is so beloved. It’s not just music; it’s a friend. The DJs don’t just announce the next piece; they drop in casual nuggets of composer trivia like old pals who just happen to know a lot about Bach’s temper. They are personal, conversational, and soothing, like a club of soundwave whisperers gently easing you into a state of calm with “your nightly lullaby” or music to “start your day.”

    KUSC doesn’t just play classical music. It plays the role of a companion—your anti-anxiety, anti-depression, virtual hug in the form of a radio signal. These aren’t just voices on the air; they’re voices that make you feel like you’re not alone, that someone is there to guide you through the chaos of your day. It’s the kind of subtle emotional manipulation you don’t mind because it’s just so comforting. If radio is going to survive the onslaught of streaming, it could do worse than to study KUSC’s Proxy Friendship model. There’s a lesson in that calm, gentle routine that could help even the most chaotic station become a lifeline in a world that feels like it’s constantly spinning off its axis.

  • Facebook, Bigfoot, and the Digital Swamp of the Reptilian Mind

    Facebook, Bigfoot, and the Digital Swamp of the Reptilian Mind

    When I was a child, going to the grocery store with my mother was a mundane errand—until we reached the checkout line. There, stacked beside the gum and glossy TV guides, was a fever swamp in newsprint: tabloids. They screamed in all-caps about alien babies, Bigfoot sightings in Milwaukee, swamp druids kidnapping hikers, and celebrities melting in real-time under the cruel lens of long-range zoom. I remember wincing. Even at that age, I sensed these were not harmless distractions but invitations to devolve—open doors to the primitive brainstem, the part Phil Stutz calls the “lower channel,” where we stop being people and start becoming lizards with opposable thumbs and credit cards.

    What I didn’t realize then was that these headlines—designed to hijack the amygdala and pump cortisol like candy—were just the analog prototype. The final form? Facebook. Facebook is the digital version of that tabloid aisle, now algorithmically juiced and weaponized to deliver an intravenous drip of the grotesque. My feed, once a sleepy scroll through family birthdays and vacation humblebrags, has transformed into a daily assault of schadenfreude, scandal, and shameless clickbait. Like a bored demon trying to stir chaos in the marketplace of thought, Facebook now mimics TikTok in its race to grab you by the reptilian brain and shake.

    I stay on Facebook for one reason: radios. I’m a radio hobbyist (listen to FM mostly) and belong to a clutch of charmingly niche radio groups where grown adults argue about antenna angles and trade photos of 1980s Japanese receivers like they’re Monet originals. I also use it to message my wife. But every time I log on, I feel like a sober man walking into a dive bar filled with uncouth drunks swinging pool cues at shadows.

    Facebook isn’t just a swamp. It’s a bubbling cauldron of cultural sludge, stirred hourly by algorithms that mistake engagement for intelligence and outrage for insight. It’s a symptom of our collective cognitive degradation—and a primary contributor. It’s an empire built on the backs of half-truths, low-resolution thinking, and viral tantrums. And yet, here I am—wading in, knee-deep, every time I want to tell someone about a new DSP radio chip or the joy of a clean AM signal at midnight.

    This is the curse of the modern enthusiast: to live in a digital kingdom that is both a community center and a cognitive landfill. I stay for the signal, but God help me, I’m choking on the noise.

  • Devotion and Deliverance: Frederick Douglass as Prophet of the Sunken Place

    Devotion and Deliverance: Frederick Douglass as Prophet of the Sunken Place

    Frederick Douglass was the first great American voice to name what Jordan Peele would later visualize as the Sunken Place—that paralyzing state of voicelessness, invisibility, and psychological captivity experienced by African Americans. Though Peele dramatizes the horror of this condition in his film Get Out, Douglass lived it. As an enslaved child denied literacy and identity, Douglass endured what he later described as a living death, a soul frozen beneath the surface of white supremacy’s illusion of order. His fight to reclaim his voice, his mind, and his humanity was nothing less than a jailbreak from the original Sunken Place—and once free, Douglass didn’t just climb out. He turned around and lit the way for others.

    Douglass’s genius wasn’t just in naming the horror but in refusing to let his people be forgotten. In his Narrative, he writes not only for white readers’ moral awakening but for Black readers’ spiritual survival. He wants them to know: I see you. I know what you’re going through. I made it out—and you can, too. His commitment was not just to truth-telling, but to emotional rescue. He becomes the voice for the voiceless, and more importantly, a memory for the disappeared. In every speech, every book, Douglass is saying to his people: You are not crazy. You are not alone. You are not invisible. I love you.

    This radical love—this refusal to forget or abandon the oppressed—is not only the essence of Douglass’s mission but the throughline of the African-American church and the great soul artists who emerged from its sanctuary. Aretha Franklin’s demand for “Respect” is not merely about gender or music—it is about soul-level recognition, the same Douglass demanded when he taught himself to read and stood before an audience to declare, I am a man. Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On?” is a lament and a prayer, echoing Douglass’s own grief at watching America devour its conscience while pretending to be virtuous.

    Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Devotion” is a gospel-soaked anthem of uplift, a promise to stay true, stay grounded, and stay together. That’s the same spiritual contract Douglass wrote with his people: no matter how far he rose—dining with Lincoln, traveling to Europe—he never abandoned the struggle, never stopped fighting for those still trapped in the Sunken Place. The Commodores’ “Zoom” imagines flight from pain and confinement, a kind of cosmic exodus—but not a selfish escape. The dream is to rise and return with wisdom, strength, and hope. This is Douglass in every sense.

    Jordan Peele gave us the Sunken Place in high-definition horror, but Frederick Douglass mapped it out with ink and fire long before the screen could flicker. He understood that the greatest tragedy of oppression is not physical bondage but spiritual erasure. And he devoted every breath of his free life to pulling others out—through rhetoric, through writing, through relentless love.

    In the voices of Aretha, Marvin, Maurice White, and Lionel Richie, we hear Douglass’s echo: not just survival, not just resistance, but a deeply rooted refusal to abandon anyone to silence. These aren’t just songs. They are gospel calls to rise, to remember, and to remain devoted. In that sacred tradition, Douglass stands as the first great prophet of the Sunken Place—and the first to vow, with soul-deep conviction, I will not leave you there.