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The Plantation Never Died: How Incarceration Fuels the Corporation Slavery did not end in 1865. It evolved. The plantation was never dismantled; it was absorbed into the corporation of white supremacy. What once happened under the whip now happens under the law. The same system that auctioned Africans on blocks now auctions prison contracts. The same hunger for Black labor, Black profit, and Black control still feeds—only the chains have changed. \ From the moment the 13th Amendment carved out its exception—"except as punishment for crime"—the corporation had its loophole. Freedom was offered with one hand and stolen with the other. Black life was criminalized, policed, and funneled back into the system, not as citizens, but as assets—bodies to be tracked, exploited, and controlled. This was no accident. Vagrancy laws, Black Codes, and convict leasing became corporate policy long before mass incarceration had a name. The courts, the police, the prisons—all became subsidiaries...

THE CORPORATION OF WHITE SUPREMACY

Power. Property. Production.

You are not a citizen. You are an asset of the corporation.

From the moment we are born in this country, we are assigned a number, handed a certificate, and given a false sense of belonging. A birth certificate doesn’t name you free—it names you accounted for. It doesn’t welcome you into liberty; it logs your existence like inventory. And in that moment, whether we recognize it or not, it feels less like a beginning and more like a transaction, where my humanity was the item being sold.

We like to believe we are citizens. That we are people. That we are individuals with rights and choices. But when we pull back the curtain, when we look past the slogans and the staged elections, what we really see is something much more disturbing: we are treated like property, expected to produce, and constantly controlled by power.

This country was not built on freedom. It was built on labor—labor that was stolen, extracted, and enforced. From the cotton fields of slavery to the concrete cells of mass incarceration, from the stolen births of enslaved women to the robotic precision of modern Amazon warehouses, the United States has always operated like a well-oiled machine—a corporation, a plantation, a system that values production over people.

If that's the truth—and history makes it hard to deny—then we were never free. Not really.

Is America a corporation? Not in legal terms. But in structure, in function, in values? Absolutely. Every person born is entered into a ledger. Every name is tracked. Every body is counted—not in the service of liberation, but in the interest of logistics. You are not simply a human being; you are a future worker, a future consumer, a future soldier, a future debtor, a taxpayer, a possible prisoner, a vote to be exploited, a body to be managed.

Your life, your breath, your dreams—they are all flattened into lines on a screen inside a system that doesn’t care about your humanity, only your utility. It is a quiet violence, a slow, everyday erasure of worth that whispers: your value depends on how useful you are to someone else's bottom line.

But what happens when you step outside that role? What happens when someone—especially someone with a womb—says, “No, I will not produce for your system. No, I will not bring life into a country that refuses to protect it. No, my body does not exist for your control”?

That is when the state reveals its teeth.

Abortion bans have never been about babies. They have always been about production—the ability to control labor, legacy, and lineage. To force someone to carry a pregnancy is to force them to participate in a system that demands bodies, regardless of the cost. It's not protection—it's power. It’s the ultimate act of disrespect, requiring people to risk their lives for an ideology that would rather see them suffer than survive.

And don’t be fooled by Democrats waving rainbow flags and quoting activists they never supported when it counted. The betrayal is not just red. It is bipartisan. The Democratic Party claims to represent us, to stand with the people, to fight for our rights—but their loyalty is to their donors. They make promises every election cycle, yet when the moment comes to act, they hesitate, compromise, and fold. They speak the language of progress while funding police departments, approving war budgets, and congratulating themselves for incremental steps that never truly shift the ground beneath us.

They march with us in public, but negotiate against us in private. They ask for our votes, then use those votes to maintain a system that continues to exploit, surveil, and abandon us. The truth is hard: they do not represent us. They manage us.

One hand chokes you with a flag. The other pats you on the back while funding the chokehold.

This country has never been about honoring choice. It has always been about enforcing compliance. From slavery to sterilization, from mass incarceration to punitive welfare laws, the state has always believed it owns us—especially Black bodies, especially poor bodies, especially the bodies it never planned to protect.

This is the context in which we must understand reproductive control. It is not about religion. It is not about morality. It is about maintaining a structure of power that depends on controlling production—right down to what grows inside us.

So yes, this is a corporation. And we were born into it. Your birth certificate doesn’t name you free—it marks you as tagged. Your Social Security number isn’t a safety net—it’s a tracking code. Your value is not measured in your personhood, but in how well you serve the system.

But here is the radical truth: you are more than what they counted you for. You are more than your labor. More than your womb. More than your utility to a machine that was never built to see you thrive.

We will not be managed. We will not be mined. We are reclaiming our bodies, our choices, and our truths. Because the greatest rebellion in a system built to exploit is this: to live freely. To choose yourself. To refuse to be property.

This is not just a resistance against the system. It is a spiritual reclamation. It is a daily act of defiance against the lie that we were ever something to be owned.