I can’t claim to fully understand everything Baldwin is showing me. But I know this book left a mark. If you want to understand how power works—how authority is felt and weaponized—read Go Tell It on the Mountain. Baldwin saw the playbook decades ago.

The characters Baldwin realizes are so tender, so real, I feel like I could meet them. I'll carry their wounds and their triumphs with me for a very long time.

Baldwin didn’t just write about the past. He wrote about us. About how power, identity, and history shape us. About how some would rather burn everything down than admit they were never righteous to begin with.

And that’s why Go Tell It on the Mountain matters right now. Power is being twisted, again, into a tool for cultural and political control. And like Baldwin’s John, we have to ask: Who do we answer to—our own conscience, or the people who demand we submit?

Baldwin doesn’t let Gabriel win. He lets him sit in his own bitterness while John steps into something new. We don’t know exactly where John is going, but we know he refuses to let his father, his church, and white America decide for him.

That last part? That’s the real fear of today’s Gabriels. They know they’re losing control. They see younger generations walking away, questioning everything they were told to obey. They see John walking out the door.

They want dominance, not truth. They want control, not justice. Baldwin saw it play out in microcosm:
🔸 A man who protects his own sins but punishes others
🔸 A father who demands respect but gives no love
🔸 A leader terrified of losing his grip on the next generation

The people who once shouted about “morality” and “values” now bend over backwards to defend corruption, lies, and outright criminality—so long as it keeps them in power. Baldwin saw it coming decades ago.

And this isn’t just fiction. We’re still watching faith be used to demand submission instead of liberation. We see it when politicians co-opt the church, when power disguises itself as righteousness, and when older generations fear losing control over the future.

That’s what struck me most about this book. The world flattens people into heroes or villains. But Baldwin does something harder: he shows how power corrupts, how wounds fester, and how cycles of harm repeat—unless someone breaks them.

But Gabriel isn’t just a tyrant—he’s a Black man shaped by a world that denied him power. He clings to faith because it’s the only authority he’s ever had. Baldwin doesn’t excuse him. But he writes him with love, showing how harm is passed down.

Gabriel is a preacher, a man who claims to be chosen by God. But behind closed doors, he is cruel, self-righteous, and afraid. He doesn’t love—he controls. He uses faith not to heal, but to dominate. He demands obedience but refuses accountability.

John, a 14-year-old in 1930s Harlem, wrestles with faith passed through generations. The church is both a refuge and an expectation, a place of both liberation and control. His father, Gabriel, believes God has given him authority—but what does that authority cost?

I read this as a white man, engaging Baldwin as a learner, not as someone who shares his experience. This book felt like looking through a window into something I don’t fully understand—Black faith, survival, struggle. But Baldwin makes you feel its weight.

Should I be as scared of EMF as all of the ads say I should be?

Should I be scared lead is in everything because that lady has a lead meter?

Is fluoride in my toothpaste bad for me?

What about aluminum in my deodorant?

the fact they are just grunting noises we’ve assigned meaning to

i only ever remember when i hear a language i’ve never heard before