The Blind Man’s Dream
In a little house near the river lived an old man named Joseph. Blind from birth, he never saw a sunrise or knew the true color of the bayou. But Joseph had a dream so strong it was as clear as sight itself—to see the faces of his grandchildren, to glimpse the world he'd only touched and tasted and heard.

Each morning Joseph rose with the sun he could only feel, laboring hard, penny by penny, saving for the surgery that promised him sight. He fished, repaired nets, carved wood—doing honest work with honest hands. Yet every day brought strangers to his door, slick talkers who smiled warmly and whispered kindly, selling promises wrapped in trust.

Joseph, hopeful and open-hearted, believed them. He traded his carefully saved money for assurances of miracles: herbs, potions, prayers whispered by charlatans who swore on sacred things. Each visitor knew Joseph's sightlessness was their greatest advantage—his darkness was their currency. The money meant to buy him vision slipped silently through his fingers, into greedy pockets.

Deep down, those who exploited him knew that Joseph’s blindness served them better than his sight ever would. A blind man is easier to rob, to manipulate, to silence. Keeping him in darkness was lucrative. So the promise of sight remained just out of reach, a cruel illusion dangling before a man whose only wish was to finally open his eyes.

Joseph wasn’t blind because he lacked the strength to see—he was blind because others profited from his darkness.

The Gut Punch: You ever give your all—every last ounce of fight—and still feel the bitter sting of betrayal? That's Louisiana. My home. Our Gulf waters—our lifeblood—poisoned with chemical cocktails and toxic sludge, sanctioned by federal suits who never walked our shores. From the early 1900s through the late 1970s, the Gulf Coast became America's hidden landfill, legally approved by federal policies. The Marine Protection, Research, and Sanctuaries Act of 1972 permitted ocean dumping beyond three miles offshore as long as it didn't "unreasonably degrade" the environment, yet mountains of chemical, radioactive, biological, and industrial waste piled up beneath the surface. Governor Edwin Edwards turned Louisiana into a welcome mat for toxic waste companies in the '70s, opening our rivers, bayous, and marshlands to oil sludge and industrial poisons—all in the name of economic development. Communities between Baton Rouge and New Orleans, now infamously called Cancer Alley, paid the highest price, becoming sacrifice zones where pollution and poverty mingled, choking lives with regret, resentment, and lost potential.

The Pivot: Let me lay the truth bare. Yes, Louisiana was betrayed—by federal policies exploiting our Gulf, by governors who sold our dignity, and by corporations that preyed on our vulnerability. But here's the clear-eyed truth: there were no hidden treaties or secret deals with other states. What enabled this tragedy were gaping federal loopholes and a state culture of looking away when money spoke louder than justice. It wasn't conspiracy; it was complicity.

The Climb: Louisiana is unique—our legal heritage combines French and Spanish civil codes, setting us apart from the common-law systems that dominate America. Yet this uniqueness hasn't turned us into political lab rats. Our civil law hybrid is still anchored by federal standards and shared national norms. Despite fears, no evidence shows Louisiana systematically piloting federal political agendas. Specific policies like the Louisiana Science Education Act (2008)—permitting critical views on evolution and climate change—are ideological battlegrounds, not indicators of systemic political experimentation.

The real struggle is our internalized defeat, our surrender before the battle begins. We waste energy blaming neighbors over skin color, religion, or political views—missing the point entirely. Look at Alaska and Saudi Arabia, where oil wealth flows directly into citizens' pockets. Alaska has distributed over $31.3 billion since 1982 through constitutionally mandated dividends. Saudi Arabia provides monthly stipends from oil revenues, stabilizing social welfare. But Louisiana, with its abundant oil, funnels royalties into state budgets, not citizen dividends. In 2008 alone, Louisiana collected $275 million in royalties from offshore oil—but not a dime directly to residents. Why this difference? Because we've allowed ourselves to be distracted, divided, and defeated.

The Mountaintop: Hear me clearly: You don't win fights you refuse to enter. Stop battling your neighbors over manufactured divisions. Recognize the real adversary—systems designed to keep you passive and disunited. Unity breaks oppression. It turns victims into victors, submission into strength. Louisiana, reclaim your voice. Demand transparency. Insist the wealth extracted from our soil benefit our people directly, healing communities rather than funding distant interests. Our true power emerges when we stand shoulder-to-shoulder against exploitation. This is how we rewrite our story and rise from our knees to our feet.