After speaking out, Shannon Dill faced premeditated and coordinated retaliation, psychological abuse, and physical harm. Now, the truth they tried to silence is coming out.
Welcome to Mississippi — a place where coordinated abuse is a tradition, and where African Americans, especially Black women and whistleblowers, are deliberately targeted with cruelty that’s as calculated as it is corrupt. This isn’t just about racism; it’s about weaponized systems, silent warfare, and the cheat code the state never wanted you to find out.
What you’re about to read is not fiction. It’s not theory. It’s not exaggeration. This is the reality for whistleblowers like Shannon Dill — a woman who spoke truth to power, sent an email to thousands of soldiers and the Pentagon, and was systematically destroyed for it.
In Mississippi, they don’t just retaliate — they orchestrate. They don’t just cover up — they rebuild reality to make the victim look like the threat. They use covert technology and psychological tactics — unknown weaponry that alters the body, the mind, the appetite, the behavior — and when you react, they call it “crazy.” That’s called reactive abuse, and it’s by design.
For generations, the state of Mississippi has operated as a system built on the blood, trauma, and silencing of Black people, especially Black women, Black veterans, and Black whistleblowers like Shannon. The same Mississippi that watched the brutal lynching of Emmett Till, the assassination of Medgar Evers, the brutalization of Fannie Lou Hamer, and the ongoing mass incarceration of Black men and women has never once, in all its history, been held accountable for its crimes. Not by the courts, not by the government, and not by its so-called “mental health professionals,” who weaponize diagnoses as tools of control.
Shannon’s story is no different from this long and bloody history—it is a continuation of the same systemic racism, state violence, and cover-ups. After reporting sexual assault, racial abuse, and government corruption, Shannon was labeled, scapegoated, and trapped in a system designed to crush voices like hers. The Civil Rights Act (Title VI) prohibits discrimination based on race, yet Mississippi’s institutions continue to discriminate openly. The Whistleblower Protection Act exists to protect those like Shannon who speak the truth—but instead of protection, she faced retaliation. The Bivens Action gives a right to sue federal officials like those at the VA who have weaponized Shannon’s mental health records against her, while 42 USC § 1983 allows action against state officials like the Mississippi National Guard, the state hospitals, the United States Army, Veteran Affairs, lawyers, the judges, and the police who have violated her civil and constitutional rights.
Shannon Dill’s story is not just personal—it is a direct reflection of how the state of Mississippi, the Mississippi National Guard, the military, the U.S. government, and the legal and mental health systems have historically and systematically silenced Black voices, criminalized Black lives, and retaliated against those who dare to speak the truth. From Emmett Till to Fannie Lou Hamer, Medgar Evers to the Epstein victims, the same pattern repeats: Black people are targeted, abused, lied on, and buried under false narratives, while white perpetrators walk free.
Shannon, a Black, gay, military veteran and whistleblower, is a living example of this cycle of abuse. After reporting sexual assault, racism, and government corruption, she became the target of a coordinated, premeditated campaign to discredit, silence, and criminalize her. They weaponized the mental health system and legal system to build a false narrative—one that must now be dismantled, exposed, and called out for the systemic racism it is.
Shannon’s case is covered under multiple federal laws, that should have protected her, but were instead violated:
• Civil Rights Act (Title VI) prohibits race-based discrimination in federally funded programs like the VA—yet Shannon faced targeted harassment and bias.
• HIPAA guarantees accurate medical records—yet her records were falsified with lies, misdiagnoses, and fabricated threats like “she wanted to stab someone.”
• 42 USC § 1983 allows lawsuits against state actors—like Mississippi officials and the National Guard—for violating constitutional rights. Shannon’s rights to due process, freedom from discrimination, and protection from retaliation have all been violated.
• 5th and 14th Amendments guarantee due process and equal protection under the law—but Shannon has been denied both.
• Whistleblower Protection Act shields federal whistleblowers like Shannon who report government wrongdoing—yet her reports were met with retaliation, not protection.
• Bivens Action allows lawsuits against federal employees like VA staff for constitutional violations—and Shannon’s case is a clear example.
• Vanessa Guillen Act was created for military sexual assault survivors like Shannon, but instead of justice, she was silenced, blamed, and retraumatized.
The system fabricated false narratives: that she was “aggressive” for laughing, “uncooperative” for not talking, “disruptive” for sleeping, and “dangerous” for simply existing. A fabricated threat used to discredit her. They sent her into programs not for help, but to build a case against her, while ignoring the daily violence, drug abuse, and misconduct of others—especially white patients and staff. This is the same Mississippi that, during the Black Lives Matter protests, pretended to take accountability but never truly did. The same Mississippi where the Curtis Flowers case exposed the blatant jury discrimination in courtrooms, where Willie Nash was sentenced to 12 years for a cell phone; while white men, walked free for real crimes, and where Parchman prison remains a modern-day plantation. The same Mississippi whose good ol’ boy system enabled Epstein-style abuse networks, protected powerful men, and turned a blind eye until white victims were harmed—proving that Black victims have always been disposable in their eyes.
Shannon’s art—her poetry, her books, her music—rips the mask off this system. When racist white professionals in the mental health system, in healthcare, in the courts, in the legal system, and in the police hear Shannon’s words, they feel threatened. They feel exposed. They cannot handle the truth of what she says in her lyrics:
“The system we live in protects every color, when videos give them proven facts, All we needed was love / All we needed was acceptance / Now we ain’t accepting this / And we ain’t accepting that / Hands up don’t shoot / Please stop killing Blacks.” A direct statement, contradicting and stating irony, that many, say the system holds those accountable for their actions, done predominately to African-Americans, but let Caucasian Americans free, and criminalizing African-Americans, and shouting that African-Americans are the criminals, and protected, when they never were. Saying their name, every time, they slaughter, these unarmed Black people, and seeing hashtags, saying “#saytheirname”, when America sees dead African-American, men, women, and Black children.
They see her words, her power, and her message as a threat, because it holds up a mirror to their own unchecked biases, abuses, and addictions. They use their positions—judges, doctors, therapists, lawyers, social workers—not to protect but to destroy Black lives, to criminalize Black children, to silence Black veterans, and to bury the voices of survivors. They sit in courtrooms and hospitals high on their own prescriptions and untreated issues, projecting their own sickness onto the Black bodies they control. They give white parents endless second chances while using CPS to snatch Black children away on the thinnest excuses. They build cases on lies, push plea deals onto Black defendants, and deny justice in the name of “law and order.”
Her songs are pieces of artistic expression, written as a form of protest and personal storytelling. All lyrics are metaphorical and expressive in nature and do not constitute any admission, threat, or literal depiction of events. The views expressed are part of my right to free speech and cultural criticism under the First Amendment.
Like the protest songs of Nina Simone, Public Enemy, and Kendrick Lamar, this piece uses metaphor and rhyme to speak on the lived experiences of Black people and whistleblowers in America. Which can be excluded by Federal Rules of Evidence Rule 403 (prejudicial vs. probative) and the Constitutional protections of artistic speech.
And Shannon’s case is the proof. They’ve been trying to frame her for years—building a paper trail based on lies, weaponizing mental health records, using false reports, and setting her up with a public defender as part of the system’s plan to silence her. But Shannon’s voice cannot be silenced. Her music speaks for every Black voice that’s been buried, every Black mother who’s lost a child to state violence, every Black whistleblower who’s been criminalized, every Black survivor told to “get over it,” and every Black person who’s been gaslit, defamed, and destroyed by a system that never once acknowledged its crimes.
Shannon’s story is part of a larger truth: that Mississippi, the Mississippi National Guard, the U.S. Army, and the United States itself have never accounted for the crimes they’ve committed against Black people. From Emmett Till to Fannie Lou Hamer to Medgar Evers to the Epstein victims to Curtis Flowers to Sandra Bland to Shannon Dill, the pattern is the same. They send Black people into white systems, knowing the power dynamics, knowing the history, knowing that white people will never fully answer for how they treat Black lives. They embed white professionals—judges, lawyers, doctors, therapists—into systems to gaslight, to criminalize, to harm, and to kill Black bodies. They feed Black children into a system of mass incarceration, while white drug users, white criminals, and white abusers are handed their children back, given treatment, given resources, and protected by a system that sees them as human.
The thing is that these aren’t isolated incidents. They’re operations. And they’ve been practiced, perfected, and executed by VA officials, judges, lawyers, law enforcement, medical staff, mental health workers, and so-called “friends and family” enlisted to participate in the sabotage. They lie in wait, pretending to help, while silently documenting your every move — not to assist you, but to build a case against you. Not to heal, but to imprison.
Mississippi sets people up — not just with false paperwork, but with weapons no one talks about, tools used to extract reactions, then criminalize those reactions. This isn’t just criminal — it’s state-sanctioned, racially motivated psychological torture. And Shannon Dill was never supposed to survive it, let alone speak out about it.
When Shannon didn’t have a criminal record, they planned for one. When she didn’t get into trouble, they baited her into it. When she found out the truth, they panicked — because the truth is, this secret “weaponry” is not just held by governments, but now by civilians across the South. And it’s being used, every day, to convict, destabilize, and dehumanize African Americans — especially those who threaten the status quo.
What happened to Shannon Dill isn’t unique. It’s systemic. It’s strategic. And it’s sickening.
Mass incarceration, stolen voting rights, coerced mental health diagnoses, retaliatory legal flags, and false paper trails are just symptoms of a larger disease: Mississippi’s refusal to reckon with its legacy of white supremacy and state-sanctioned racial targeting. They don’t just lock you up — they engineer the reason to do so. They manufacture the evidence, the symptoms, and the reactions they need to destroy your life — then walk away untouched.
And the scariest part? They do it with a smile, while sitting in your face, pretending they’re trying to help.
This is the truth. This is Mississippi. And this is just the beginning.
For generations, Mississippi has perfected a quiet, calculated method of punishing Black voices that speak too loudly—especially those that tell the truth.
Shannon Leeann Dill, a U.S. Army veteran and whistleblower, knows this firsthand. After nearly a decade of service, she expected her return to civilian life to come with dignity and support. Instead, she found herself trapped in a familiar Southern cycle: speak up, get punished.
Her story is not an isolated one. Mississippi has a deep-rooted history of suppressing Black resistance, dating back to the Reconstruction era when Black political power surged briefly—only to be crushed through laws, violence, and rigged systems. Today, those tactics are more covert, but no less damaging.
When Dill raised concerns about sexual assault, racism, fraud, and unethical medical practices—first in the military, then in VA and civilian settings—the response wasn’t justice. It was retaliation. Her complaints were buried, her records manipulated, and her credibility strategically dismantled. She wasn’t just ignored—she was branded unstable, unfit, and untrustworthy. This playbook isn’t new. It’s just more polished now.
Mississippi is a state, with a deep-seated history of racial injustice, continues to perpetuate systemic discrimination against its Black residents, particularly those who have served in the military. Despite their service and sacrifice, Black veterans often face a hostile environment upon returning home, marked by institutional neglect, retaliation, and a pervasive culture of silence.
The state’s legacy of voter suppression is emblematic of its broader approach to disenfranchisement. Mississippi has one of the highest rates of felony disenfranchisement in the nation, with over 130,000 Black residents—approximately 16% of the adult Black population—permanently barred from voting due to felony convictions. These laws, rooted in the 1890 constitution designed to suppress Black political power, remain largely unchanged, reflecting a persistent effort to marginalize Black voices .
For Black veterans, the challenges are compounded. Reports indicate that Black service members in Mississippi face disproportionate scrutiny, with their complaints of misconduct often dismissed or met with retaliation. Instances of falsified medical records, unwarranted psychiatric evaluations, and career sabotage are not uncommon. Such actions serve to discredit and silence those who dare to speak out against systemic abuses.
The culture of silence is further enforced by a lack of accountability within institutions like the Veterans Affairs (VA) and the Mississippi National Guard. Whistleblowers report being targeted, their credibility undermined, and their experiences invalidated. This institutional gaslighting not only hinders justice but also perpetuates a cycle of abuse and neglect.
Moreover, the state’s political and legal systems often collaborate to maintain the status quo. Efforts to challenge discriminatory practices are met with resistance, and those who seek redress find themselves navigating a convoluted and unsympathetic bureaucracy. The media, too, plays a role in this dynamic, frequently overlooking or minimizing the struggles of Black veterans in favor of preserving institutional reputations.
In this environment, the experiences of Black veterans like Shannon Leeann Dill highlight the urgent need for systemic reform. Their stories underscore the pervasive nature of institutional racism in Mississippi and the profound impact it has on those who have dedicated their lives to serving their country.
Addressing these issues requires a concerted effort to dismantle the structures that enable discrimination and to amplify the voices of those who have been silenced for too long. Only through acknowledgment, accountability, and action can Mississippi begin to rectify its long-standing injustices and honor the service of all its veterans equally.
A state where they once used literacy tests, to block Black people from voting, officials now use “paper trails” to gaslight and discredit. False diagnoses replace false charges. Reputational assassinations take the place of lynch mobs. And those who speak out—especially Black veterans like Dill—are made examples of.
Shannon Dill’s case reflects a broader trend. Black veterans in Mississippi have long been denied the benefits, recognition, and protections they’ve earned. Research shows Black veterans are more likely to receive bad paper discharges, less likely to have their VA disability claims approved, and more frequently subjected to psychiatric labeling when they challenge abuse. Those statistics aren’t just numbers—they are a form of modern-day social exile.
And when those same veterans try to defend themselves? The system closes in tighter.
Dill was silenced in her workplace on Camp Shelby. She was forced into psychiatric wards, and some under false pretenses. Her medical records were altered. Her rapist was paraded in front of her under the guise of therapy. At every turn, instead of accountability, she encountered cover-up.
Mississippi’s culture of retaliation is so embedded that even well-meaning allies often look away, too afraid to speak or too complicit to care. Whistleblowers are treated like enemies. Veterans who resist corruption are labeled mentally ill. And women—especially Black women—who survive abuse are branded “difficult,” “unstable,” or “delusional.”
But Shannon Dill is not delusional. She’s a soldier who fulfilled her duty, a survivor who told the truth, and a citizen who dared to challenge the rot beneath Mississippi’s surface. She represents the legacy of countless others who were silenced in this state for being too honest, too Black, and too brave.
Mississippi has been doing this for years.
It’s time to name it.
It’s time to expose it.
It’s time to break the pattern.
Here, we highlight one of Mississippi’s own—Shannon Leeann Dill—a Black woman, a Gay woman, and a veteran, who served her country with honor but was met with betrayal from the very institutions meant to protect her. Shannon’s story is not just one of service, but of survival in the face of a state and system determined to break her spirit. When she dared to speak out—when she exposed the abuse, the retaliation, the lies—they didn’t just discredit her. They waited, watched, and plotted. They flipped the script, twisting her truth into something dangerous, something punishable.
They didn’t just silence her—they retaliated with terrifying precision. They fabricated evidence. They distorted her medical records. They manipulated her body itself—involuntary movements, forced reactions—all designed to paint her as unstable, all to justify their agenda. That’s how angry they were when a Black woman stood up, told the truth, and dared to go public. Shannon’s voice became their target, and Mississippi became the stage where justice was delayed, denied, and defiled.
As Shannon Leeann Dill began to put pen to paper, writing not only about her own truth but about the broader Black experience in Mississippi and across America, the backlash intensified. Her words—clear, proud, unapologetically Black—became a threat. She wrote about being a Black woman, a soldier, a veteran, and a truth-teller in a state still haunted by its Confederate past. She spoke on behalf of the silenced: about racial injustice, about Black men and women criminalized by design, about how the Confederate flag wasn’t just a symbol—it was a weapon. A weapon used to shame, to terrorize, to uphold white supremacy under the guise of “heritage.” She wrote boldly about how Mississippi only changed its state flag because of public pressure—not principle—and how the resistance to that change exposed the deep-rooted racism still festering beneath the surface.
But white Mississippi wasn’t ready for a Black woman to speak with that kind of clarity. They were enraged. Racial slurs were hurled. “All Lives Matter” signs replaced conversations. White residents—especially those clinging to power in military towns—clung to their resentment and made Shannon a target. Even while she served, they would parade her around to white leaders because she spoke “proper,” dressed with discipline, and carried herself with grace—as if her Blackness could be made palatable with enough performance. But behind closed doors, they silenced her. They ignored her. They erased her.
And where was the media? Silent. Mississippi’s media, with few exceptions, has long failed its Black residents. It talks about storms and Senate races, about parades and political campaigns—but not about racism. Not about systemic abuse. Not about how military towns in Mississippi, built on discipline and diversity, still smother Black voices, still protect white power. Not about how Black veterans like Shannon are discarded when they speak inconvenient truths. No headlines for racial retaliation. No stories for the silenced. Just weather updates and campaign slogans, while justice rots in the soil of the Deep South.
And yet, Shannon refused to be erased. Even as they tried to rewrite her story—medically, legally, and socially—she kept telling the truth. She told it louder. She told it in ink and in anguish. She told it as a Black daughter of Mississippi, born into a state that demanded her silence while exploiting her service. She told it for the Black soldiers who came before her, and the ones still serving—still enduring coded comments, forced assimilation, weaponized patriotism, and career-ending retaliation just for daring to speak on injustice.
They didn’t just want her to salute the flag—they wanted her to forget what that flag meant when it flew over plantations, lynchings, segregated schools, and prisons packed with Black bodies. They wanted her to stand in uniform but kneel in silence. But Shannon stood up—and spoke out. And that’s when they came for her the hardest: punishing her body, her mind, and her name. They tried to turn her into a diagnosis, into a file, into a discharge. They used involuntary movements, falsified medical records, and psychological warfare to crush the spirit they couldn’t control. All because a Black woman from Mississippi decided to speak out about racism in a military state that pretends it’s colorblind while punishing every Black voice that dares to rise.
But Mississippi doesn’t get to hide behind its red clay and old flags anymore. Not while Shannon is still speaking. Not while she’s still writing. Not while the truth is still burning hot in her throat and running through her veins. Because what they did to her wasn’t just retaliation—it was history repeating itself. But this time, she’s documenting it. This time, she’s naming names. This time, she’s not alone.
We first heard about Shannon Leeann Dill when she began sharing her art with the world in 2021—a pivotal year that marked the emergence of her voice through music and literature. That same year, she released a powerful book titled “Colors of Blue, Shades of Black,” a raw, honest, and poetic examination of her personal experiences and the broader struggles of Black America. It was through these creative works that we were introduced to the depth of Shannon’s story—one that speaks directly to the tragedy and resilience of Black life in the United States. One of her standout songs, “Black Shades and Blue Colors,” captures the mourning and dignity of countless Black lives lost to systemic violence, while her poem “What Is It Like to Be in My Skin?”—included in her book—lays bare the reality of growing up Black in Mississippi and serving in its military. Her words confront the layered truths of identity, loyalty, and survival in a state and country that often demanded her silence, but never earned it.
The songs Shannon created weren’t just melodies—they were declarations. Born from rage, remembrance, and resilience, her tracks like “Black Shades and Blue Colors” served as musical elegies for those lost to systemic violence, while also becoming personal anthems of survival. She recorded them alone, often late at night, layering vocals over minimalist beats, letting her raw, trembling voice carry the pain of Trayvon Martin, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and the countless others whose names filled protests but rarely filled justice. Her music was protest—grief turned into rhythm, trauma turned into testimony. The poem “What Is It Like to Be in My Skin,” featured in her self-published book Colors of Blue, Shades of Black, read like a prayer and a warning, exposing what it felt like to be a Black woman in Mississippi, a soldier in uniform, a citizen never truly protected by the laws she once swore to uphold. Through her verses, she described blackness not just as identity, but as inheritance—of beauty, of danger, of strength, of invisibility. These weren’t just creative works—they were confessions, rebellions, and offerings to a movement that refused to let the world forget what Black life costs in America.
We took a deep look at the songs and writings of Shannon Leeann Dill, and what we found was nothing short of brave, astonishing, and immaculate. Her creative voice carries a breathtaking weight—each word, each note, pulling readers and listeners into the depth of her truth. Her artistry is more than expression; it’s lived experience turned into legacy. In both her music and her book, Colors of Blue, Shades of Black, she speaks unapologetically about her Black life, the lives of other Black Americans, and the urgency behind the Black Lives Matter movement. Even as she struggled—battling emotional trauma, systemic silence, and even physical dysfunction in her brain—Shannon pressed forward. She created through pain. She wrote while healing. And in doing so, she gave the world a piece of her soul wrapped in verses and lyrics that will never be forgotten.
In her song “Black Shades and Blue Colors” Shannon wrote something far more deep than anyone could ever imagine. As it depicts not only the racism of growing up in the state of Mississippi, but being black in America.
“Black Shades and Blue Colors”:
What is it like
To be in my skin
You have no clue
They talk about
This skin and that skin
But all they see
Is black and brown
Hands up just shoot
Every color except you
Gunned down in our home
Gunned down in the street
Years later
Nothing said
Just hatred
Being distributed to black lives
That everyone seems to think
That that WE share
Land of the brave
No
Land of the free
Is everyone free
But my color when you speak
No one seems to understand
What it’s like to be me
I don’t know
I’m bout to set the city on fire
I’m bout to set the city on fire
I’m bout to set the city on fire
They wanna expire
A young
Black kid like me
That got the desire
To make it out alive
One day and inspire
All we needed was love
All we needed was acceptance
Now we ain’t accepting this
And we ain’t accepting that
Hands up don’t shoot
Please stop killing blacks
Ooooo
I’m bout to set the city on fire
I’m bout to set the city on fire
Say their name
Every time I open
Up my chat
Say their name
When they
Slaughter
An unarmed black
It’s a fact
The system
That we live
In protects
Every color
When videos
Give them
Proven facts
Everyday there’s
A story of a killing
And no one
Seems to understand
The way that we feeling
What did we do
To deserve
This treatment
Who am I
To cause such a burden
In greeting
The birds
And the beezes
Standing on our necks
I still can’t breathe
And you still ask
What’s the meaning
Do you really see me
Can you really hear me
Do you really care
We bleeding
We torched
We can get up
We bleeding
We torched
We can get up
I’m bout to set the city on fire
I’m bout to set the city on fire
I’m bout to set the city on fire
They wanna expire
A young
Black kid like me
That got the desire
To make it out alive
One day and inspire
All we needed was love
All we needed was acceptance
Now we ain’t accepting this
And we ain’t accepting that
Hands up don’t shoot
Please stop killing blacks
Ooooo
I’m bout to set the city on fire
I’m bout to set the city on fire
Who am I
To believe
That possibly
Me and you
Could’ve been
Things just don’t
Seem real
Growing up I hated
The skin that I was in
They wanted me
To be more like them
So I could
Just fit in
Man knoll
It was never that simple
Maybe we
Could’ve existed
A long time ago
In agreeaance
Before the lynchings
Wonder why we
Keep bringing it up
Because it’s still
Going on
We see it everyday
Recorded on a phone
This Picture perfect system
Just Not that sturdy
We don’t threaten
Your lives
We threaten
Just your money
Because we
Found a way
To beat the system
You just
Don’t get it
And it’s okay
We finally getting
The picture
As an African American
Imma set this pace
Lacing up my sneakers
To outrun you up
In this race
Face to face
With these demons
I promise you
We gone be out here
Voting to stop
This game
Marching like Martin
I’m bout to set the city on fire
I’m bout to set the city on fire
I’m bout to set the city on fire
They wanna expire a young
Black kid like me
That got the desire
To make it out alive
One day and inspire
All we needed was love
All we needed was acceptance
Now we ain’t accepting this
And we ain’t accepting that
Hands up don’t shoot
Please stop killing blacks
Ooooo
I’m bout to set the city on fire
I’m bout to set the city on fire
Shannon Leeann Dill’s powerful song, “Black Shades and Blue Colors” burns with truth, pain, and undeniable urgency. With poetic depth and raw emotion, this anthem gives voice to what it means to be Black in America—and even more specifically, what it means to be Black in Mississippi, a state that still hasn’t taken true accountability for the violence, injustice, and generational trauma it has inflicted on its Black citizens.
From the first lines, Shannon’s words grip the soul:
“What is it like to be in my skin / You have no clue”
This isn’t just a question—it’s a challenge. A callout to a country that prides itself on freedom but still allows racial profiling, state violence, and systemic discrimination to define the Black experience. She exposes how America continues to see only “black and brown” when a gun is drawn, how phrases like “Hands up, don’t shoot” have become desperate pleas rather than rallying cries.
The lyrics continue to mirror the voices of the Black Lives Matter movement, echoing the grief of communities who’ve lost their sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers to violence—often at the hands of those sworn to protect them:
“Say their name / When they slaughter an unarmed Black”
This isn’t just art—it’s testimony. It’s a protest song layered with historical weight and modern relevance. It dares to highlight how Mississippi, a state deeply rooted in slavery, lynchings, and segregation, has done little to evolve beyond its past. The racism that once wore hoods now wears badges, business suits, and legislative power.
And Shannon knows this personally.
As a Black woman, a Mississippi-born soldier, and a whistleblower who was retaliated against for speaking up, she lived what this song reveals. She was targeted, discredited, and dehumanized—not just by individuals, but by entire systems designed to protect whiteness at all costs. While Mississippi claims to be “the hospitality state,” Shannon’s experience shows the cruelty behind the curtain, where speaking truth is met with punishment, and Black excellence is perceived as a threat.
Even in her artistry, Shannon reveals the personal toll, her struggling to create and write “Black Shades and Blue Colors”, and having brain dysfunction, neurological interference, when making this art she shared to the world
This wasn’t easy for her. The emotional and psychological damage inflicted by racism, didn’t stop her creativity—it tried to break it. But she still wrote. Still sang. Still created.
“I’m bout to set the city on fire / They wanna expire a young Black kid like me / That got the desire to make it out alive one day and inspire”
These words aren’t about violence—they’re about igniting change. Shannon is confronting a system that wants to see Black youth silenced or destroyed, and instead of caving, she’s fighting to inspire. She’s calling for justice, for freedom, and for transformation.
Through “Black Shades and Blue Colors” and her book “Colors of Blue, Shades of Black,” Shannon is doing what Mississippi’s media won’t—telling the truth about what it means to be Black in a state built on white supremacy, where Black pain is often hidden, dismissed, or erased.
Her song is more than music—it’s resistance.
It’s a reminder that behind every chant, protest, and cry for justice, there are real people—people like Shannon—who refuse to be silent, even when the world tries to make them disappear.
But this song doesn’t merely protest injustice—it exposes the marrow-deep trauma that Black lives have carried for centuries. In “Black Shades and Blue Colors,” Shannon Leeann Dill is not just singing about police brutality or overt racism; she is singing about the weight of inherited fear, the exhaustion of constantly being misread, underestimated, or hunted, and the heartbreak of watching history repeat itself again and again. Her words trace the psychological scars left by a system that never saw Black life as sacred. Every line is layered with the memory of stolen lives, with the pain of mothers burying children, with the echo of Confederate flags still flying above government buildings in her home state of Mississippi. Shannon’s voice shakes the room—not with rage alone, but with a weary truth that speaks for generations silenced by oppression. The refrain “I’m bout to set the city on fire” isn’t about chaos—it’s about catharsis. It’s the fire of awakening, the fire of long-overdue change, the fire that has always followed when Black Americans have been pushed past the breaking point. As a Mississippi native, Shannon’s storytelling reaches into the core of a place that has long been the belly of America’s racial beast. From the plantations to the prison pipelines, from segregated schools to suppressed votes, Mississippi has been a blueprint for how racism is structured, normalized, and buried under false smiles. Yet through her artistry, Shannon digs it all up. She forces the listener to look, to feel, and to understand—not just what has been done to Black lives in America, but what has been taken from them. Through her voice, “Black Shades and Blue Colors” becomes more than a song—it becomes a reckoning.
As we move into Shannon Leeann Dill’s poetic excerpt from her book “Colors of Blue, Shades of Black,” we begin to see the emotional backbone of her artistry. While her song sets the city ablaze with righteous urgency, this poem slows down and peers into the intimate, unspoken corners of what it means to be Black in America—particularly as a Black woman born and raised in Mississippi, a state often romanticized but rarely held accountable.
In her poem, Dill lays bare the psychological weight and isolation that comes with living in skin that is constantly politicized, feared, or dismissed. Phrases like “What is it like to be in my skin? You have no clue” are not rhetorical—they are piercing indictments of a society that still refuses to reckon with the humanity of Black lives. Her words reflect not only a personal pain but a generational one, where being Black means inheriting trauma, resistance, and resilience all at once. Mississippi, in this poem, becomes more than a setting—it is a symbol. A place that has long tried to silence its Black citizens while draping itself in patriotism, all while expecting unwavering loyalty from those it continues to oppress. The poem reads like a spiritual lament and a revolutionary declaration at the same time—a mourning for the violence endured, and a fire lit beneath the demand for justice. Dill doesn’t just invite the reader into her skin—she confronts them with the truth of what it feels like to wear that skin in a world that too often sees it as a threat.
Here is what it says—raw, unfiltered, and echoing the sorrow and resistance passed down through centuries:
“Colors of Blue,Shades of Black”
The Skin That I’m In:
What is it like to be in my skin? You have no clue. They talk about this skin and that skin, but all they see is black : brown : purple : and blue. Every color except you. Gunned down in the store. Gunned down in the street. Years later. Nothing said. Just restitution For colored people, to foreshadow the hatred Being distributed to black lives, That everyone seems to think That “WE” share. You try so hard to be just like “US”. No. You try so hard to be just like “ME”. You take our dances. You take our culture. Tell us “GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM”. But. You stole our ancestors from there. Did we ever have a choice? Land of the brave. No. Land of the free. Is everyone free but my color when you speak? No one seems to understand What it’s like to be me. Colored. Dark skinned. Brown eyes. My flowing nappy hair. Flawless skin. Caught you by surprise? Why do you take our lives? Judged when you don’t even know us. Judged and put all of our needs to the side Just for you to walk all over us. You say we steal. You say we vandalize. You say we’re thugs. But. Going above and beyond to keep the blame off of “YOU” and put it on “US”. Now you SCREAM out loud it’s “THEM” NOT “US”. But It’s never “WE”. “WE” are the cause of this unjust. Our souls have been crying out For 400 years. You see my dark skinned complexion But You don’t see these deep rooted tears. Brought up in a system that sees Not your credentials Not your struggle Not your pain Not your fear Not your Educated mind. But The complexion of your dark tinted veil Are we not like you? Are we not one in the same? When you bleed When I bleed Do we not bleed the same ? You can’t stand to see your shame! Still 400 years after We’re still fighting for race But This time As an African American person I WILL SET THIS PACE! I shouldn’t fear my life When I’m walking down the street I shouldn’t fear that I won’t be able to Pay my bills Because of the color of my skin. I shouldn’t fear That at the age of 18 I’d be somewhere in the ground Or worse My body would never be found Or hung from a tree. You can’t say all lives matter When my life means not shit to you You can’t say all lives matter When you feel my color threatens you You can’t say all lives matter When we’re still fighting to survive. You can’t say all lives matter When you’re privileged And could never walk a day in my shoes But You still try to foreshadow the lies Are you willing to go back In time? So you ask me: What’s it like to be in my skin? You’ll have to rewrite history Go back 400 years And watch the lynching. To understand a portion of THE SKIN THAT I’M IN!
As we enter the world of Shannon Leeann Dill’s poem “The Skin That I’m In,”
we’re not just reading a poem—we are stepping into the raw, lived history of Black America. In every stanza, every line, Shannon doesn’t simply describe racism—she exposes the deeply embedded, intergenerational trauma it inflicts. This isn’t metaphor; this is memory and truth, painfully stitched into the American fabric. She forces the reader to sit with what has been historically erased, sugarcoated, or silenced.
Her poem is a striking commentary on police brutality, drawing heavily from the era of the Black Lives Matter movement. The repeated imagery—“gunned down in the store,” “gunned down in the street”—is not poetic exaggeration, it is a reference to real-life names: Tamir Rice, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and so many others whose murders were either excused, ignored, or rationalized by a system that never truly sees Black people as victims or as human. Her cry, “Years later. Nothing said. Just restitution,” captures the insulting attempts at silence and payoff—the performative justice that America has offered in place of real reform, policy change, or accountability.
Shannon doesn’t stop at police violence—she unearths the deeper psychological warfare at play: the whitewashing of history and the black-washing of identity. Her lines confront how America stole African people from their homelands and now dares to scream, “Go back to where you came from.” It’s not just hypocrisy, it’s gaslighting on a national scale. The poem reflects the dual pain of being erased and then blamed. She writes, “You take our dances. You take our culture… But you stole our ancestors from there.” This is cultural appropriation laid bare—how white America profits from Black creativity and culture, but shuns and criminalizes the creators.
Her line, “You say we steal. You say we vandalize. You say we’re thugs…” directly calls out the media and legal systems that criminalize Black behavior while excusing or even glorifying white violence. In one breath, America awards medals of honor to white men and women who served, while Black soldiers like Shannon are demeaned, silenced, and gaslit—even after risking their lives for the same flag. The poem echoes the uncomfortable truth: there is no equality in how patriotism is received based on skin.
And what of reparations? Shannon is unapologetic in her reminder that Black people built this country and still haven’t been paid. Not with wealth, not with justice, not with respect. Even as Native American groups received partial reparations, they still face systemic oppression. Meanwhile, Black Americans continue to be charged, imprisoned, and executed by a system that allows white Americans to commit white-collar crimes, mass shootings, and sexual assault—without the same label of “thug,” “menace,” or “super predator.”
This poem is a mirror held up to a nation that avoids its reflection. The final lines—“You’ll have to rewrite history… and watch the lynching to understand a portion of the skin that I’m in”—demand that white America not just acknowledge slavery, but feel its weight. It’s not enough to read about oppression; Shannon is asking, “Will you face it? Will you own it? Will you stop it?”
This piece doesn’t ask for sympathy. It demands accountability.
Shannon Dill’s voice is not just poetry—it is protest. It is pain. And it is a call to action.
As we move deeper into Shannon Dill’s poem from “Colors of Blue, Shades of Black,” her words peel back centuries of layered abuse, betrayal, and societal gaslighting. She writes, “You take our dances. You take our culture. Tell us ‘GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM.’ But. You stole our ancestors from there.” This line is a direct confrontation with white America’s hypocrisy—wanting the beauty of Black creativity, joy, and rhythm, while rejecting Black humanity. Shannon flips the narrative by reminding readers that Black people didn’t immigrate—they were kidnapped. There was no “choice,” no agency. The line exposes the absurd cruelty of telling someone to “go back” to a land they were violently ripped from by the very people now demanding their silence. That’s not just historical irony—it’s spiritual warfare.
And when she writes, “Land of the brave. No. Land of the free. Is everyone free but my color when you speak?”—she cracks open the lie of American equality. This isn’t a question; it’s an indictment. Freedom in America has always been conditional, reserved for whiteness. The “All Lives Matter” chant was never about unity; it was a weaponized phrase created to undercut and silence Black grief. It hijacked a movement that begged for breath—turning mourning into mockery. White America used “All Lives Matter” not to include, but to erase—to protect its comfort from the disruption of truth. The truth that Black lives have never mattered to the systems built by whiteness, for whiteness.
Shannon’s poetry continues to unearth these violent contradictions. When she writes, “You say we steal. You say we vandalize. You say we’re thugs. But. Going above and beyond to keep the blame off of ‘YOU’ and put it on ‘US’,” she captures how white America projects its crimes onto Black bodies. Despite being the dominant perpetrators of white-collar crime, corporate theft, school shootings, and sexual assault, white America refuses collective accountability. Instead, it criminalizes Blackness—using media, police, and policy to turn Black survival into spectacle and fear.
The lines, “Our souls have been crying out for 400 years. You see my dark-skinned complexion but you don’t see these deep rooted tears,” are not just poetic—they are prophetic. Shannon is not asking for empathy—she is demanding reckoning. Whitewashed history books may hide the lynchings, the medical abuse, the housing discrimination, and economic theft, but these tears—the generational, cellular trauma of Black people—still cry out. They cry out in courtrooms where white criminals walk free. They cry out in schools where Black children are criminalized. They cry out on sidewalks where unarmed Black bodies lie dead while their killers go home to dinner.
The poem screams truth in a world that only listens to lies. And in doing so, Shannon Dill doesn’t just write about what it’s like to be Black in America—she documents it. She testifies to it. She honors it. Her art is not a performance—it is protest. Her words are not for applause—they are for liberation. And in that liberation, she names the enemy with unshaking clarity: white supremacy in all its polished disguises—whether wearing a badge, a business suit, or a fake ally T-shirt that says “All Lives Matter.” This isn’t just a poem. It’s a declaration. A mirror. A reckoning.
And yet, even in this raw exposure of pain, Shannon Dill refuses to let the truth be buried beneath polished lies. When she writes, “I shouldn’t fear my life when I’m walking down the street… I shouldn’t fear that at the age of 18 I’d be somewhere in the ground,” she speaks to every mother who prays her child makes it home, every father who teaches their son how to survive a traffic stop, every young Black soul who has to carry a funeral plan in the back of their mind before they’ve even had a chance to live. This is not poetic exaggeration—it’s lived reality. This is the mental warfare Black people in America endure daily. Fear does not come from what might happen. Fear comes from what always has.
And still, white America has the audacity to respond with “All Lives Matter”—a phrase that masquerades as unity while wielding the full weight of erasure. What “All Lives Matter” really says is: “Shut up.” It is a smirk behind a slogan. It is a dismissal wrapped in false neutrality. It’s white fragility defending itself with volume when Black voices finally rise in pain. Shannon’s line, “You can’t say all lives matter when my life means not shit to you,” is the verbal scalpel that cuts through the performative allyship and exposes the wound beneath: Black lives have never mattered equally in this country, and to pretend otherwise is to gaslight an entire people’s trauma.
Shannon’s verse becomes a historical receipt: “You can’t say all lives matter when you’re privileged and could never walk a day in my shoes.” That one line unravels generations of oppression that have been paved over with stolen wealth, stolen culture, and stolen futures. From the stolen bodies of her ancestors brought to Mississippi’s blood-soaked fields, to modern-day courtrooms that sentence Black kids like adults and white adults like children, the American justice system has been a tool of containment, not liberation. And still, white America hands itself medals, statues, and honor rolls—while Black people, who built the wealth of this nation, die without reparations, without justice, without acknowledgment. Even Native communities, while still underserved and oppressed, have received forms of compensation. But Black America is told to “move on.”
So when Shannon says, “I WILL SET THIS PACE!”—she is reclaiming history, pace by pace, word by word. It is not a threat. It is a promise. A promise that Black truth will not be silenced, erased, or rewritten again. Her poem is a reckoning for those who never had to memorize the smell of fear or the taste of injustice. It is a challenge to America’s false mirror—a reminder that you cannot heal what you refuse to see, and you cannot fix what you’re still denying exists.
Shannon Dill’s words are not just poetry—they are testimony. They are the spiritual residue of centuries of betrayal, echoing through the bars of every prison cell, the silence after every wrongful verdict, and the prayers whispered at every vigil. Her declaration. It is not born of rage alone, but of ancestral resilience. It is the language of someone who has bled and survived, someone who refuses to let the history of lynchings, systemic cover-ups, and institutional neglect be whitewashed by phrases like “All Lives Matter.” Her poem tears the mask off that slogan, revealing it for what it truly is: a weaponized rebuttal, a calculated attempt to undermine the urgency and specificity of Black grief.
This isn’t just a personal reflection—this is historical correction. Her verses call out the hypocrisy of a nation that gave land back to some, yet never gave land, life, or justice to the very people who tilled its soil with their blood. Shannon forces the reader to confront the truth that white America has long tried to bury: that white collar crimes, mass shootings, rapes, fraud, and violence are overwhelmingly committed by white citizens—yet it is Black people who are policed, criminalized, and caged. She writes not only from her Mississippi roots, but from a spiritual lineage of resistance, speaking for those silenced, disappeared, and destroyed. She pulls no punches because our reality has offered no refuge.
In “Colors of Blue, Shades of Black,” Dill demands more than recognition—she demands accountability. She invites the world to feel the weight of walking in Black skin, not just through words, but through raw truth. Her writing is a mirror and a megaphone, reflecting a nation in denial and amplifying the voices of the condemned. If America is ever to heal, it must first read—and listen—to what she has written.
Shannon is not just a voice—she is a mirror. A reflection of centuries of pain, power, and perseverance. Her story is not hers alone; it is the echo of every Black soul silenced, every dream deferred, every body criminalized for simply existing. But this? This only scratches the surface. Beneath her words are generations of untold truths and an unyielding spirit that refuses to be erased. Shannon is a vessel, carrying the weight of history and the fire of revolution. And what you’ve seen so far is just the beginning.
As we move deeper into Shannon Dill’s experience—both during her military service and long after—what emerges is a grim portrait of Mississippi: a state where silence is weaponized, retaliation is institutionalized, and coverups are as routine as roll call. For Black service members and veterans, especially women like Shannon, the moment they speak truth to power is the moment they become a target. Shannon was marked before she even hit “send” on the email to the Pentagon. Her courage, her voice, her refusal to be broken—those were her crimes. And even when that email did reach the Pentagon, no real help came—not under the administration that claims to stand with Black Americans, not under President Biden who champions LGBTQIA+ rights and equity on camera, but whose reforms evaporate in places like Mississippi, where racism thrives behind closed doors. In Shannon’s case, the system didn’t just fail her—it punished her for surviving it.
Despite the deeply moving and courageous nature of her work, Shannon Leeann Dill’s voice was met not with celebration—but with strategic silence, calculated erasure, and targeted retaliation. Her book didn’t make local headlines. Her songs were not featured by the Mississippi press. Instead, she was quietly sidelined, her character questioned, and her artistic truth met with institutional backlash. The same systems she once served turned against her for daring to speak—not only for herself, but for the countless Black lives whose stories remain buried under political discomfort and historical denial. When Shannon called out racism, injustice, and the legacy of white supremacy in Mississippi and in the military, it wasn’t just her voice that was punished—it was the very idea that a Black woman from Mississippi could think critically, speak freely, and create boldly. Even as communities across the country were reckoning with racial injustice, Shannon’s own state stayed silent, refusing to uplift her voice or the truth it carried. It’s not just what she said—it’s who she was, and what they feared she might awaken in others.
The retaliation against Shannon Leeann Dill was not isolated—it was emblematic of a long and dangerous pattern in the state of Mississippi and across U.S. military systems, where Black voices are often welcomed only when they are silent, compliant, or scripted. As Shannon began to write, publish, and speak more boldly—using her platform to confront the racism she witnessed and lived through—her life became a battlefield of a different kind. Suddenly, she wasn’t just a veteran; she was a problem. They labeled her, watched her, set her up. She faced forced psychiatric evaluations, coded silencing tactics, medical manipulation, and even suspected physical retaliation meant to discredit or harm her. The very state that praised her service worked to erase her voice. Mississippi, a state built on military pride and Confederate legacy, still hasn’t reconciled with how it treats its Black service members—especially when they come home and begin to question the flag they once saluted. Shannon’s story reveals the institutional fear of truth-tellers—especially Black women—who refuse to bow quietly to racism disguised as patriotism. And through her story, we are forced to ask: how many more Black veterans have been broken in silence, and how long will Mississippi continue to deny its own reflection?
When Shannon Leeann Dill stepped forward as a whistleblower, she wasn’t just exposing personal pain—she was unraveling a system built on silence, shame, and racial control. Her reports of sexual harassment, forged documentation, racial discrimination, and psychological abuse at the hands of the military and VA staff weren’t met with concern or accountability—they were met with punishment. Institutions that should have protected her instead closed ranks, using every mechanism of power to discredit her: questionable diagnoses, forced medication, coerced isolation, and public humiliation. But Shannon didn’t stop. She wrote. She spoke. She gathered documentation. She sent her truth to the Pentagon, to watchdogs, to media, and to the people. She became, not just a voice for herself, but for every Black soldier who had been punished for surviving, every veteran discarded for being too loud, too Black, or too brave. And still, Mississippi stayed mostly silent. The local media didn’t pick up her story. State officials looked the other way. And in a state where military service is gospel, few dared challenge the church. But the truth was already out—and Shannon’s truth is forcing a reckoning, one line, one testimony, one scream into the silence at a time.
But even warriors grow weary, and behind Shannon’s fierce resilience is a soul that has been stretched to the edge by betrayal, grief, and isolation. The toll of being hunted for telling the truth, of being gaslit by institutions that should heal, of watching peers turn into predators or bystanders—it leaves scars that no uniform can hide. Shannon’s spirit, though forged in fire, has been forced to carry what no one should bear alone: the weight of silence, the trauma of retaliation, and the burden of representing too many Black voices that were never given the chance to speak. And yet, she prays. She writes. She still sings. And in the quiet between the chaos, she listens for the voice of something bigger—a God who has not forgotten her, a justice that does not operate on military time, a movement that might finally make room for Black veterans to be more than just tokens, martyrs, or medals. Shannon’s story is no longer just her own—it is a mirror, a warning, and a call. And Mississippi, the nation, and the military can no longer afford to look away.
But Shannon Dill fought back. Refusing to be silenced, she took the courageous step of signing official whistleblower paperwork with the National Guard Bureau in Washington, D.C.—a move meant to protect her and bring truth to light. Yet instead of receiving protection, she was met with deeper retaliation. No one in Washington D.C. answered the call to help her, but rather to see what the “fuss” was about. Not those tasked with oversight, not those claiming to defend justice, not even the officials with the power to intervene. And when Shannon’s email finally made its way into the hands of state-level actors with influence in Washington, D.C., it didn’t lead to accountability—it appeared to spark a coordinated effort to target her even more. What should have triggered reform; instead, ignited retaliation. This exposing, just how far, those in power, were willing to go, to silence a Black and Gay woman, who dared to speak the truth.
