Black Republicans Say Donalds’ Bid for Governor Gives Them Permission to ‘Stop Hiding’

CORAL GABLES, Fla. – When Vanessa Gabriel, 18, raised her hand in philosophy class and called herself a conservative, the room went still. “I even saw the shock on my professor’s face, although she tried to hide it,” she says.

Raised in the Florida Keys, Gabriel is a freshman studying political science at the University of Miami. She is a woman, Black and a Republican, which makes her one of the rarest voters in America.

In Florida, fewer than 100,000 Black voters are registered Republicans, says Matthew Nelsen, an associate professor of political science at the University of Miami. Historically, eight to nine of 10 Black Americans identify as Democrats. The 2024 election cracked that pattern, but only slightly: Black support for the Democratic nominee fell from 92% in 2020 to 83% in 2024, months while support for Donald Trump rose from 8% to 15%.

Now a Black Republican, Byron Donalds, is favored to become Florida’s first Black governor, with about a 70% chance of winning on Nov. 3, according to prediction markets Kalshi and Polymarket. Multiple polls show Donalds with a small but consistent lead over Democratic challenger David Jolly. 

For some, it’s bigger than a campaign. It’s the first time – in the words of several Black voters interviewed for this article – they have felt seen.

Nelsen points to scholars who describe Black churches, campuses and neighborhoods as spaces where members push one another to vote together. Researchers Ismail White and Chryl Laird call it “racialized social constraints” and see it as empowering: a marginalized group using its numbers to be heard.

But that unity has a cost. Disagreeing with the community’s loyalty to the Democratic Party comes with the risk of being labeled “less Black,” and those who disagree are rarely heard, multiple sources interviewed for this article said. From cookouts to group chats to every Sunday, many Black Republicans feel pressure to keep quiet about their political affiliations.

Gabriel knows this firsthand. Her Haitian grandmother, a strong Democrat, dismisses her views because of her age. A stranger online commented that she had “lost a mutual” after a Trump flag appeared behind her in a friend’s TikTok.

“People stop talking or stop interacting with you more, because they figure out you’re conservative,” she says. She thinks that pressure explains why so few Black conservatives speak up. “They’re a minority within their own community that is a minority,” she says. “You want to feel accepted and loved, and that’s just not found in the Black community when your opinion is different.”

Gabriel comes from a politically engaged family. Her grandfather, a political writer, was jailed in Cuba for refusing to write for the government, then forced out. Her activist parents voted for Barack Obama, but his presidency drew them to the Republican Party, which they now consider their home. Her own reasoning begins with her Christian faith, which she believes isn’t at the forefront of the Democratic Party. 

She says Republican spaces have welcomed her wholeheartedly. “If anything, I’ve gained genuine friendships from it,” she said.

What stings most is the idea that she has betrayed her own people. She has heard the line “all skinfolk ain’t kinfolk,” meaning shared skin color doesn’t guarantee shared values. It is often used against Black conservatives, and she calls it wrong. A community that prides itself on acceptance, she says, should make room for differences of opinion.

Sean Jackson, Chairman of the Black Republican Caucus of Florida, has heard it, too. “That is the most asinine statement that anybody could make,” he says. It makes Black Republicans feel inferior, he says, “because they actually vote with their conscience, vote with their beliefs, vote with their spiritual connectivity.”

Jackson, 37, grew up in West Palm Beach, where he says being a Republican in his family “was not ideal.” He and his grandfather “were pretty much on an island by ourselves.” For him, the backlash is not abstract. After TV appearances he made, hate mail poured in. Strangers found his email and cell phone number. 

“They would call me everything but a child of God,” he says. “My life has been physically threatened because of it.”

Jackson sees a turning point, though – and having Donalds as governor will likely underscore it further. “I think people are becoming much more comfortable, the ones that had been quiet about it, because they’re seeing that we’ve got representation that looks like us on a state and on a national level,” he says. 

But he is candid about the limits. Asked whether Donalds appeals to enough Black voters to make a difference, he says, “Sadly, no, and that’s not his fault.” He says the Congressional Black Caucus, a Black political organization that claims to be nonpartisan, would not even let Donalds join. This is an organization of Black members of the U.S. Congress that advocates for the legislative interests of African Americans and other marginalized communities.

Lains Love Albert, 29, a Black Republican who is running for Davie Town Council, knows the old saying – actually coined by writer Zora Neale Hurston – all too well. Before his party affiliation became known, he says, he was “just a regular kinfolk.” Then the label flipped overnight, and “sellout” became the default word for him.

Albert, who was born in Haiti, spent years pouring his time and energy into Black communities. He directed a YMCA health center for impoverished residents, sang to widows at Christmas, registered voters and joined the NAACP. 

Then people learned that he’s a Republican. “My resume no longer spoke for itself,” he says.

So, he fought to belong. He changed parties three times, not because he wanted to, but because he felt alone. He lay awake at night, knowing he was chasing approval instead of living his beliefs. Three weeks after identifying with the Democratic Party, he walked away. 

“I like to be who I am and be that unapologetically,” he says.

Knowing who he was wasn’t the hard part. Finding someone who understood was. About two months ago, at the Orange Blossom Classic – an HBCU football game – Albert looked up, and Byron Donalds stood right in front of him. For 30 to 40 minutes, they talked, and for the first time, Albert met a Black Republican who showed him how to be himself. To him, Donalds felt like a savior.

Then the photo hit social media, and more than 100 texts with the eye-roll emoji followed. Albert scrambled to explain. “That felt so bad,” he says. He remembered the cruel comments aimed at Donalds, knowing the same label waited for him. But he was done hiding.

“It is a lonely road,” he says. Many Black Republicans walk it in secret, afraid of being called a sellout. But they are “coming out,” he says.

To younger Black Republicans, Albert says be true to yourself, because you will be misunderstood either way. Better to sleep well, he says, than spend your life “pretending to be something that you’re not.”

Although the room was still, Gabriel spoke anyway. Albert stopped hiding and stood firm, while Jackson refused to back down despite the hate he faced.

Many Black Republicans are done being quiet. Their message is not goodbye to the Black community. It is a demand to make room.

This story is part of a statewide partnership of more than 30 nonpartisan newsrooms and universities working to help Florida voters make informed decisions in the 2026 elections. Learn more about the Florida Elections Reporting Partnership at floridaelections.org. News organizations are welcome to republish our work, as long as they credit the writer and CommunityWire.