Maybe it鈥檚 because they don鈥檛 have friends and family to share the holiday with, or simply don鈥檛 want to share the holiday with the friends and family they have.

Maybe it has something to do with the myth of Pilgrims giving thanks to 鈥淚ndians鈥� for helping them grow their first crop for the harvest, and reconciling that with the truth about the genocide of Indigenous peoples on this land by those settlers.

But we don鈥檛 have to reject the holiday completely. We can, and should, decolonize and reinterpret it.

This tale that the new settlers held a dinner after the harvest to thank the native peoples has been told to generations who have uncritically accepted it. By now, Americans should know that this version of the occasion told in school plays and history books is nothing more than the patriotic indoctrination that is the foundation of our education system.

The celebration dates back to the 17th century. And over time, people have debated its origin and purpose.

The fact is, there is no one event from which the holiday is derived. And around the world, other countries such as Canada, Liberia, Netherlands, the Philippines, and Germany celebrate their own Thanksgiving on different days.

Some historians have documented that the tradition came to the New World with the settlers. Some say the holiday was secular. Others say it was religious. It has been observed on various dates throughout history.

In the late 1700s, George Washington declared November 26 a day of public thanksgiving and prayer. Seventy-four years later, Lincoln proclaimed a national Thanksgiving on the last Thursday in November to celebrate the Union鈥檚 military successes in Civil War. And in 1941, FDR signed a resolution changing the date from the last Thursday to the fourth Thursday of the month.

Since then, many have chosen to replace the traditional celebration with ones that honor their sociopolitical or familial beliefs.

In 1970, a group of Indigenous peoples in the northeastern region of the U.S. protested the day. Ever since, they and their supporters have been observing it as a . Participants gather at noon to honor Native ancestors and the struggles of Native people today. The ceremony held on Cole鈥檚 Hill overlooking Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts is in remembrance of their spiritual connections as well as in protest of the racism and oppression of Indigenous peoples.

Over time, educators and parents across racial groups have approached the decolonizing process by introducing nontraditional historical texts to their students and writing letters to K-12 schools requesting such texts be taught in place of the traditional myth. They cite the harm done to young people by lying to them.

One educator suggested a number of , including these texts and letters.

Other examples include more individual, and maybe less political or educational approaches.

Many of us celebrate what I learned later in life to call Family Day.

In some households, Pilgrims and 鈥淚ndians鈥� are never mentioned. Traditional American history is never mentioned.

The day is about spending time with family, and of course the culinary delights prepared by the matriarchs of our families.

My family would stand in a circle holding hands. We鈥檇 each share what we鈥檙e thankful for. My paternal grandmother would then pray and bless the food.

For some it鈥檚 about giving thanks by giving back to those who don鈥檛 have families to spend time with, or a meal to eat. They go to church, visit hospitals, nursing homes, shelters, food pantries, or folks on the streets in their communities. Some sponsor dinners for families who are experiencing financial challenges.

Let鈥檚 acknowledge the movement of decolonization and reeducation happening in our country.

A 猫咪社区! reader shared that her family gave up their Thanksgiving turkey dinner to donate the money they would spend on food items to their local food bank.

鈥淥n [this] holiday we sit down with a simple bowl of rice (which two-thirds of the world population would have been happy to have) and we made lists of all the things and people we鈥檙e thankful to have and to know.鈥�

Ultimately, within our families and communities and schools, we should stop, reinterpret, and repurpose traditions that are harmful, either in theory or practice.

I learned from my elders that when you know better, you should do better.

As we enter into this holiday, let鈥檚 acknowledge the movement of decolonization and re-education happening in our country.

We can observe and celebrate with our families in ways that honor those who the day originally dishonored, and those who continue to struggle under oppression.

For intercountry adoptees of color, 鈥渁 better life鈥� often translates to being taken in by White Christian parents in the West with money and means. We are considered 鈥渓ucky鈥� to have escaped the poverty and crude treatment we would鈥檝e endured in our homelands. Sometimes that is true, but it assumes the best of our adopters, implies that our cultures are less than, and can cut ties and access to one鈥檚 roots and people.

There鈥檚 nothing lucky about that.

When I was adopted by affluent White folks from the Greater Boston suburbs, everyone saw what I gained鈥攖wo houses and two sisters born from two White Catholic parents鈥攂ut not what I lost. Adoption erased my Korean family, language, and culture, while granting my adopters a badge of honor for saving a poor child from a war-torn country.

It鈥檚 impossible to know whether things in Korea would have been worse. After all, mine was not the poster adoption experience.

Like many transracial adoptees with White parents, I was raised in racial isolation, which caused me to have a fractured identity, experiencing racial confusion and internal bias. When I looked in the mirror, the face I saw was not what I expected or wanted to see. I didn鈥檛 look like my parents and siblings, or my friends, or the people who I read about in books and saw in magazines and on television. I was often told race didn鈥檛 matter, despite the many racist jokes and slurs carelessly flung my way by family, schoolmates, and strangers.

Some swore they forgot I was Asian and considered me to be White. The gaslighting and denial had me blaming myself for my own suffering.

When my adoptive mother had four more children after adopting me, each birth further emphasized what I鈥檇 lost. Why were these children who were loved by their mother allowed to be kept? People gathered to celebrate, joyfully remarking on family features鈥攚hich conflicted with what I was told of genetics being unimportant. I began to understand that they only meant mine.

I didn鈥檛 fit in at home or elsewhere.

I had two short-term friendships with other Asian kids. The first ended when my friend鈥檚 mother decided I was neither Asian nor American enough. The second was shut down by my mother鈥攕oon after my father鈥檚 disclosure of a sexual attraction to Asian women, which amplified my mother鈥檚 dearth of compassion for me. (I learned more about the broad oversexualization of Asian girls and its ramifications firsthand through sexual violence in my teens and 20s.)

The lack of racial mirroring deepened my imposter syndrome. When I encountered other Asians, I would sometimes avoid them out of shame鈥攐f cultural ignorance and inferiority for not being a 鈥渞eal鈥� Asian.

When I visited my homeland, it was a complicated mix of reconnection and rejection, pride, and pain. I caught a glimpse of the life I may have had and witnessed those thriving from my displacement. Rather than helping to keep struggling families together through social services, Korea had听听more than 200,000 of us. Thirty years later, the so-called Third World country I鈥檇 been saved from had a booming economy full of impeccably dressed people and technological advances.

Rarely is there the question of why I and so many other children from the Far East and Global South, are adopted by Westerners. Why our countries have been devastated by wars to the point that children are either left with no parents, or their parents are giving them away to people in far away lands.

The U.S. played a big part in Korea鈥檚 , and the Korean War was the for large-scale international adoption, continuing into my generation and beyond. Intercountry adoption is often political, and connected to the history of transracial adoption within the U.S., which began with colonization, racist policies and cultural genocide against Native and Black peoples.

Yet adoption advocates purport the deed to simply be an act of love.

Meanwhile, tens of thousands of international adoptees in the U.S. remain , at risk of deportation to unfamiliar lands. A lack of shelter and resources, along with communication barriers, can leave the deported isolated, which for too many result in . This truth about adoption, unfortunately, is less heartwarming than social perception.

Yes, intercountry and transracial adoption can contain happiness and love. However, I recognize鈥攁nd have experienced鈥攖he bad that shouldn鈥檛 happen. Contrary to what some think, exposing the negative aspects is not an attack on healthier adoptions, but doing so creates an awareness that the current system produces high rates of , , and .

Many call on adoptees for reassurance that most of us are happy, well-adjusted, and grateful. They don鈥檛 understand that it鈥檚 possible to love our adoptive families while simultaneously living with trauma and a sense of displacement.

Disconnecting from our adoptive family鈥檚 identity risks 听everything again. Fear and conditioning can cause us to cling to a cloak of Whiteness, and comply with the safe narrative.

We may stay in White communities, surrounding ourselves with predominantly White friends and partners when it鈥檚 all we鈥檝e known. We may even buy into aspects of White supremacy and take on family politics that work against us as a racialized group. The self-actualization of transracial adoptees exists on a continuum, often evolving only when we feel safe. This explains why many Asian adoptees don鈥檛 identify as people of color until immersed in online community.

It takes a lot to break through the brainwashing and barriers鈥攅ven for those raised with racial support. But to live authentically, we must consciously connect to our people, history, and culture. There鈥檚 power in knowing who we are without feeling shame. I no longer feel the need to perform Whiteness鈥攐r for White people.

I鈥檓 on a journey of decolonization and reclaiming what adoption stole from me. Understanding the plight of my people helps me unify with Black, Indigenous, and People of Color鈥檚 causes. I challenge us all to push back on the systems that cause injustice under the guise of love and good intentions.

Ofelia, then 25, had just moved into her new home in the northern Mexico town of San Pedro de las Colonias when she vanished in 2007. A shootout between law enforcement and the Los Zetas drug cartel occurred that night, but no one knows what happened to Ofelia. Though 17 years have passed, this is the first time Mart铆nez dared to protest her daughter鈥檚 disappearance. 鈥淚 waited two years to report it,鈥� says Mart铆nez. 鈥淧eople were being murdered in San Pedro every day. If you dared to file a report, you risked being shot.鈥�

Around 9 a.m. the following morning, a group of about 40 mothers began marching through San Pedro de las Colonias, chanting 鈥淎live you took them! Alive we want them!鈥�

Since in December 2006 and deployed thousands of troops, widespread violence has ensued, leading to a surge in homicides, extortion, forced displacement, femicides, and disappearances. Since 2006, there have been and in Mexico. Men between the ages of 20 and 35 are disproportionately likely to be disappeared, though there are regions where a significant number of women have disappeared.

San Pedro de las Colonias, an agricultural town in the Coahuila desert, has officially recorded 106 disappearances between 2007 and 2013 during the conflict between the Los Zetas and the Sinaloa cartels for control of the La Laguna region, a key part of a drugs and arms trafficking route between Mexico and the United States. However, the actual number of missing persons remains unknown.

Relatives of these thousands of victims, especially mothers of the disappeared, often called madres buscadoras, or searching mothers, have spearheaded a movement advocating for strategies, laws, and actions to locate their loved ones, seek justice, and prevent future disappearances.听

Although levels of violence have significantly decreased due to the collaborative efforts of the local government, civil society, and businessmen, families continue to fear reporting disappearances due to threats and persecution. In many cases, they have been coerced into accepting the loss of their loved ones.

Meanwhile, in the U.S., the idea of attacking Mexico to combat drug cartels has gained popularity, particularly among the Republican elite. Although Donald Trump has repeatedly denied supporting Project 2025, this 900-page policy urges the next U.S. administration to adopt a 鈥渃reative and aggressive approach鈥� to addressing drug cartels at the U.S.鈥揗exico border, which echoes some of to assassinate drug kingpins.听

However, such an intervention could lead to a continued battle against Mexico鈥檚 most vulnerable without guaranteeing significant impacts on organized crime enterprises or drug trafficking.

The Legacy of U.S.-Funded Militarization in Mexico

When then Mexican President Felipe Calder贸n declared war on organized crime, he received through the M茅rida Initiative. During Calder贸n鈥檚 six-year term, the Mexican military, with U.S. assistance, arrested or killed .听

While Mexican authorities have declared the 鈥渒ingpin strategy鈥� mostly a success, it has also fueled , leading to the fragmentation of the cartels. According to the International Crisis Group, at least between mid-2009 and the end of 2020. Fragmentation has also escalated local violence and put citizens, journalists, and human rights defenders at risk as criminal groups diversify their illicit activities, including human trafficking, poaching, extortion, illegal logging, and more.

Even searching for the disappeared is a dangerous endeavor: Since 2010, 21 people have lost their lives while searching for their relatives. One mother, Lorenza Cano, has been missing since Jan. 15, 2024. And yet, despite the danger, Martin Villalobos, a spokesperson for Movimiento por Nuestros Desaparecidos en M茅xico, a movement uniting more than 60 collectives of families of the disappeared, says these families are still best positioned to understand the operations of criminal groups and facilitate searches for their loved ones.

鈥淲别鈥檝e been saying that we families, across the country, know the territory,鈥� says Villalobos. 鈥淗ow does organized crime operate? Not based on the result of a police investigation, but rather from our own experience. This knowledge has cost some of our 肠辞尘辫补帽别谤补蝉 their lives.鈥�

Despite the risks, these families have often exposed varying degrees of collusion between state agents and organized crime that make their work even more dangerous. In 2020, General Salvador Cienfuegos, who was head of Mexico鈥檚 army from 2012 to 2018 and once the country鈥檚 secretary of national defense, was on charges of participating in an international drug trafficking and money laundering network. After being pressured by Mexican authorities, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration dropped the charges and released Cienfuegos, who was then bestowed an honorary military decoration in 2023.

This level of collusion places madres buscadoras in greater jeopardy. As drug cartels continue to infiltrate the Mexican state, from local officials to high-level government, 鈥渟ilence zones鈥� emerge, where reporting human rights abuses and seeking justice becomes too dangerous.

Despite the challenging conditions families of the disappeared face, hundreds of collectives continue to lead searches across the country. In Culiac谩n, Sinaloa, Sabuesos Guerreras, a group of nearly 2,000 relatives of the disappeared, has located more than 650 bodies in clandestine graves. 鈥淲别 have found more than 18,950 charred fragments in water wells and rivers,鈥� Mar铆a Isabel Cruz Bernal, founder of the collective, adds. 

Cruz is the mother of Yosimar Garc铆a Cruz, a police officer who disappeared in 2017 in Culiac谩n. She believes the only thing authorities are doing is 鈥渂etting on our deaths鈥� to end the search for the disappeared. Through their investigations, Sabuesos Guerreras have identified high-ranking officials colluding with criminal groups. They have urged the government to purge corrupt institutions and authorities as a first step toward increasing trust and transparency, but their demands have been ignored.听 鈥淭here is no security strategy that protects us,鈥� she adds.

A Civilian-Led Path Forward

In September, Mexico鈥檚 Chamber of Deputies approved that would place the civilian-led National Guard under the control of the armed forces. Fundar, a center for analysis and research on democracy-related issues, warned that the concentration of power in the state and armed forces has that 鈥渄isproportionately affect marginalized groups, exacerbating their precariousness and intersecting with gender and ethnic vulnerabilities.鈥澨�

While a direct connection between the surge in disappearances and the country鈥檚 militarization is difficult to establish, Alejandra Ram铆rez, a researcher at Fundar, said it鈥檚 concerning that public security remains entrusted to military forces that often operate with impunity. 鈥淚nstead of continuing to bet on the much-emphasized strengthening of state and municipal police forces, prosecutors鈥� offices, and other institutions, it appears that these entities [the military] are being given primary responsibility,鈥� Ram铆rez says. 鈥淗istory shows that they have a track record of committing crimes that go unpunished and unsolved.鈥�

In Culiac谩n, for instance, videos obtained by the influential daily Reforma show military and National Guard forces shooting at and detaining a man on Oct. 7. The footage suggests they planned to kill him but abandoned the attempt when they realized they were being filmed.听听

In early October, Mexico鈥檚 new government unveiled its strategy to combat violence and crime. Claudia Sheinbaum, Mexico鈥檚 first female president, said she would not engage in a new war against Mexico鈥檚 powerful drug cartels. 鈥淭he war on drugs will not return,鈥� she said after taking office. 鈥淲别 are not looking for extrajudicial executions, which is what was happening before. What are we going to use? Prevention, attention to the causes, intelligence, and presence [of authorities].鈥�

Instead of deploying assassination squads to capture drug kingpins (), the Mexican government wants to strengthen the National Guard and enhance intelligence gathering, similar to the work families have been doing for years.听

While both countries continue to rely on military efforts to counterattack drug cartels, families are demanding technical and financial assistance to accelerate the search of the missing and the identification of the more than 70,000 bodies that remain in the forensic backlog. As a first step, they seek to initiate a national dialogue, with the support of the international community, to advocate for their demands against the Mexican government and amplify the urgency of their struggle.  

Meanwhile, they continue searching for their loved ones, gathering information on criminal modus operandi, demanding preventive measures, and calling for the implementation of real actions. During the march to commemorate the International Day of the Disappeared, dozens of families walked through the quiet streets of San Pedro de las Colonias, breaking a decade-long silence. Many onlookers stood in stunned disbelief, watching the procession.听

Mart铆nez walked in the middle holding the tarp featuring Ofelia鈥檚 face. For two hours, Mart铆nez and the other mothers marched, chanting, 鈥淲here are they, where are they?鈥�

Now, more than one year since the world started watching the genocide in Gaza鈥攁 reality Palestinian journalists have been trying to broadcast for generations鈥攖he general public is finally sharing in the Palestinian resistance. People around the globe have , , rallied despite , and orchestrated . 鈥淚srael can no longer coast on this idea of being this beacon of democracy in the Middle East,鈥� Elal says. 鈥淧eople understand intuitively [that] this is a colonial situation.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

But as solidarity with Palestinians grows, so too does repression. In the United States, lawmakers have tried , while university administrators have , , and . Mainstream media outlets publish , while politicians  

Yet as those in power continue to attempt to crush the Free Palestine Movement, artists, writers, and other cultural workers are using creative practices to resist. They鈥檝e organized to fight censorship, exposed the propagandist nature of mainstream media, and asserted Palestinians鈥� rights to their land and lives. They鈥檝e refused to accept genocide and colonialism as normal. 鈥淭hat, I think, is actually what preserves your humanity and your sanity,鈥� Elal says. 鈥淭he fate of Palestinians is bound up in your own, whether you like it or not.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Narrative Resistance

Since Israel鈥檚 inception 76 years ago, government and media institutions have continuously worked to control the public鈥檚 collective memory of Palestine. In 1969, Israel鈥檚 prime minister denied that Palestinians existed before . After Hamas carried out Operation Al-Aqsa Flood in October 2023, tearing down walls that helped make Gaza an , media outlets described the attack as When Israel鈥檚 defense minister announced its food and water blockade on Gaza days later, he called it a fight against further dehumanizing Palestinians and their resistance against occupation. 

鈥淣arratives are used to justify systems of domination,鈥� Elal says. 鈥淧alestinians want liberation, freedom, the right to live in their homes and return to their homes, just like any other people. It requires this enormous apparatus of narrative to dehumanize and delegitimize Palestinian claims to the right of return, sovereignty, living free from violence, on a land where they aren鈥檛 second-class citizens subjected to genocide.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

According to the Gaza Health Ministry, Israel has听听since Oct. 7, 2023. However,听scholars estimate that听听of Palestinians have died听from starvation, infection, and disease caused by Israel鈥檚 food and water blockades and destruction of Gaza鈥檚 hospitals. The death toll continues to rise, and attempts to rationalize the Israeli government鈥檚 murderous impulse are proving ineffective.

Polls across the West show that an increasing number of people , and young people in the U.S. are . 鈥淭his didn鈥檛 start last October,鈥� says Elal. 鈥淭he roots of what we鈥檙e seeing now with this genocide are structural, historical, and political.鈥澨�

Since 2021, Elal has worked as the information designer for , an organization founded in 2012 that uses data imagery to communicate the experiences of Palestinians and disrupt colonial narratives. The organization鈥檚 infographics, interactive visuals, and posters have been circulated all over the world, published by major media outlets, posted on subway billboards, and translated into multiple languages. 

鈥淲别 see our role in the movement in terms of how we can intervene in narrative and media discourse around Palestine,鈥� says Elal. 鈥淓specially since the start of the genocide, we鈥檝e seen how rampant this dehumanization is, how distorted the Palestinian narrative is, how there鈥檚 not a lot of grappling with the deep history of the legacy of colonialism in Palestine.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Visualizing Palestine works with partner organizations, including some in Palestine, to turn research reports into accessible visual resources. For instance, its presents side-by-side images from the and the current genocide in Gaza to show how the latter is an extension of the previous catastrophe. Another project called 鈥溾�� demonstrates how Israel uses artificial intelligence programs to surveil and kill Palestinians. 

Other visuals aim to expand the documentation of Israel鈥檚 brutality beyond statistics, including its impact on those who survive. 鈥溾�� takes the form of a child development chart that illustrates how children born in Gaza in 2007 have lived through four wars before turning 18, suffering compounded trauma. 鈥溾�� memorializes Palestinians who survived the 1948 Nakba to later be killed by Israel in 2023. 鈥淭hese people are older than the state that is killing them,鈥� Elal explains. 鈥淸Palestinians] aren鈥檛 numbers. Each one of these people who has been killed [is] an entire world.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The collective鈥檚 new book, , spotlights more than 200 visuals created in the past decade, alongside essays on humanizing data and provoking narrative change. Elal believes putting this resource in people鈥檚 hands can help organizers, advocates, and educators 鈥渂uild the kind of people power we need.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The Role of the Artist

When Israel began bombing Gaza in October 2023, Hannah Priscilla Craig was among the group of artists who decided to launch , a movement using art and culture as 鈥� in the struggle for sovereignty, dignity, and self-determination.鈥� They released a solidarity statement, which received more than 8,000 signatures in the first few days. Soon after, Artists Against Apartheid transformed into a network that encourages artists to embed themselves in organizing and activism. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 not just we as individuals [who] are dedicating ourselves to Palestine,鈥� Craig explains. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 actually a recognition of the practice of the artwork as part of the overall strategy toward liberation.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Craig, who serves as the director of arts, culture, and communications for the 鈥攖he community space in New York City where Artists Against Apartheid originated鈥攕ees how integral cultural production is to raising awareness about the plight of Palestinians. 鈥淧eople are consuming culture almost every moment of every day 鈥� whether we consciously realize it or not,鈥� she says. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 important for us, on the side of justice [and] liberation, to take up that tool鈥攁nd take it more seriously than our enemies.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Artists Against Apartheid offers to help artists create banner drops, public art installations, film screenings, street theater, and more to bring the Palestinian liberation movement into their communities. the (theatrical testimonies written by Palestinian youth), of President Joe Biden and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu for the annual , and developed more than 6,000 poster designs. Craig says the posters have been pasted around Barcelona, Spain; exhibited in galleries in Arizona; and made into stickers circulated throughout the U.S. 

People are consuming culture almost every moment of every day. 鈥� It鈥檚 important for us, on the side of justice [and] liberation, to take up that tool鈥攁nd take it more seriously than our enemies.鈥� 鈥擧annah Priscilla Craig

Artists Against Apartheid draws inspiration from the , a group of cultural workers who in the 1970s and later inspired an international boycott that helped undo apartheid policies. Craig also highlights the , which were first formed in 1929 by artists, writers, and journalists to advocate for better working conditions during the Great Depression. 

鈥淭hose histories are often ignored, forgotten, and left out of the history books because they are so dangerous to the ruling class,鈥� Craig says. Artists Against Apartheid works to 鈥渞einvigorate and bring back to the forefront the way that artists and cultural workers are part of political [and liberation] movements.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The number of signatories on Artists Against Apartheid鈥檚 statement has nearly doubled in the year since it was released, with prominent musicians including , , and Noname signing on and using their art to . 鈥淢usicians are ready to take on the charge and the task of speaking clearly and with conviction about the need to take seriously the political situation in the world,鈥� Craig says. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 really showing that these cultural spaces, these social spaces, are also spaces of political struggle.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Ultimately, Artists Against Apartheid calls on artists of all media to use creative intervention as a strategy for mobilization. 鈥淭he reality is that struggle happens everywhere,鈥� she explains. 鈥淲别 have to fight back in all of the spaces that are available to us.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Do Not Consent

While artists continue to envision an end to the U.S.-backed genocide, Writers Against the War on Gaza (WAWOG) are disrupting the media apparatus that defends it. After releasing an , the coalition of media, cultural, and academic workers has engaged in a series of actions to call out national media outlets over their coverage of Israel and Palestine, including The New York Times. 

鈥淸The Times] is considered the paper of record in the U.S. [and] in the West,鈥� says Nour, a writer and member of WAWOG. (Nour requested to be identified by first name only and emphasized that the coalition acts as a collective.) But The Times has been 鈥渕anufacturing consent for a genocide.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Some writers at The Times after it cracked down on its own journalists for publicly supporting Palestine. Others, including Nour, in November 2023 to protest its coverage, carrying agitprop newspapers titled . 鈥�The Times is equivalent to an arms manufacturer, but in the cultural space,鈥� says Naib, a journalist and writer who is also part of WAWOG and has asked to be identified by first name only out of concern for retaliation. The paper represents, in theory, 鈥渂oth objectivity [and] the high-minded, liberal elite of America.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Following the protest, the coalition evolved the agitprop into a , debunking the false notion of objectivity and critiquing and analyzing The Times鈥� coverage of Israel. In the article 鈥�,鈥� the paper provides a style guide demonstrating how The Times鈥� word choice, syntax, and passive voice push the narrative that Israel is fighting a 鈥渏ust war.鈥� Another revealed that The Times quoted Israeli and American sources following Oct. 7, 2023, more than three times as often as Palestinian sources, and U.S. officials more than all of its Palestinian sources combined. The New York Times did not respond to a request for comment. 

Naib says mainstream reporters use other rhetorical tools to 鈥渃reate empathy amongst American audiences for Israel and not for Palestine.鈥� For example, when a story describes occupational violence against Palestinians, it doesn鈥檛 specify that it was done by Israel or the Israeli military. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 鈥榓 strike killed Palestinians,鈥� not 鈥榓n Israeli strike,鈥欌�� he explains, referencing coverage of the ongoing air strikes. 鈥淚n almost all media, any discussion of Palestine will always come with, 鈥楾hese events started on October 7.鈥� 鈥� We always have to acknowledge what happened on October 7, [but never what happened] before October 7.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

WAWOG is also committed to shining a light on the humanity of Palestinians. Through more than a dozen issues of The New York War Crimes, the coalition has published the words of and ; spotlighted , , and solidarity; and uplifted the voices of those (uprising). They鈥檝e also inspired the birth of similar publications such as . 

The coalition also encourages audiences to collectively hold establishment media accountable. 鈥淲别 think so much about what is happening in the writing itself, but being an observer, a reader, [or] in the audience is not a passive activity,鈥� Naib says. 鈥淵ou are actively legitimizing the organization by consuming what they鈥檙e producing.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Nour adds that audiences can 鈥渞efuse to be part of the New York Times narrative鈥� by boycotting publications complicit in their coverage of Palestine, while motivating media workers to organize within their workplaces. 鈥淚f we refuse to write the way they want us to write, we can actually do something,鈥� she says. 

The network鈥檚 plan to build a 鈥溾�� also includes a that covers organizing history in both Palestine and the U.S., touching on the Black Panther Party as well as movements formed during the Vietnam War and the AIDS crisis. 鈥淐ulture is oftentimes the strongest tool in maintaining the status quo,鈥� Naib says. 鈥淥ur role as cultural workers isn鈥檛 only to produce culture; it鈥檚 to take action.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

A Dance for Palestine

鈥泪迟 is the right of children in Gaza to be joyful,鈥� says Bashar Al-Bilbisi, a 24-year-old Palestinian dancer, theater artist, pharmacist, and head of the . Since 2016, the troupe of young people has performed and trained others throughout Gaza in , a traditional and Indigenous Palestinian dance. 

When Al-Fursan first launched, Al-Bilbisi used dance to address issues such as COVID-19, gender-based violence, and youth emigration. The group performed at the Palestine International Festival and toured around France. Their performances even contributed to the registering of dabke as 鈥渋ntangible heritage鈥� . 

But everything changed when Israel began relentlessly bombing Gaza and destroying theaters and cultural spaces. Now, Al-Bilbisi and his fellow dancers mainly teach dabke to children in displacement camps across the region. 鈥淲别 face lots of trauma, lots of wars, and we need a tool such as dance to get that out,鈥� says Al-Bilbisi, whose responses have been translated from Arabic to English. 

Sometimes that means encouraging children to 鈥渇orget about the external world and to enjoy themselves鈥� during training. Other times, it鈥檚 leaving space for them to grieve. During one exercise, a young girl suddenly began to cry. Her two brothers had been taken by Israeli forces, and she no longer knew where they were or if they were alive. 鈥淚 left her alone to cry as much as she wanted,鈥� Al-Bilbisi says. Afterward, she began talking more openly about her brothers鈥� capture and became more involved with the group. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why I would work on the training of dabke. It helps them express themselves,鈥� he adds. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 not just about movement or choreography; it鈥檚 what鈥檚 beyond the performance.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Al-Fursan trainers are located throughout the Gaza Strip, including in heated war zones where, Al-Bilbisi says, 鈥渢he only thing between them and death is a coincidence.鈥� Two trainers were bombed by Israel at the Church of Saint Porphyrius; another in North Gaza trained children whose parents were killed in yet another Israeli bombing, Al-Bilbisi says. 鈥淲henever we go to train children, there is always somebody targeted and killed as we go.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

At the time of this writing, Al-Bilbisi is based in a supposed safe zone. He plans to continue the work, saying, 鈥淭he risks are enormous 鈥� but we believe in a mission and a vision, and we would like to fulfill it.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Though the genocide has yet to end, he is firm in the role the ensemble will play in rebuilding Gaza and all of Palestine. 鈥淚f houses are demolished, they can be rebuilt,鈥� he says. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 more difficult is to rebuild people psychologically and to rebuild humanity.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

That鈥檚 why the ensemble also works to deepen the world鈥檚 understanding and awareness of what it鈥檚 like to be a Palestinian in Gaza. In 2023 the group released , an directed by Al-Bilbisi that focuses on how artists鈥� lives changed throughout the last year of occupation. It has been shown at across the world. 鈥淭he message鈥攁s a group, as an ensemble, as trainers, as artists, as children whom we work with, and as a community in Gaza鈥攊s that we would like war to stop and that we love life,鈥� Al-Bilbisi says. 

Underneath it all, he believes it is his duty to create not only artists, but human beings who belong to their land. 鈥淲hen we are in one line, holding each other鈥檚 hands, it gives the sense of solidarity, that we are all together,鈥� he continues. 鈥泪迟 also shows how rooted we are, touching the land or the floor. We鈥檙e there, strongly. We鈥檙e there.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The shout came from a group of Proud Boys, a far-right street gang, while they approached a (IWW) in September 2018. While the IWW, a radical labor union that and Washington State, is certainly anti-fascist, this was a union action鈥攏ot an 鈥渁ntifa鈥� protest. But those facts mattered little to the right-wing agitators who had made Portland a flash point in political violence. As the Proud Boys sought to instigate, one IWW member, Sinead Steiner, remembers union activists pivoting in an attempt to de-escalate. 

IWW members engaged the Proud Boys in mundane discussions about labor law while other demonstrators began using silly chants to lower the emotional temperature. The method was effective, no one faced harm, and the union action continued. This was not the first time the far right had threatened the IWW, so members knew they needed to walk into any protest with a nimble plan that included employing some form of community self-defense. 

As Donald Trump ascended to power in 2016, there was in as well as far-right and racist groups such as the Proud Boys, Oath Keepers and militias, and other neo-Nazi formations. They stormed U.S. cities, often holding rallies intended to provoke counterprotesters whom they could attack. As a result, there was a rise in left-wing formations, including the John Brown Gun Club and the Socialist Rifle Association, that say armed community self-defense may be a necessary component of safety, which in this case means protecting activists from racist militants.听

The threats that the far right presented to Portland鈥檚 left鈥攁long with the historical repression of unions by racist foot soldiers鈥攁re why unionists were prepared in Portland that afternoon. In the 1910s and 鈥�20s, IWW members, who were called 鈥淲obblies,鈥� invited coal miners and others to join 鈥渋ndustrial unions鈥� to win power by organizing as many workers as possible. Meanwhile, private security contractors whose job was to disrupt strikes with force in the 19th and early 20th century. 

The Ku Klux Klan, which, like later fascist groups, despised the anti-capitalist and multiracial implications of the IWW, also showed up to crush labor. In June 1924, members of the in San Pedro, California, injuring 300 members while kidnapping, tarring, and feathering others. To be a unionist, and a leftist, was to be a target.听

Amid this rise in brutality and repression, some IWW members created the IWW General Defense Committee (GDC) in 1917 as a separate organization to support activists facing reprisals. Nearly a century later, IWW members in Minneapolis and St. Paul, Minnesota鈥攕ome of whom had been involved in anti-fascist organizing across the 1980s and 鈥�90s鈥攔e-engaged the GDC as an anti-fascist auxiliary to the IWW. GDC chapters then popped up around the country, including in Portland, to fight the fascist insurgency and to defend communities against a rash of street violence. 

These kinds of threats were nothing new. Historically, wherever working-class social movements grow, fascists see them as distinct threats both because of their politics and the marginalized communities they represent. To guard against this, self-defense projects鈥攐rganized efforts where people from these communities are trained, and often armed鈥攁re formed to ward off these outside threats. Whether the appearance of self-defense squads is enough to scare off fascist attacks or if actual force is necessary to fight far-right militants back, these kinds of formations have been a reasonably common feature of how communities maintain their autonomy during escalating right-wing violence. 

At the same time, the police鈥攐stensibly defenders of peace and order鈥� and rarely keep activists safe from right-wing assaults. For abolitionists who prefer transformative justice to incarceration, police are not the answer to community safety. 鈥淭o me, community self-defense can be … an alternative to the police and courts, but it would depend on the situation鈥攁nd for that matter the community,鈥� says Daryle Lamont Jenkins, founder of the and its news website, . 鈥泪迟 means you do as much as you can to handle a situation as a community when one arises.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Community self-defense has become central to contemporary social movements. Just as their predecessors did, activists today seek a safety model that understands the threats they face and doesn鈥檛 reproduce the problems of the justice system. 

Deep Roots

Social movements have historically had a self-defense component. Many earlier left-wing political parties or organizations had a militant wing, in which members were trained as a defensive force that could keep their growing membership safe from violent right-wing counterefforts. 

In the early 20th century, the Jewish Labour Bund, a Jewish socialist movement involved in organizing labor unions and Yiddish schools around Eastern Europe and Russia, created self-defense squads to protect Jewish communities from racist attacks, known as 鈥減ogroms,鈥� which were escalating during that time. 

By 1905 there were Jewish self-defense groups in 42 cities, and they were often a collaborative offshoot from various leftist groups. Because many left-wing revolutionaries saw both modern nation states and reactionary political movements as their enemies, they believed they had to take measures to keep themselves safe from both entities. 

Much of the postwar left emerged directly out of the need for community safety. Take, for instance, the Black Power movement, which formed in the 1960s and 鈥�70s and considered resilience and empowerment to be central to their work. 鈥淚 have asserted the right of Negroes to meet the violence of the Ku Klux Klan by armed self-defense鈥攁nd have acted on it,鈥� wrote Robert F. Williams in 1962. Williams was an organizer who took control of the Monroe, North Carolina, chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, grew it by hundreds, and chartered it with the National Rifle Association to teach members how to defend themselves against Klan terror. 

In 1966 the Black Panther Party was founded first and foremost as an organization to monitor and intervene on police violence, a project the party eventually saw as part of a 鈥渦nited front against fascism.鈥� That slogan became the name for the Panthers鈥� 1969 conference that convened a range of other radical groups, including Students for a Democratic Society, the Young Patriots Organization, and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.听

In 1966, Panthers began armed patrols of Oakland neighborhoods as a message to local police not to threaten the rights and safety of Black residents. They held rallies when police refused to investigate police killings, such as the . The Panthers used these opportunities to teach community members how to build armed self-defense squads as both an alternative to the police and a deterrent against police violence. The Panthers inspired other self-defense efforts, including the Lavender Panthers (sometimes known as Purple Panthers), an armed defense group formed by the Gay Activist Alliance in 1973 to defend San Francisco鈥檚 LGBTQ community against homophobic attacks. 

鈥淪omething that the Black radical tradition tells us 鈥� is that we can鈥檛 organize in just one mode,鈥� says Jeanelle Hope, Ph.D., an associate professor of African American Studies at Prairie View A&M University who studies Black anti-fascist movements. Along with legal pathways, self-defense, and more radical anarchist tactics, Hope points to the myriad mutual aid programs the Black Panther Party organized to meet people鈥檚 daily needs, including offering free breakfast to children and running the . 

This history creates what Ejeris Dixon described as a movement lineage, whereby she and others come from a tradition of radicals 鈥渨ho have dedicated our lives to our community safety.鈥� This communal resiliency inspired Dixon to co-write 鈥�,鈥� a community safety tool kit she created alongside the anti-racist organization . The guide offers a number of ideas, including how to create effective protest formations. 

When people on the right talk about security, it often simply means firearms. But for those on the political left, community self-defense is a much bigger idea. 鈥淭he most important part of how you frame community defense is to acknowledge that you provide something the state cannot 鈥� when you build a culture of community defense around you 鈥� you have a lot more protection from violence,鈥� says Lucas Hubbard, communications director for Socialist Rifle Association, which does not advocate for forming militias but does support working-class people learning firearm skills and developing mutual aid networks. 

But as Hubbard notes, self-defense projects are only an alternative to the status quo if they match the community鈥檚 expressed desires. 鈥淔irst thing you do in providing community defense 鈥� is to ask what that means to them,鈥� says Hubbard, pointing to issues like food insecurity and housing access as frontline threats. Community defense could mean developing strong bonds between affected people to better address their needs, employing armed security at queer youth events, or securing resources for those facing eviction, but it is just as likely to involve getting people the resources they need during a COVID-19 spike. 

鈥淚f you want to help a community, they have to trust you,鈥� says Snow, a founding member of the Asian American self-defense group (YPT) who goes by one name. The organization works to demystify community self-defense, including gun ownership and mutual aid organizing, in part by creating an alternative media infrastructure to shift perception about who owns firearms and why. 

鈥淚n moments where I have seen [community defense], it鈥檚 always been something that has been asked for explicitly,鈥� says Snow. YPT formed in 2020 amid a slew of anti-Asian hate crimes. Organizers from around the U.S. met through activist networks and began supporting each other not just in learning self-defense and firearms skills but also in creating more visible networks of care and connecting their ideas about community empowerment to international struggles such as supporting anarchists fighting Russian aggression in Ukraine.听

YPT helped create educational programs around responsible firearm ownership and started a podcast, Tiger Bloc, that demystifies disaster preparedness and community defense in terms that avoid adventurism and right-wing cynicism. As Snow points out, firearms themselves are often less important to community safety than, for example, 鈥済ood digital hygiene鈥� (using security protocols in digital communication and taking measures to remove personal information from the internet), locating good de-escalators to intervene in tense protest interactions, and ensuring demonstrations have trained street medics who can save lives if needed.听

Community self-defense is directly intertwined with other social movements because all political causes鈥攁nd their solutions鈥攁re tied with intersecting issues of race and class. Effective safety plans bring together a community鈥檚 struggles, identify what creates cracks in safety, and consider all movements to be potential tools for repair.听

A True Safety Plan

Because many potential harms and threats are distinct, a complete plan for community safety has to be broad enough to address everything from racist violence to incursions with the police. An expansive vision of community safety does not stop at the most immediate threats but offers some vision of an alternative to existing carceral options. 

Vision Change Win鈥檚 guide says a comprehensive vision of community safety includes 鈥渟ecurity, office and organizational safety, verbal de-escalation, physical de-escalation, personal safety, transformative justice processes, community safety neighborhood strategies, bystander intervention, and cop watch.鈥� It helps to outline the different questions you need to ask about events you are holding, what roles are necessary to keep attendees safe, and how to align every security choice with the community鈥檚 values. 

While police often play similar social roles in repressing movements, they have different legal leeway and require different responses. This is why Vision Change Win鈥檚 training focuses on a range of situations, including what to do when police attempt to enter activist spaces and how to de-escalate nonpolice threats. 

An example is Vision Change Win鈥檚 section on dealing with Rebellion Containment Agents鈥斺�渓ess lethal鈥� weapons such as chemical gas or pepper spray that are used by police against protest crowds. While often presented by law enforcement as relatively safe, these containment agents were tied to major injuries during the 2020 racial justice uprisings. The guide instructs demonstrators on how to deal with incoming projectiles, how to care for someone who has been exposed to caustic chemicals, and how street medics and those providing on-site care can make medical remedies from common materials.听

In addition to responding to police arrests and ensuring people know their legal rights, community defense also includes strategies to mitigate COVID and other pandemics. Good safety plans take into account both a community鈥檚 values and COVID transmission so as not to replicate many of the harms activists are hoping to mitigate. 

鈥淚 think having vulnerable relationships with people 鈥� where if there is somebody in your life you can talk [to] about both survivorship and harm, I think that makes us safer,鈥� says Dixon. This also points to what are often called transformative justice programs designed to, as Dixon describes, 鈥減revent and intervene in violence, and repair and heal from harm without the use of prisons.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

These can take the form of 鈥渁ccountability processes鈥� that combat harm by addressing the behavior, demanding change and the admission of culpability, and supporting both the survivor and the perpetrator in their journey. This kind of vulnerability can exist in many kinds of communities, but especially those that are bonded. 鈥淭ransformative justice is relying on the relationships 鈥� to leverage them into better behavior and accountability,鈥� says Dixon. 

These are big, radical ideas鈥攁nd that is part of the point: Community self-defense is not a singular solution but part of an ongoing project that seeks to address the fundamental unsafety of the society we currently inhabit. Through overlapping systems of inequality and oppression, many people feel isolated, targeted, and forced to face huge hurdles alone. But when members of a community see their struggles as interconnected and their issues as systemic, then modest responses become insufficient. 

Community self-defense is a piece of the larger work of building an equitable society, but it will only be truly realized if a larger mass movement confronts the entire system of structural inequity. 鈥淵ou have to believe in something bigger,鈥� says Dixon. 鈥淵ou have to believe in transformation.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

A judge may at times deem it necessary to appoint  to protect a vulnerable person from abuse and trickery by others, or to protect them from poor decision-making regarding their own health and safety. But when put into the hands of self-serving or otherwise unscrupulous conservators, however, it . 

Celebrities like Spears may be particularly susceptible to exploitation due to their capacity for generating wealth, but they are far from the only people at risk. As  representing poor and marginalized people and a scholar of tribal and federal Indian law, I can attest to the way  may exacerbate these potentially exploitative situations, especially with respect to women and people of color.

Perhaps nowhere has the impact been so grave than with respect to Native Americans, who were  due to a system of federal and local policies developed in the early 1900s purportedly aimed at protecting Native Americans receiving allotted land from the government. Members of the 鈥擟herokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and Seminole Nations鈥攚ere particularly impacted by these practices due to the discovery of oil and gas under their lands. 

Swindled by 鈥淔riendly White Lawyers鈥�

A , or a related designation called a guardianship, takes away decision-making autonomy from a person, called a 鈥渨ard.鈥� Although the conservator is supposed to act in the interest of the ward, the system can be open to exploitation, especially when vast sums of money are involved.

This was the case between 1908 and 1934, when  of Native communities out of their lands and royalties.

By that time, federal policy had forced the  from eastern and southern locations in the United States to what is presently Oklahoma. Subsequent federal policy converted large tracts of tribally held land into 鈥攁 move that fractured communal land. Land deemed to be 鈥渟urplus to Indian needs鈥� was sold off to white settlers or businesses, and Native allotment holders could likewise sell their plots after a 25-year trust period ended or otherwise have them taken through tax assessments and other administrative actions. Through this process  from 鈥�138 million acres in 1887 to 48 million acres by 1934 when allotment ended,鈥� according to the Indian Land Tenure Foundation.

During the 1920s, members of the Osage Nation and of the Five Civilized Tribes were deemed to be  due to the discovery of oil and gas underneath their lands.

However, this discovery turned them into the victims of predatory schemes that left many penniless . 

Reflecting on this period in the 1973 book 鈥�,鈥�&苍产蝉辫;, a lawyer and member of the Kiowa Tribe, and  wrote that members of the Osage Nation 鈥渂egan to disappear mysteriously.鈥� On death, their estates were left 鈥渘ot to their families, but to their friendly white lawyers, who gathered to usher them into the Happy Hunting Ground,鈥� Kickingbird and Ducheneaux added.

Lawyers and conservators stole lands and funds before death as well, by getting themselves  with full authority to spend their wards鈥� money or lease and sell their land.

Congress created the initial conditions for this widespread graft and abuse through the . That Act transferred jurisdiction over land, persons, and property of Indian 鈥渕inors and incompetents鈥� from the Interior Department to local county probate courts in Oklahoma. Related legislation also enabled the Interior Department to  based on its assessment of the competency of Native American allottees and their heirs. 

Unfettered by federal supervisory authority, local probate courts and attorneys seized the opportunity to use guardianships to steal Native Americans鈥� estates and lands. As described in 1924 by , a  commissioned by the Secretary of Interior to study the issue, 鈥淲hen oil is 鈥榮truck鈥� on an Indian鈥檚 property, it is usually considered prima facie evidence that he is incompetent, and in the appointment of a guardian for him, his wishes in the matter are rarely considered.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The county courts generally declared Native Americans incompetent to handle more than a very limited sum of money without any finding of mental incapacity.  and Congressional testimony documented numerous examples of abuse. Breaches of trust were documented in which attorneys or other appointed conservators took money or lands from Nation members for their own businesses, personal expenses, or investments. Others schemed with friends and business associates to deprive 鈥渨ards.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淧lums to Be Distributed鈥�

One such woman in 窜颈迟办谩濒补-艩谩鈥檚 report was Munnie Bear, a 鈥測oung, shrewd full-blood Creek woman 鈥� [who] ran a farm which she inherited from her aunt, her own allotment being leased.鈥� Bear saved enough money to buy a Ford truck and livestock for her farm, with savings remaining in a bank account. Once oil was discovered, however, the court appointed a guardian, who appointed a co-guardian and retained a lawyer, each of whom deducted monthly fees that depleted Bear鈥檚 funds. During the period of her guardianship, she was unable to spend any money or make any decisions about her farm or livestock, nor did she control her bank investment.

窜颈迟办谩濒补-艩谩鈥檚 report displays the extent of this practice:

鈥淢any of the county courts are influenced by political considerations, and 鈥� Indian guardianships are the plums to be distributed to the faithful friends of the judges as a reward for their support at the polls. The principal business of these county courts is handling Indian estates. The judges are elected for a two-year term. That 鈥榚xtraordinary services鈥� in connection with the Indian estates are well paid for; one attorney, by order of the court, received $35,000 from a ward鈥檚 estate, and never appeared in court.鈥澨�

Wards were often kept below subsistence levels by their conservators while their funds and lands were depleted by the charging of excessive guardian and attorneys鈥� fees and administrative costs, along with actual abuse through graft, negligence, and deception.

Reports like that of 窜颈迟办谩濒补-艩谩鈥檚 resulted in Congress enacting the . This put the Indian land that had not fallen into non-Indian hands during the federal policy of allotting plots back into tribal ownership and secured it in the trust of the United States. It also ended the potential for theft through guardianship.

But the lands and funds lost as a result of guardianships were not restored nor did descendants of those swindled ever enjoy the benefit of their relatives鈥� lands and monies either.

This article was originally published by听. It has been republished here with permission.

This story comes to us from our partners at , a project that brings the work of immigrant journalists to digital news sites and public radio.

When Linda Sue Park was growing up in Illinois, she spent hours at her local library, devouring Laura Ingalls Wilder鈥檚 Little House on the Prairie series.

Park, 61, is and the daughter of Korean immigrants. As a child, she imagined going on adventures with Wilder鈥檚 central character, Laura. She indulged in daydreams of sitting by the fireplace with the Ingalls family, White homesteaders whose experiences are beloved by generations of American readers.

鈥淚鈥檝e spoken to many children of immigrants who really latched onto these books,鈥� Park says. 鈥淚 have this theory that we were searching so desperately for a road map on how to be American.鈥�

As a Korean American kid growing up in Colorado in the 1990s, I, too, was a fan of the Little House series, and I was fascinated by the lore of the Old West. When my sixth-grade class visited an historic hotel in southern Colorado, a tour guide pointed at bullet holes dotting the ceiling鈥攅vidence, he said, of bandit-style brawls. I was hooked.

The characters who inhabited the Old West drew me in with their boisterous attitudes, wild independence, and refusal to conform to societal expectations. But in all of the stories I encountered, I never once came across Asian American people. I didn鈥檛 see them in history books, on tours, or on plaques. 

Chinese people were present鈥攁nd prolific鈥攊n the Old West.

It turns out they were there all along. I just didn鈥檛 know their stories.

At age 16, I read Killing Custer, by Native writer James Welch, who Gen. George Armstrong Custer. The book introduced me to a tradition of historians working to correct the myth of the whitewashed American West. In time, my imaginings of the Old West expanded to include the Black, Latinx, and Asian American people who lived here, too鈥攁nd who, like Whites, were settling on lands taken from Indigenous people.

鈥淎sian Americans lived in the West,鈥� Professor Gail M. Nomura. 鈥淭hey shaped the western landscape through cultivation and toil. They were not just excluded. They were not just passive victims to be conquered and subjugated. They built and they molded and they struggled.鈥�

Though their presence has been written out of the record, nearly 15,000 Chinese men , an estimated 150 to 2,000 workers . But none of them were invited to pose for the iconic .

Chinese people were present鈥攁nd prolific鈥攊n the Old West. 鈥淚n 1870, almost 30% of the Idaho territory鈥檚 population were Chinese,鈥� says Liping Zhu, 63, a professor of history at Eastern Washington University, in Cheney, Washington.

Chinese American communities faced great hostility and racial violence in the late 1800s. After the transcontinental railroad was completed, thousands of Chinese Americans moved to Truckee, California, in search of work. Within a few months, White townspeople set Chinatown on fire. A local Causasian League plotted to drive out all Chinese residents. In 1871, White residents of Los Angeles . In 1882, Congress passed the Chinese Exclusion Act, which barred all Chinese laborers from immigrating to the U.S.

Zhu鈥檚 career spans several decades, uncovering the presence of Asian Americans in the Old West, shedding light on how they lived, and how their legacies have shaped our new understanding of an Asian American Old West. His scholarship challenges us to look past the stereotype that Chinese Americans were merely passive victims in the face of adversity. They also built lives for themselves.

His research has uncovered court . Chinese Americans operated laundries in Western mining towns, allowing them to gain economic mobility: Their profits often exceeded a standard 19th century wage of $1.50 per day.

鈥淟aundry men could make up to $10 a day,鈥� says Zhu. 鈥淭hey were 鈥榤ining the miners.鈥欌��

which cites Zhu鈥檚 research, suggests the importance of Chinese businessmen in Deadwood, South Dakota. In 1800, the town of 5,000 was home to 鈥渢wo prominent merchants, Hi Kee and Fee Lee Wong,鈥� who were 鈥渉ighly respected and well-known by the entire community.鈥�

Archaeological excavations in Deadwood thriving intercultural relationships between White customers and Chinese businesses, from restaurants and gaming halls to opium houses and practitioners of Chinese medicine. White Deadwoodians attended Chinese funerals and cultural celebrations. Chinese Deadwoodians attended Fourth of July picnics.

These encounters weren鈥檛 necessarily a mark of assimilation, Zhu says, choosing to use the term 鈥渃ultural fusion鈥� instead. Cultural practice sharing went both ways.

By 1900, the Chinese population of Deadwood had dwindled to less than 90 people. But Zhu still keeps in touch with their descendants. 鈥淚 don’t call myself a revisionist historian,鈥� he says. He studies history鈥攈istory that鈥檚 always been there.

Linda Sue Park didn鈥檛 set out to write a book about Asian Americans in the Old West. But more than 50 years after she first picked up the Little House series, she published : a middle-grade story about an Asian American girl growing up in Dakota Territory in the late 1800s.

Hanna, the main character in Prairie Lotus, is the daughter of a woman who immigrated to the U.S. from China and a White American man. She arrives in the fictional town of La Forge with dreams of attending school and becoming a dressmaker.

Things aren鈥檛 easy for Hanna. She endures constant racism and xenophobia, experiences drawn from Park鈥檚 own life. But Hanna鈥檚 life isn鈥檛 just about the racism she endures. Some of my favorite passages dive into her passion for garment-making.

Asian hate is not new. It鈥檚 been around for a long time. We’re just talking about it now.

鈥淚 wanted to give a little bit of a twist to the Asian laundry. I wanted to take that stereotype and work with it, but at the same time subvert it,鈥� says Park, who comes from a family of accomplished needlewomen.

In a particularly multilayered twist, we learn that Hanna鈥檚 late mother鈥攂orn in China and brought to the United States by Christian missionaries鈥攚as half Chinese and half Korean. It was Park鈥檚 way of writing Koreanness into the story long before substantial numbers of Koreans immigrated to the U.S.

Park thought a great deal about how to incorporate Native characters into the story, and she places Hanna in the context of a land that was stolen from Indigenous Ihanktonwan people. In the first few pages of the book, Hanna encounters Ihanktonwan women. These scenes were Park鈥檚 attempts in imagining what encounters with Indigenous people might have been like for a young girl on the American frontier.

In the wake of the , after a year of , Park has noticed a renewed interest in her books.

鈥淎sian hate is not new. It鈥檚 been around for a long time. We’re just talking about it now,鈥� she says. Park says she wants Prairie Lotus to be a resource for young readers about Asian American history鈥攖he good and the bad.

Park鈥檚 first book, Seesaw Girl, was published in 1999. 22 years later, she鈥檚 published 28 books, created and is an active member of the nonprofit . But she looks forward to the days when even more Asian American writers publish stories about Asian Americans in the Old West and beyond.

鈥淭here’s a lot more space for these stories, but I get so impatient. I don’t want three books. I want 300 and I want them now.鈥� To Asian American authors, she says, 鈥淧lease hurry up.鈥�

Sen. Lindsey Graham voiced his concern of a at the when he said, 鈥淭he demographics race we鈥檙e losing badly 鈥� [Republicans are] not generating enough angry white guys to stay in business for the long term.鈥�

Graham鈥檚 comments relay what social scientists and antiracism activists call 鈥淲hite Extinction Anxiety,鈥� or 鈥淔ear of White Genetic Annihilation.鈥�

The idea that White people could 鈥溾�� has been dismissed by some as , but the convergent effects of new laws banning abortion听together with old laws promoting mass incarceration of Black and Brown people听suggest that this White fear is not just an idea, but the catalyst for public policy.

There indeed appears to be a strong correlation between demographic projections, the fear of White genetic annihilation, and the recent wave of abortion bills.

Antiracism activist and diversity trainer that White people, including political leaders, 鈥渨ill do anything to see that doesn鈥檛 happen.鈥�

Hyper-punitive abortion bans听the procedure outright except in cases of risk to a woman鈥檚 health, and in Georgia听a woman who obtains an abortion . Of 212 lawmakers in Alabama and Georgia whose votes ushered in the most restrictive abortion laws we鈥檝e seen yet, .

What drives all of this is nothing as philosophical as religion. It鈥檚 not faith. It鈥檚 not principle. It鈥檚 the fear of genetic dominance of Black and Brown people.

The late Frances Cress Welsing, psychiatrist and author of听The Isis Papers: The Keys to the Colors听补苍诲 The Cress Theory of Color Confrontation and Racism, is well-known for her theory of Black and Brown genetic dominance over the White recessive gene.

鈥淧eople of color have the capacity to genetically annihilate White people,鈥� she explained, 鈥渁nd unless White people control the reproduction of people of color, we can postulate that perhaps one day there won鈥檛 be any White people.鈥�

But Welsing was not the only one who held this belief.

Her contemporary, demographer Ben Wattenberg, wrote in his book The Birth Dearth that the main problem in the United States is the low number of White births. Wattenberg believed that White people, without a change of course, would lose the numerical majority in the U.S., and it would no longer be a White man鈥檚 land.

He proposed three ways to address this: Pay women to have babies, increase the number of immigrants, and prevent abortions. The first two, he wrote, aren鈥檛 the answer because they would also increase the numbers of Black and Brown babies.听But the third, he posited, would solve the 鈥渂irth dearth鈥� problem because 60% of abortions are performed for White women.

The long-standing framework that once defined a woman鈥檚 reproductive rights as essentially her own prerogative is being zealously deconstructed to effect an increase of White births over time.

Since before the nation was formed, White people have controlled the lives and reproduction of people of color.

Not unlike the legal maneuverings that effectively made a person property under American chattel slavery, these , to variable degrees, take ownership of women鈥檚 reproductive rights, in essence forcibly breeding White women to produce at higher rates.

White patriarchal control over the听lives of women but especially women of color isn鈥檛 new, however.

Since before the nation was formed, White people have controlled the lives and reproduction of people of color.

Genocide of Indigenous peoples and chattel slavery of Africans and their descendants鈥攁 precursor to the criminalization and mass incarceration of Black and Brown people鈥攁re our most prominent examples.

Under chattel slavery, African women and their daughters were bred as animals for purposes of economic dominance, the financial benefits and dividends of which are still being realized today.

In 鈥淯n/Re/Dis covering Slave Breeding in Thirteenth Amendment Jurisprudence,鈥� author and law professor as 鈥渋ntricacies of a practice that consisted of sexual domination and reproductive exploitation, designed specifically to facilitate, economically and physiologically, the institution of slavery.鈥�

The war on drugs and 鈥渢ough on crime鈥� laws have also made long-lasting and devastating impacts on Black and Brown communities, the most significant being the loss of reproductive rights.

Even as some forms of marijuana have now been legalized or decriminalized in most states, many Black and Brown men and some women are incarcerated at higher rates than White people for the same offenses, and in many cases serve longer sentences.

Sociologist James Oleson suggests that the practice of eugenics didn鈥檛 disappear after World War II, but was 鈥渕erely repackaged.鈥� He writes in 鈥淭he New Eugenics: Black Hyper-Incarceration and Human Abatement鈥� that , and because minorities are incarcerated in disproportionately high numbers, they鈥檙e most dramatically affected. In fact, for Black males, 鈥渢he effect of hyper-incarceration might be so great as to depress overall reproduction rates,鈥� producing 鈥渁 de facto new eugenics.鈥�

In Gerber v. Hickman, a California district court held that incarceration of inmates 鈥渆ncompasses and restricts 鈥� the right to procreate,鈥� that incarceration not only hinders, but also extinguishes reproductive rights and may influence overall fertility rates.

Birth rates across demographics have slowed. But the recent abortion bans favor a fearful White populace.

The Black economic oppression along with mass incarceration of mostly Black men means Black births are likely to continue their decline. Now, as women are under threat of death or life in prison, the bans could forcibly increase White births under the hope of generating an uptick in the national White demographic.

Still, in the foreseeable future the country will be, as Elliot puts it, 鈥渕ostly brown.鈥�

Eating disorder research has historically , and treatment plans are often expensive and lacking in cultural sensitivity. According to the , less than 13 percent of adolescents receive treatment for their eating disorders, leaving thousands of others to suffer alone, in silence. But not if Gloria Lucas can help it.

Lucas is the founder of Nalgona Positivity Pride, a /brown/indigenous body positive organization based in Compton, California, that takes an intersectional approach to eating disorder education. NPP provides community-based support for people of color who struggle with eating disorders and body image issues, emphasizing the need for decolonization within the body positive movement.

A post shared by NPP (@nalgonapositivitypride) on Dec 13, 2017 at 11:59am PST

Lucas, 26, identifies as a xicana womxn of Mexican indigenous descent. She has a background in sexual health education, HIV/AIDS services, and trauma and substance abuse services for women and transgender folks. Lucas founded NPP in 2014 after personally struggling with an eating disorder and experiencing firsthand the dire lack of resources—and representation—for women of color.

With over 50,000 followers on , Lucas uses her platform to create a safe space for women of color to find community. She does not allow numbers (in reference to weight, calorie counting, etc.) anywhere on her page, and she vigilantly moderates comments with a zero tolerance policy for body policing, food shaming, and health trolling.

I had the opportunity to speak with Lucas about NPP’s mission to decolonize body image and raise eating disorder awareness for communities that are too often left out of the conversation.

This interview has been lightly edited.

Ayu Sutriasa: What led to the creation of Nalgona Positivity Pride?

Gloria Lucas: I started NPP because I had an eating disorder and I know what it’s like to struggle with something that’s considered to only affect privileged white women. The research and information on eating disorders is not culturally sensitive—there were no resources for me. NPP started in response to wanting to create a platform that makes our experiences known. I realized we have to create our own healing opportunities in our communities instead of waiting for the medical-industrial complex to save us.

White supremacy informs us that our bodies and our lives are lesser.

Sutriasa: How do eating disorders affect people of color and indigenous people differently from how they affect white people?

Lucas: Our relationship with food was manipulated during colonialism. Connection and ceremony with land and food were disrupted and, in many cases, banned. Europeans came with a different set of beliefs from that of indigenous peoples. In Europe, food played an important role in religious affiliation and social class, and Europeans believed that specific foods made up the . Indigenous foods became inferior, and more varieties of meat and dairy were introduced.

Then you add years of poverty and , which inevitably leads to disordered eating. tell us that if someone in your family engages in eating disorder behavior, your chances of developing an eating disorder are higher. Now imagine 500 years of this ongoing trauma.

One of the most prevalent eating disorders in [marginalized] communities is . But BED wasn’t added to the until . Our communities have been struggling with this for years, but it wasn’t considered a real eating disorder until May of 2013? This shows that our eating disorders have gone unreported, undiagnosed, and untreated.

On top of that, the white supremacist narrative that arrived with colonialism tells us that we’re ugly, we’re inferior, we’re not smart, we’re disposable … and if self-love is not there, then we don’t take care of ourselves. This fosters self-hate, which can be part of the .

Sutriasa: How has the legacy of colonialism affected the way that body image is experienced by women of color and indigenous women?

Lucas: When the first waves of colonialism occurred on this continent, our people were killed off by disease, they were mutilated, they were raped, and they were enslaved. Our relationship to land was disrupted, and land is part of our self-esteem, it’s part of our well-being. Our ancestors had to enact extreme behaviors in order to survive, and, unfortunately, survival meant assimilating to white standards.

All of these traumas were passed down to following generations. There are more and more studies coming out on , which proves the idea that if one generation experiences trauma, it can be passed down. So with the introduction of colonialism, white supremacy became widespread. And white supremacy informs us that our bodies and our lives are lesser.

We have to create our own opportunities for healing.

Sutriasa: You mentioned communities of color shouldn’t wait for the medical-industrial complex to save them. Can you speak more about that?

Lucas: Historically, the medical-industrial complex has used black and brown bodies as means of . So there’s already injury and trauma there, not to mention ongoing racism within these institutions that make it very hard for people of color to receive services. When I had an eating disorder, there was no help for me besides Overeaters Anonymous, which is very white, and tends to be comprised of older people. A lot of these evidence-based treatments for eating disorders have not been tested on people from our communities—they have mainly been processed and evaluated in white populations. Part of healing is connection, and I didn’t have that in those spaces.

For hundreds of thousands of years, we were medicinal people. White people and medical institutions cannot appropriate our traditional medicine, so it’s up to us to create and reclaim that ancestral medicine. We have to create our own opportunities for healing, and not expect these institutions, that created injury for so many years, to save us.

Sutriasa: How does NPP facilitate this kind of healing in its community?

Lucas: A lot of my work is educating others. I travel and host webinars with the goal of teaching the connection between historical trauma and eating disorders. Knowledge is power, and it was my medicine to heal from my eating disorder. I had to recognize where it came from. If you don’t know where something comes from, how do you know what you need to heal yourself? So we have to recognize our own stories, because in this country the white narrative is dominant, but that doesn’t apply to us.

NPP also has different support groups. First is Sage and Spoon, which is an online peer support group that meets twice a month. It is specifically for indigenous peoples and people of color who struggle with troubled eating. It’s completely free.

We also have Te Con Miel, which is our monthly women of color circle that focuses on body image. Each month we discuss different topics regarding body image. That’s here in L.A., but starting in 2018 it will be hosted in Compton, which is where I live. Compton is a city with high rates of violence, of crime and corruption. There aren’t a lot of resources here. Look at the eating disorder world—where do they have their treatment centers? They have them in very luxurious places. They don’t have them here in the hood. There’s no money for that. So this is my chance to create a healing opportunity in a place where there really isn’t much.

We have to remember that regardless of the type of society that we live in, disease always exists. Disabilities have always existed. So we need to stop moralizing health and actually take action. We need to start addressing health disparities, food deserts, and low self-esteem. Let’s start talking about white supremacy and fatphobia. Let’s combat the systemic issues that are hindering our ability to exceed in our self-esteem and our worth. That’s how we help people heal: by actively working to remove the stigma attached to the bodies of marginalized people.

鈥淟inguists鈥� work in communities when language shift is occurring shows that for the most part such refashioning, even when social identity is maintained, involves abrupt loss of tradition,鈥� writes. 鈥淢ore often, the cultural forms of the colonial power take over, transmitted often by television.鈥�

In response to the threat of language loss, some Indigenous tribes are turning towards accessible technology to save and revitalize their languages.

Language revitalization is grounded in education and accessibility; if language resources aren鈥檛 available and there are no designated ways to practice that language, how will it continue to be used?

Some tribes, such as the and , have held language courses for several years, but many tribes face barriers to developing language programs of their own. There may not be any remaining elders who speak the language well enough to teach it鈥攖he Cherokee and Navajo Nations are the two largest Native American tribes who have retained the most speakers of their languages.

Then even if there is an elder available to teach, they may lack resources to set up structured, systemic language classes. Then, there is the added challenge of accessibility鈥攊f the classes take place at a high school on the reservation, how will tribe members living off the reservation access the information?

That鈥檚 where technological solutions can help.

The computers in our pockets

When Keegan Livermore, a member of the Yakama Nation, learned that there were 鈥攁 language in the Sahaptin family spoken by the Yakama, the Confederated Tribes of the Warm Springs Reservation, and the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation鈥攈e felt a responsibility to learn the language himself.

While attending a technology panel during a linguistic education workshop, Livermore鈥檚 group discussed how language tools could be made more accessible to young people.

鈥淲别鈥檝e already had computer keyboards,鈥� Livermore said. 鈥淚f we鈥檙e thinking about how to get teenagers and college students to use it, why not make a phone keyboard?鈥�

Livermore, who at the time was studying linguistics and learning the Ichishk铆in language at Heritage University on the Yamaka Reservation, describes the process of creating an as a four-day fever dream, working on his graduate studies during the day and coding the keyboard at night.

Written Ichishk铆in has a 39-character alphabet, many of which are modified English characters. But, the intention was to have a keyboard strictly built for Ichishk铆in, not a keyboard based in English. For example, the alphabet has the characters 岣�, w, and 岣祑. While Livermore could have created a modified English keyboard that just had 岣� and w, he chose to create a key for 岣祑, honoring the actual alphabet of the language.

Livermore and seven other Ichishk铆in speakers then tested the keyboard in text messages and social media posts, modifying the placement of characters until the keyboard seemed optimized for Ichishk铆in.

鈥淚 was really pushing myself to use it as often as I could,鈥� Livermore said, which helped him build his confidence speaking the language. 鈥泪迟 gives me a tether for the language.鈥�

Livermore, who is now working on adapting the keyboard to iOS, envisions using phone keyboards as a way to assign homework in his own future language curriculum. An easy assignment could be a student texting him a couple sentences in Ichishk铆in about what they did over the weekend or requiring a few texts a week between class 鈥減en pals,鈥� Livermore said. Those types of assignments inject the language in students鈥� everyday modern life鈥攁 key part of language revitalization.

Because Ichishk铆in speakers must have a grasp of vocabulary to read and type the language, Livermore鈥檚 keyboard isn鈥檛 an early education tool, but rather an accessible way to integrate practice into a learner鈥檚 daily life.

鈥泪迟 enables you to use what you already know,鈥� Livermore said.

Filling in the gaps

Along with keyboards and texting, help comes from teachers such as Tami Hohn, a southern Lushootseed lecturer at the University of Washington and member of the Puyallup Tribe.

Lushootseed is a Salishan language spoken by Indigenous people in the Puget Sound region of Washington state. Hohn has taught the language both to children and adults, groups that require different educational approaches, she said.

For children, Hohn developed a curriculum that uses a grammatical approach by breaking down sentences into individual words and syllable sounds. With adults, Hohn teaches an intellectual understanding of the language, one that is informed by history, culture, and meaning. An intellectual understanding of the language allows speakers to create their own thoughts through the language, not just string together vocabulary words.

For all language learners, Hohn said, language apps鈥攕uch as phrase-to-picture matching games鈥攃an be a great way to practice the language in small moments, like waiting for an appointment or at the bus stop.

Lushootseed also has computer and mobile keyboards based on Unicode, a worldwide standard for digitally representing different written languages and assigning characters to specific keystrokes. But Unicode doesn鈥檛 always transfer across digital platforms such as email or various web browsers, making Lushootseed characters show up as odd boxes and nonsensical punctuation.

鈥淭he support that we really need from [technology] companies is the fonts,鈥� Hohn said. 鈥淲别 shouldn鈥檛 have to type in Unicode, we should be able to type anywhere.鈥�

Lack of font support is one way Native languages are being forced into the past. Hohn believes tribes shouldn鈥檛 have to find a workaround to type in their language.

Preservation through audio

According to Hohn, Lushootseed no longer has first-language speakers鈥攑eople who grew up speaking fluently鈥攕o linguists only had access to the language through preserved writings and audio recordings. Recording and archiving audio files of elders or fluent speakers is another preservation tool that can provide a foundation to language revitalization.

FirstVoices is a suite of web-based tools designed to help Indigenous people archive language information for teaching and preservation. The service, launched in 2003, provides tribes with a page where audio clips of words, phrases, stories, songs, and more can be uploaded and organized. The initiative, run by the First Peoples鈥� Cultural Council in British Columbia, also provides grants for communities working on language revitalization to compensate them for the time it takes to archive the audio.

Daniel Yona, FirstVoices鈥� development manager, stressed that the service enables tribes to approach language documentation and revitalization as each community sees best fit by providing as many tools as possible for each tribe to customize their archive. For example, each tribe鈥檚 archive has an administrator who can determine which recordings are private and which are public. Public recordings can be played by anyone, but to listen to private recordings, a tribal member must create an account and be approved by the tribe鈥檚 administrator to access the audio. This keeps recordings of prayers or sacred songs strictly within the tribal community.

FirstVoices now hosts 31 of the 34 indigenous languages in B.C., as well as some Native American languages from the United States. Yona says that it鈥檚 not a goal to have all of the languages archived on FirstVoices, because the initiative is only one part of the multifaceted effort of language revitalization.

鈥淛ust because they鈥檙e not on FirstVoices doesn鈥檛 mean they don鈥檛 have dictionaries and they鈥檙e not doing work in their own communities,鈥� Yona said. 鈥淭echnology is one piece of this bigger picture of language revitalization.鈥�

The threat of a long process

With the threat of language extinction looming, native language activists such as Hohn and Livermore feel a sense of urgency in everything they do. At the same time, language revitalization is a generational process.

鈥淚 will never see in my lifetime the state of language that I aspire to,鈥� Livermore said. The Ichishk铆in learners Livermore will teach will become better teachers than he is, and their students will pass on the skills to their descendents. Livermore foresees a language revival among future generations, but that doesn鈥檛 stop the pressure of needing to do as much as he can right now.

鈥淚 feel that sense of urgency all the time,鈥� Hohn said, but being patient in the face of a constant threat of language extinction is essential to successful revitalization. A limited number of Lushootseed teachers deeply understand the language. If teachers who do not understand the language in a cultural and historical way are pushed to teach as many people as they can in the name of revitalization, the language will still be reduced to grammar and vocabulary. That childlike understanding of Lushootseed, or any other native language, will be detrimental to the integrity and significance of the language, Hohn said.

鈥淵ou have to have language with meaning or what鈥檚 the point?鈥� Hohn said.

CORRECTION: An earlier version of this story misstated the of federally recognized tribes in the U.S. The number has been corrected, and 猫咪社区! regrets this error.

This theory was first established, in part, through rat experiments—ones that were injected into the American psyche in the 1980s, in a famous advertisement by the Partnership for a Drug-Free America. You may remember it. The experiment is simple. Put a rat in a cage, alone, with two water bottles. One is just water. The other is water laced with heroin or cocaine. Almost every time you run this experiment, the rat will become obsessed with the drugged water, and keep coming back for more and more, until it kills itself.

The ad explains: “Only one drug is so addictive, nine out of ten laboratory rats will use it. And use it. And use it. Until dead. It’s called cocaine. And it can do the same thing to you.”

But in the 1970s, a professor of Psychology in Vancouver called Bruce Alexander noticed something odd about this experiment. The rat is put in the cage all alone. It has nothing to do but take the drugs. What would happen, he wondered, if we tried this differently?

So Professor Alexander built Rat Park. It is a lush cage where the rats would have colored balls and the best rat-food and tunnels to scamper down and plenty of friends: everything a rat about town could want. What, Alexander wanted to know, will happen then?

In Rat Park, all the rats obviously tried both water bottles, because they didn’t know what was in them. But what happened next was startling.

The rats with good lives didn’t like the drugged water. They mostly shunned it, consuming less than a quarter of the drugs the isolated rats used. None of them died. While all the rats who were alone and unhappy became heavy users, none of the rats who had a happy environment did.

At first, I thought this was merely a quirk of rats, until I discovered that there was—at the same time as the Rat Park experiment—a helpful human equivalent taking place. It was called the Vietnam War. Time magazine reported using heroin was “as common as chewing gum” among U.S. soldiers, and there is solid evidence to back this up: some 20 percent of U.S. soldiers had become addicted to heroin there, according to a study published in the Archives of General Psychiatry.

Many people were understandably terrified; they believed a huge number of addicts were about to head home when the war ended.

But in fact some 95 percent of the addicted soldiers—according to the same study—simply stopped. Very few had rehab. They shifted from a terrifying cage back to a pleasant one, so didn’t want the drug any more.

Professor Alexander argues this discovery is a profound challenge both to the right-wing view that addiction is a moral failing caused by too much hedonistic partying, and the liberal view that addiction is a disease taking place in a chemically hijacked brain. In fact, he argues, addiction is an adaptation. It’s not you. It’s your cage.

Rats in the Park

If you fall into that state of addiction, is your brain hijacked, so you can’t recover?

After the first phase of Rat Park, Professor Alexander then took this test further. He reran the early experiments, where the rats were left alone, and became compulsive users of the drug. He let them use for 57 days—if anything can hook you, it’s that.

Then he took them out of isolation, and placed them in Rat Park. He wanted to know, if you fall into that state of addiction, is your brain hijacked, so you can’t recover? Do the drugs take you over? What happened is—again—striking. The rats seemed to have a few twitches of withdrawal, but they soon stopped their heavy use, and went back to having a normal life. The good cage saved them.

When I first learned about this, I was puzzled. How can this be? This new theory is such a radical assault on what we have been told that it felt like it could not be true. But the more scientists I interviewed, and the more I looked at their studies, the more I discovered things that don’t seem to make sense—unless you take account of this new approach.

Here’s one example of an experiment that is happening all around you, and may well happen to you one day. If you get run over today and you break your hip, you will probably be given diamorphine, the medical name for heroin. In the hospital around you, there will be plenty of people also given heroin for long periods, for pain relief.

The heroin you will get from the doctor will have a much higher purity and potency than the heroin being used by street-addicts, who have to buy from criminals who adulterate it. So if the old theory of addiction is right—it’s the drugs that cause it; they make your body need them—then it’s obvious what should happen. Loads of people should leave the hospital and try to score smack on the streets to meet their habit.

The street-addict is like the rats in the first cage, isolated, alone, with only one source of solace to turn to.

But here’s the strange thing: It virtually never happens. As the Canadian doctor Gabor Mate was the first to explain to me, medical users just stop, despite months of use. The same drug, used for the same length of time, turns street-users into desperate addicts and leaves medical patients unaffected.

If you still believe, as I used to, that chemical hooks are what cause addiction, then this makes no sense.

But if you believe Bruce Alexander’s theory, the picture falls into place. The street-addict is like the rats in the first cage, isolated, alone, with only one source of solace to turn to. The medical patient is like the rats in the second cage. She is going home to a life where she is surrounded by the people she loves. The drug is the same, but the environment is different.

The Opposite of Addiction Is Connection

This gives us an insight that goes much deeper than the need to understand addicts.

A heroin addict has bonded with heroin because she couldn’t bond as fully with anything else.

Professor Peter Cohen argues that human beings have a deep need to bond and form connections. It’s how we get our satisfaction. If we can’t connect with each other, we will connect with anything we can find—the whirr of a roulette wheel or the prick of a syringe. He says we should stop talking about ‘addiction’ altogether, and instead call it ‘bonding.’ A heroin addict has bonded with heroin because she couldn’t bond as fully with anything else.

So the opposite of addiction is not sobriety. It is human connection.

When I learned all this, I found it slowly persuading me, but I still couldn’t shake off a nagging doubt. Are these scientists saying chemical hooks make no difference? It was explained to me—you can become addicted to gambling, and nobody thinks you inject a pack of cards into your veins. You can have all the addiction, and none of the chemical hooks. I went to a Gamblers’ Anonymous meeting in Las Vegas (with the permission of everyone present, who knew I was there to observe) and they were as plainly addicted as the cocaine and heroin addicts I have known in my life. Yet there are no chemical hooks on a craps table.

But still, surely, I asked, there is some role for the chemicals? It turns out there is an experiment which gives us the answer to this in quite precise terms, which I learned about in Richard DeGrandpre’s book The Cult of Pharmacology.

Everyone agrees cigarette smoking is one of the most addictive processes around. The chemical hooks in tobacco come from a drug inside it called nicotine. So when nicotine patches were developed in the early 1990s, there was a huge surge of optimism—cigarette smokers could get all of their chemical hooks, without the other filthy (and deadly) effects of cigarette smoking. They would be freed.

Ironically, the war on drugs actually increases all those larger drivers of addiction.

But the Office of the Surgeon General has found that just 17.7 percent of cigarette smokers are able to stop using nicotine patches. That’s not nothing. If the chemicals drive 17.7 percent of addiction, as this shows, that’s still millions of lives ruined globally. But what it reveals again is that the story we have been taught about chemical hooks is, in fact, real, only a minor part of a much bigger picture.

This has huge implications for the 100-year-old war on drugs.

This massive war—which kills people from the malls of Mexico to the streets of Liverpool—is based on the claim that we need to physically eradicate a whole array of chemicals because they hijack people’s brains and cause addiction. But if drugs aren’t the driver of addiction—if, in fact, it is disconnection that drives addiction—then this makes no sense.

Ironically, the war on drugs actually increases all those larger drivers of addiction. For example, I went to a prison in Arizona—Tent City—where inmates are detained in tiny stone isolation cages (‘The Hole’) for weeks and weeks on end to punish them for drug use. It is as close to a human recreation of the cages that guaranteed deadly addiction in rats as I can imagine. And when those prisoners get out, they will be unemployable because of their criminal record, guaranteeing they with be cut off ever more.

How Portugal Halved Drug Addiction Levels

There is an alternative. You can build a system that is designed to help drug addicts to reconnect with the world—and so leave behind their addictions.

This isn’t theoretical. It is happening. I have seen it. Nearly 15 years ago, Portugal had one of the worst drug problems in Europe, with one percent of the population addicted to heroin. They had tried a drug war, and the problem just kept getting worse.

So they decided to do something radically different. They resolved to decriminalize all drugs, and transfer all the money they used to spend on arresting and jailing drug addicts, and spend it instead on reconnecting them—to their own feelings, and to the wider society.

Decriminalization has been such a manifest success that very few people in Portugal want to go back to the old system.

The most crucial step is to get them secure housing, and subsidized jobs so they have a purpose in life, and something to get out of bed for. I watched as they are helped, in warm and welcoming clinics, to learn how to reconnect with their feelings, after years of trauma and stunning them into silence with drugs.

One group of addicts were given a loan to set up a removals firm. Suddenly, they were a group, all bonded to each other, and to the society, and responsible for each other’s care.

The results of all this are now in. An independent study by the British Journal of Criminology found that since total decriminalization, addiction has fallen, and injecting drug use is down by 50 percent. I’ll repeat that: injecting drug use is down by 50 percent.

Decriminalization has been such a manifest success that very few people in Portugal want to go back to the old system. The main campaigner against the decriminalization back in 2000 was Joao Figueira, the country’s top drug cop. He offered all the dire warnings that we would expect: more crime, more addicts. But when we sat together in Lisbon, he told me that everything he predicted had not come to pass—and he now hopes the whole world will follow Portugal’s example.

We need now to talk about social recovery—how we all recover, together …

Happiness in “the Age of Loneliness”

This isn’t only relevant to addicts. It is relevant to all of us, because it forces us to think differently about ourselves. Human beings are bonding animals. We need to connect and love. The wisest sentence of the twentieth century was E.M. Forster’s: “only connect.” But we have created an environment and a culture that cut us off from connection, or offer only the parody of it offered by the Internet. The rise of addiction is a symptom of a deeper sickness in the way we live–constantly directing our gaze towards the next shiny object we should buy, rather than the human beings all around us.

The writer George Monbiot has called this “the age of loneliness.” We have created human societies where it is easier for people to become cut off from all human connections than ever before. Bruce Alexander, the creator of Rat Park, told me that for too long, we have talked exclusively about individual recovery from addiction. We need now to talk about social recovery—how we all recover, together, from the sickness of isolation that is sinking on us like a thick fog.

But this new evidence isn’t just a challenge to us politically. It doesn’t just force us to change our minds. It forces us to change our hearts.

Loving an addict is really hard. When I looked at the addicts I love, it was always tempting to follow the tough love advice doled out by reality shows like Intervention—tell the addict to shape up, or cut them off. Their message is that an addict who won’t stop should be shunned. It’s the logic of the drug war, imported into our private lives.

But in fact, I learned, that will only deepen their addiction—and you may lose them altogether. I came home determined to tie the addicts in my life closer to me than ever—to let them know I love them unconditionally, whether they stop, or whether they can’t.

The term,  in 2014 by Southern California-based development company , is a real estate brand that鈥攄ifferent from urban gardening鈥攃enters agriculture in neighborhoods, and is mostly targeted at affluent millennials, who are increasingly considering proximity to fresh and 鈥渃lean鈥� foods in their homebuying decisions. The defines agrihoods as master-planned housing communities with working farms as their focus. Overwhelmingly, they have large swaths of green space, orchards, hoop houses and greenhouses, and some with  barns, outdoor community kitchens, and environmentally sustainable homes decked with solar panels and composting.

Agrihoods, which number about , are typically in rural and suburban areas鈥攚ith some near large urban centers such as Phoenix, Colorado, and Atlanta鈥攔eplacing previous generations鈥� desire for the lush green acres of golf communities. They鈥檙e newer communities with homes that cost $300,000 to $700,000, but can be in the millions such as those in the Walden Monterey community in the Bay Area. At , luxury amenities are expected where lots start at $5 million each.

For us, food insecurity is the biggest issue.

Instead of living on or near a golf course, San Francisco鈥檚 tech giants can live near a unique farm-to-table agrihood, where they walk out their front doors to pick the fixings for their avocado toast.

But a new type of agrihood has emerged.

Within the city of Detroit, home to nearly 1,400 community gardens and farms, there is one officially designated agrihood, Michigan Urban Farming Initiative. The nonprofit in the North End neighborhood, just north of the recently gentrified Midtown area, calls itself .

It was founded in 2012 and gained its development designation in 2016.

Co-founder Tyson Gersh said at the time, 鈥淥ver the last four years, we鈥檝e grown from an urban garden that provides fresh produce for our residents to a diverse, agricultural campus that has helped sustain the neighborhood, attracted new residents and area investment.鈥� They鈥檝e received corporate support from Target, BASF, and General Motors.

The Michigan initiative is a 3-acre farm focusing on food insecurity in one of Detroit鈥檚 historic communities that was once home to a thriving Black middle class. Now the  is under $25,000, and about 35% of the residents are homeowners.

The Detroit agrihood model plans to provide a Community Resource Center with educational programs and meeting space across from the garden, a caf茅, and two commercial kitchens.

鈥淔or us, food insecurity is the biggest issue,鈥� says, Quan Blunt, the Michigan initiative鈥檚 farm manager. 鈥淭he closest [fresh] produce store to this neighborhood is Whole Foods [4 miles away in Midtown], and you know how expensive they can be.鈥�

MUFI grows lots of hot peppers and collard greens, because that is what North Enders like, Blunt says. But they鈥檙e also an . At MUFI, one of their sustainability goals is to create hot sauces from their fresh peppers to sell. The farm also has rows and rows of other vegetable varieties all dotted with marigolds, which help keep bugs away, organically.

Blunt, who joined the Peace Corps after college to do food security work in India, was born and raised in Detroit, and is proud of the agricultural heritage passed down through his family.

My grandmother grew up in this neighborhood,鈥� says Blunt, a graduate of Michigan State University鈥檚 College of Agriculture who majored in Food Science and Environmental Studies. Growing up in Detroit, labeled a 鈥渇ood desert,鈥� was a major motivation for Blunt to enter the agricultural field. 鈥淧eople deserve fresh food,鈥� Blunt says, 鈥淚 believe good nutrition can help people reach their potential.鈥�

Blunt says MUFI recognizes the importance of being a part of the community, and works closely with the North End Block Club. MUFI has served them in ways such as neighborhood cleanups, he says. With a trip to the farm, one can see that the grass is neatly manicured, even at abandoned property near the area.

鈥淐ommunity members can use our tools, our lawnmower,鈥� Blunt says. 鈥淲henever we get large numbers of volunteers [for the farm], we go first to the block club president to see what she needs done. The goal here is to strengthen the community.鈥�

At MUFI, produce is free to all. The farm is open for harvesting on Saturday mornings.

The free-food concept has been a topic of debate within urban farming communities, particularly those whose focus is food sovereignty, controlling the means of one鈥檚 own food production and distribution.

The Detroit Black Community Food Security Network has spent more than a decade working toward this end. The community-based nonprofit membership organization recently celebrated 13 years of service to the city. The Detroit network operates D-Town Farm, the largest of the Detroit鈥檚 gardens and farms, on the city鈥檚 west side.

鈥淸At D Town] we are most interested in fostering self-determination,鈥� the network鈥檚 executive director Malik Yakini says.

The 7-acre farm grows more than 30 different fruits, vegetables and herbs, which are sold at local farmers markets and to wholesale customers at the farm. It employs five people part time, and hosts up to 40 to 50 volunteers weekly during the busy summer months.

鈥淯rban agriculture is not a one size fits all venture,鈥�&苍产蝉辫; Yakini says. 鈥淭here are various motivations behind it.鈥�

Some folks are trying to improve food insecurity and access to fresh fruits and vegetables, and some do it because they think it is a good community exercise, he says.

鈥淥ur purpose is to get Black people working on their own behalf,鈥� Yakini explains. 鈥淭hat is not to say that garden leadership has to be exclusively Black, but in a majority Black city [which Detroit is], we hope that the gardening organizations reflect the population.鈥� For Yakini, building gardens in Detroit is to build economic and environmental justice as well.

Oakland Avenue Urban Farm鈥攁lso in the North End, and a neighbor of MUFI鈥攕ells its produce as well, and products created from that produce, such as their delicious fruit jam, Afro Jam. But Jerry Ann Hebron, the Oakland farm鈥檚 executive director, allows bartering for volunteer hours or service to the farm.

At Oakland Avenue, community events are frequent. Farm-to-table dinners, parties, and other opportunities to gather is a priority. 鈥淭he Oakland Avenue corridor, historically, was important to Detroit,鈥� Hebron explains. The neighborhood was the northern extension of the historic Hastings Street, where Black entrepreneurship prospered. 鈥淎nd because it is where we chose to do this work, it was important to have a space that is for the community and they could feel connected to.鈥�

Detroit鈥檚 agricultural neighborhoods, whether or not branded as an 鈥渁grihood,鈥� are attractions for newcomers to the city. Gardens, to some, signal safety in a city that has for many years been labeled as 鈥渢he most dangerous鈥� or 鈥渕ost violent鈥� for many years. And as more transplants make Detroit home, the hundreds of acres of vacant land across the sprawling 139-square-mile city are prime real estate opportunities for new developments.

Real estate entrepreneur and investor Rondre鈥� 鈥淜ey鈥� Brooks says as he sells homes to clients he finds that they are not just looking to buy a home, but to buy into a neighborhood and community.

鈥淎gricultural neighborhoods bring a different look and feel to the community,鈥� Brooks says. 鈥淲hile there are the obvious healthy lifestyle benefits, they also create a more appealing environment.鈥�

For MUFI鈥檚 Quan Blunt, Detroit鈥檚 embrace of agriculture paints an optimistic picture, 鈥淎ir quality would go up. Nutrition would improve,鈥� he says wistfully, 鈥淲hat a city Detroit could be.鈥�

Today, coffeehouses are still meeting places for business dealings and idealogical musings.

Last month, two young Black entrepreneurs visited a Philadelphia Starbucks to meet with a business associate. A minutes after the men arrived. The video of the arrest went viral. It’s not easy to forget the image of these men standing quietly in handcuffs—an eerie resemblance of enslaved men before them. Upon his arrival, their associate—a White man—made futile attempts to speak on their behalf. One of the young men later told a reporter that he feared for his life.

This week, Starbucks for four hours to conduct anti-bias training for its employees.

Centuries before a green-and-white mermaid logo became synonymous for lattes and free Wi-Fi, coffeehouses like the London Coffee House served as de facto organizers of financial markets in port cities on both sides of the Atlantic. People were lured by caffeine, of course, but moreover by the open exchange of ideas and the chance to mingle in elegant but affordable comfort. These English-style coffeehouses became “really important to the development of capitalism [in] London [from] the 17th to 19th century,” says Markman Ellis, author of The Coffee House: A Cultural History. During that period, the legendary London financial infrastructure was still forming. “People would go to a particular coffeehouse in order to meet a particular kind of merchant” who specialized in procuring the goods or capital for that industry, says Ellis.

For example, William Lloyd’s Coffee House in London specialized in being the first in getting marine news, such as arrivals and shipwrecks. Maritime businessmen met there with ship operators to arrange the trading of cargo and invest in future voyages. Merchants and traders profited from the transatlantic slave trade before abolition “not only in the buying and selling of slaves,” Ellis says, but also in the “whole marine business of ship insurance and mortgages to sea captains.” This commerce network sparked the creation of Lloyd’s of London and helped other businesses across Britain, such as Barclays prosper.

In the Cornhill section of London, there were coffeehouses that connected people with interests in the particular colonies, such as the Virginia Coffee House and the Jamaica Coffee House. Traders, bankers, and Lloyd’s merchants also met in coffeehouses in Bristol, England, to enrich themselves with profits from processed in that city between 1698 and 1807. It’s not surprising then that English-style coffeehouses spread to the British colonies very early, says Ellis, although there were fewer of them. There was one in Boston before there was one in Paris, he adds.

Today, the global coffee chain Starbucks markets itself as a public space. But for whom?

“[In the colonies], as the coffeehouse world is emerging, you don’t have large scale commercial banks to the same extent that you have [them] in the 19th century,” says Edward Baptist, scholar and writer of The Half Has Never Been Told: Slavery and the Making of American Capitalism. This scenario “means that the movement of capital in many cases is individual-to-individual, across mercantile networks that are knit together by relationships and family networks,” Baptist explains. While there was no real aristocracy in the colonies to navigate, coffeehouses became a “transition point” to connect people, “allowing erosion of the traditionalist grip on both politics and the economy of the Atlantic world.”

“From the 16th through the 19th century, the use of enslaved people’s bodies, futures, and families, the exploitation of their own hopes [was] everywhere and constant” in the economic system, says Baptist. Slavery-based commerce—and not just slave ownership—allowed Northerners and other people outside the plantation system to partake in the immense financial profits from slavery. Coffeehouses—a great place to connect goods and capital streams with seekers—facilitated the very aspect of slavery that amplified capitalism. “[In this system], enslaved peoples’ bodies are not only bought and sold, but made into part of these processes of credit and more rapid flow of finance,” Baptist says.

William Bradford opened his (there was an earlier one) in Philadelphia in 1754 at the corner of Front and High (now Front and Market) with funding from 200 merchants who wanted a place to assemble. Nearly 40 years later, just 100 miles away, the New York Stock Exchange was launched by merchants and traders in the Tontine Coffee House at 82 Wall Street. Shipowners registered their vessels with the exchange, and a monetary value was assigned to their freight, including the living cargo from Africa. “The aspiration of the city’s founders was to be the leading slave trading port in the Americas,” says historian Leslie Harris. At its height of activity in the Triangular Trade, New York City lagged only behind Charleston, South Carolina, in number of imported enslaved Africans.

“When we think about the end of slavery in the North, it is important to note that in New York and Philadelphia, no slaves were freed by abolition laws,” says Harris. Rather, formerly enslaved and those born to them continued to be bought and sold as indentured servants for years after legislation was passed. Indentured or freed Blacks could have also worked in the coffeehouses. After emancipation, however, they were kept out of the jobs they once performed because they were seen as competition by the White working class.

“Capitalism rests on the work, endeavors, and exploitation of non-White people.”

Today, the global coffee chain Starbucks markets itself too as a public space. But for whom? Like the drinking houses of prior centuries, the company touts an “all are welcome” policy, but their atmosphere, as well as the price and type of drinks on the menu, and discrimination by some employees, may imply otherwise.

The modern coffeeshop, for many, represents a more conducive working space than the cubicle system. But in the likeness of its predecessor, it doesn’t seem to be intended for all of us to experience it in the same way. “Capitalism rests on the work, endeavors, and exploitation of non-White people,” says Baptist. “And so does some of the assumptions about who gets to participate in what level of the economy, who gets to make decisions, and who gets to move in those kinds of innovative spaces.” He continues: “Those ideas seem in some cases to be very deeply cemented into many folks’ understanding of who capitalism is for.”

According to Baptist, the emergence of public spaces such as English-style coffeehouses is seen as a democratizing process. These establishments, despite their role in the commerce of slavery, provided people across social classes—originally White men, but later people of color and women—with places to launch revolutions. In addition to American colonists, some abolitionists organizing in 1790s London, such as Olaudah Equiano, “valued the openness of the coffeehouse to all kinds of people” and chose to use these spaces instead of private homes or religious edifices, says Ellis.

Twenty-first-century Philadelphia has Black-owned coffeehouses, in the tradition of those abolitionists, running quiet radical movements of their own.

, owner of Amalgam Comics & Coffeehouse, may have lacked the access to capital that William Bradford, Starbucks’ founders, and others had, but she has leveraged her personal savings, city grants, and other innovative financing solutions to launch her business. Now one of the most popular comic book establishments in the country, Amalgam has become an alternative to the traditional “White, hetero-normative spaces,” she says.

While companies like Starbucks step up to address historical social ills, there are other emerging spaces that welcome everyone.

Johnson says, “[We] support and highlight the voices of people of color and LGTBQ, as well as professional and business development opportunities.”

But the reality is that  until now has been quite prominent in American society鈥攁nd not just in the South.

His statue stands between the two chambers of the House and Senate in the South Carolina Statehouse. However, a separate statue in Charleston has been  from the town square after nationwide protests sparked by the killing of George Floyd during an encounter with police. The statue had stood for 124 years just a block from , site of the  of nine Black worshippers by an avowed white supremacist. The church is also on Calhoun Street. 

Despite his historic prominence, Calhoun鈥檚 days as a revered icon in the public sphere are gradually coming to an end.

Calhoun is all around us

Numerous cities and counties, streets and roads, schools, and other public places are named for Calhoun, a  who served as , , , and two terms as .

For instance, the  sits in the capitol complex in Columbia, South Carolina鈥檚 state capital city.

Counties are named for him in his , as well as , , , and elsewhere in the South. There is even a  named for him. 

Major streets in Columbia and Charleston still bear his name.

Colleges and universities

Despite his prominence elsewhere, Calhoun is about to become less prominent on the landscape of American higher education.

The board of trustees at Clemson University, a public university,  June 12 that its Honors College would no longer be named after Calhoun.

South Carolina鈥檚 prevents renaming of buildings without legislative approval, but the honors college is an organizational unit, not a building.

This is a particularly significant development given that Clemson University sits on what was once , which his daughter and her husband, Thomas Clemson, inherited.

While public memorials of Calhoun appear to be on the decline, what I find more significant鈥攁nd more troublesome鈥攊s the way that Calhoun鈥檚 ideology has been ingrained in the American culture and psyche鈥攑rimarily because his ideas were embraced in U.S. institutions of higher learning long after his death.

I make this observation as a historian and author of a chapter for the , Persistence Through Peril: Episodes of College Life and Academic Endurance in the Civil War South.

Who was he?

, who was born in 1782 and died a decade before the Civil War began, in 1850, was not only a  and an ardent defender of slavery, but a chief architect of the political system that allowed slavery to persist.

More enduring than the effects of his political career鈥攚hich included the  to expand the number of slaveholding states 鈥攁re the repercussions of his political ideology. 

As a political theorist, Calhoun is best known for two ideas: 鈥溾�� and 鈥渘ullification.鈥� A concurrent majority is the notion that a minority of the electorate鈥攏amely, one with money and property鈥攃an veto a political majority.

This idea is related to his belief in  theory, which is the idea that a state can void federal laws. Nullification made the idea of South Carolina seceding from the nation鈥攁nd the creation of the Confederacy鈥攁 political possibility and then a reality. 

Calhoun laid out his arguments for these ideas in his treatise 鈥�.鈥�

While some Americans defended slavery as a 鈥溾�� Calhoun viewed slavery as 鈥�.鈥�

He held , declaring: 鈥淲别 make a great mistake when we suppose that all people are capable of self-government.鈥�

The Calhoun curriculum

Calhoun鈥檚 political doctrines were taught explicitly in college classrooms for decades after his death. are still in the curriculum.

His own views on nullification theory, states鈥� rights, and secession were formed when he studied at Yale University, where the college鈥檚 president, , introduced to him the espoused the idea that New England could leave the young nation and become a separate country. Yale named a residential college in his honor in 1931. It  after the intense pressure from students and alumni after the Charleston massacre at the Mother Emanuel Church.

In the chapter that I am writing for Persistence through Peril, I am explaining how Calhoun鈥檚 ideologies permeated Southern institutions of higher education. His views were taught at the Military Academy of South Carolina, before, during, and after the Civil War. When those cadets studied the U.S. Constitution, their professors and texts emphasized Calhoun鈥檚 interpretation of it.

, a Citadel graduate and Confederate Army colonel who served as professor, superintendent, and later trustee at The Citadel, heaped praise upon Calhoun, having served as editor for  in 1857.

In a speech given at Clemson University on June 22, 1897, Thomas declared, 鈥泪迟 is conceded that Calhoun鈥檚 standard in the science of government is so lofty as in some respects to be unattainable in our day and generation.鈥�

The road ahead

Decades of teaching a particular doctrine do not fade easily or quickly. The United States is now witnessing another  with protests for social justice. Symbols of racism and white supremacy are being removed from higher education. 

On June 17, the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill Board of Trustees  its  on renaming buildings, put in place after the statue known as 鈥溾�� was torn down in 2018.

The , which includes the University of Georgia, also moved in June 2020 to review the names of its buildings. This would include the University of Georgia鈥檚 Grady School of Journalism, which is named after Henry Grader, an .

After Calhoun鈥檚 death in 1850, his colleague in the Senate,  of Missouri, remarked about him: 鈥淗e is not dead. There may be no vitality in his body, but there is in his doctrines.鈥� He was prophetic in his words. 

Calhoun鈥檚 ideologies , gave comfort to those who believed in the 鈥溾�� (that is, to show the Civil War in the best light possible from the Confederate point of view), and perpetuated the teaching of racist and white supremacist attitudes.

Because the ideas he espoused have flourished, I believe that dismantling his legacy will take much more than just removing statues of his likeness or renaming buildings, streets, and other public places named in his honor.

This article was originally published by . It has been published here with permission.

But as we face the prospect of another potential Trump presidency, the architects of Project 2025 have made it clear that overturning Roe was just the first in a multistep plan to eradicate access to safe abortion. Though the Republican Party removed a federal abortion ban from its official party platform, there鈥檚 something more sinister that鈥檚 been hiding in plain sight for 150 years.

, signed into law in 1873, made it a federal offense to disseminate contraceptives, abortifacients, and information about either across state lines or through the mail. Named after Anthony Comstock, an anti-obscenity crusader who inspired the title of the biographical book , the Comstock Law had far-reaching tentacles. Even married couples who used contraception could be sentenced to up to one year in prison.

Over time, various challenges to the Comstock Act, including in 1936, which made it possible for physicians to distribute contraception across state lines; in 1964, which established the constitutional right to contraception; and, of course, in 1973, essentially made it unenforceable. However, the law was never repealed and has instead become a 鈥渮ombie law,鈥� a term used to describe laws still on the books that have been overruled by other legal cases. Take, for instance, Arizona鈥檚 1864 abortion ban, a zombie law that became legally viable after the Supreme Court struck down Roe v. Wade. Though , it still remained on the books long enough to instill fear in those .

Now, after the fall of Roe, Project 2025 plans to revive the zombie Comstock Act and make it workable. Since it鈥檚 already on the books, Congress isn鈥檛 required to pass the Comstock Act. Instead, a president and appointed judges can choose whether to enforce it. Project 2025 architects hope that, if given another term, Trump will do just that.

A Significant Threat to Abortion

in the U.S. Since Roe fell in June 2022, every single time the issue has been on the ballot, even in traditionally conservative states like Kansas, Montana, and Ohio. While a national abortion ban could threaten congressional seats for Republicans, it would also require control of both houses of Congress and the executive branch, a higher threshold than simply winning the presidency. So, it seems, the architects of Project 2025 have developed a workaround to meet their aims.

After Roe was overturned, issued guidance about whether the Comstock Act could be used to criminalize someone who receives mifepristone and misoprostol through the United States Postal Service. 鈥淲别 conclude that section 1461 does not prohibit the mailing, or the delivery or receipt by mail, of mifepristone or misoprostol where the sender lacks the intent that the recipient of the drugs will use them unlawfully,鈥� the memorandum opinion states. 鈥淔ederal law does not prohibit the use of mifepristone and misoprostol,鈥� the memorandum continues. 鈥淚ndeed, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (鈥楩DA鈥�) has determined the use of mifepristone in a regimen with misoprostol to be safe and effective for the medical termination of early pregnancy.鈥�

But under a Trump presidency, the DOJ would likely have a different view, especially since Project 2025 explicitly calls for 鈥渁gainst providers and distributors of [abortion] pills.鈥�

Additionally, the spate of radical, far-right judges Trump appointed during his first term have already proven their willingness to to curb access to abortion. In 2023, , who has deep ties to the anti-abortion movement, defied court precedent to suspend the approval of mifepristone. 鈥淭he Court does not second-guess FDA鈥檚 decision-making lightly,鈥� he wrote in his decision. 鈥淏ut here, FDA acquiesced on its legitimate safety concerns鈥攊n violation of its statutory duty鈥攂ased on plainly unsound reasoning and studies that did not support its conclusions.鈥�

If Trump is able to appoint even more partisan judges like Kacsmaryk to the federal bench, it鈥檚 possible they would use the Comstock Act to criminalize folks sending or receiving mifepristone and misoprostol (or even information about it) through the mail. 鈥淚f the Comstock [Act] were enforced, it would seriously impact the work we do,鈥� says Sneha S. Nair, partnerships coordinator at , a collection of online platforms that provides abortion and contraception information and services. 鈥淲别 rely on digital platforms to share [sexual and reproductive health] content worldwide, and restrictions like the Comstock [Act] could lead to significant censorship and suppression of vital information.鈥�

But even the threat of Comstock being enforced is concerning for abortion advocates and providers. 鈥淲hat people believe the law to be is just as important, if not more so, than what the law actually is,鈥� says Farah Diaz-Tello, senior counsel and legal director at , a legal organization that aims to transform the policy landscape to make reproductive justice a reality. 鈥淲hen people have to second-guess what their options are and they just know that there鈥檚 a sort of vague and looming fear of criminalization 鈥� that is not a risk that everybody has the privilege to tolerate.鈥�

For Black and Brown people, who have already for pregnancy outcomes, even the threat of an enforceable Comstock Law could be enough of a deterrent to prevent them from seeking necessary care.

Refusing to Be Silent

While Project 2025鈥檚 architects may be banking on the Comstock Act, they will have to contend with a network of providers and advocates refusing to put the genie back in the draconian bottle. For example, 鈥檚 post-Dobbs campaign, 鈥�,鈥� promotes information about and access to medication abortion online.

Similarly, the , a DIY medical collective, has literally turned into medication abortion. Embedded in the cards are three doses of misoprostol, which can be used on its own to induce an abortion, and since it鈥檚 a paper card, the pills are harder to detect.

Others believe the best way to combat Project 2025鈥檚 insidious ploy to use the Comstock Act as a backdoor abortion ban is to refuse to be cowed into silence about the revolutionary power of being able to terminate a pregnancy in your own home.

Today, the in the U.S. are induced through medication, most often a combination of the drugs mifepristone and misoprostol. Telehealth for abortion care, in which a provider virtually prescribes these drugs to patients, has become , even in states with abortion bans.

鈥淭he number of people served through telehealth has just grown exponentially since the pandemic,鈥� says Elisa Wells, co-founder and co-director of , which promotes access to medication abortion online. 鈥淸When people find out] that you can get an abortion by the mail, which is a really new idea 鈥� they think, 鈥榃ow, that鈥檚 amazing!鈥欌��

Research from the revealed that in the second half of 2023, more than 40,000 people in states that restrict telehealth or ban abortion were able to receive medication abortion from providers in that protect providers from being criminalized. Plan C鈥檚 website traffic has surged since Dobbs; Wells says they now receive approximately 2 million visitors annually.

There鈥檚 also the option of self-managing abortion with abortion pills. For people in states with severe restrictions or bans, self-managed medical abortion with pills has become an option for many who otherwise wouldn鈥檛 have access to abortion care. Plan C, for example, showcases many sites that prescribe and mail medication abortion to folks directly, including and .

There is a vast digital ecosystem of medication abortion information and services that abortion seekers can have mailed right to their door鈥攗nless Project 2025 goes into effect.

鈥溾�嬧�媁hat we are most concerned about is that people have access to accurate information about how to get the pills, how to use the pills, and the fact that in some states there might be legal risks associated with using the pills,鈥� says Wells. 鈥淓very day is a risk assessment, and people can make good decisions about their lives. It鈥檚 not for me to say about somebody else鈥檚 life. What鈥檚 the best choice for you?鈥�

As support for immigration has waned, Donald Trump, in his most tried and true political move, has stoked a moral panic over rising 鈥渕igrant crime,鈥� fearmongering and pitting communities of color against each other to gain votes. Meanwhile, President Joe Biden has not only gone along with the narrative, but his administration has gutted the asylum system and outsourced immigration enforcement to Mexico, exacerbating the U.S.-manufactured crisis at the border and leading to more senseless deaths and precarity in the borderlands and beyond. Vice President Kamala Harris has followed the lead of the president she hopes to succeed.

I have organized around immigration for over two decades, during which Democrats repeatedly succumbed to their opponents鈥� playbook and positioned the issue as a national security and public safety issue. Yet even in this climate, there is no escaping how surreal this moment is. In , I write about how moral panics and so-called 鈥渢ough on crime鈥� policies have facilitated the expansion of immigrant detention. The Democrats鈥� play on immigration feels akin to the Clinton era in the 鈥�90s, when Republicans took hold of Congress for the first time in decades. The 1994 crime bill, along with immigration laws passed by Congress in 1996,  of the criminal legal and immigration enforcement systems, doubling the capacity of the immigrant detention apparatus.

Later during President Barack Obama鈥檚 tenure, his administration expanded collaborations with local police and ramped up border enforcement to make the case for comprehensive immigration reform and a path to citizenship for undocumented immigrants. As a result, deportations skyrocketed, earning him the moniker 鈥渄eporter in chief.鈥� But as I write in the book, years of accepting border militarization and criminalization as a strategy to bring relief to 鈥渋nnocent鈥� immigrants in the United States have only resulted in more dehumanization of migrants in general, thus creating more barriers to securing legalization for the 11 million undocumented people living here. Despite this lesson, many organizations are falling back into the 鈥済ood immigrant versus bad immigrant鈥� frame鈥攐r in this case, the old immigrant versus the new immigrant, making the case for some at the expense of others.

It all feels incredibly bleak. But I try to remind myself that there have been numerous moments when anti-immigrant sentiment has ruled the political discourse only to retreat as movements fought back: California in the 鈥�90s after the passage of the harsh ballot measure Proposition 187; the 2006 immigrant rights marches that brought millions to the streets in response to the post-9/11 immigration crackdown; and more recently the boycotts of the state of Arizona protesting SB 1070, the 鈥渟how me your papers鈥� law that gave the state unconstitutional immigration enforcement authority. In some of our most dire political moments, immigrant communities, organizers, advocates, and ordinary people have stepped up to fight back, opening space for crucial movement victories.

After the gut punch that was the 2016 election result, organizers and advocates have more seriously engaged in . Sometimes these sessions only serve to cause more anxiety. But they have also been critical spaces to figure out how our movements can prepare. It is important to recognize that we have lost ground since the 2020 onset of the COVID-19 pandemic and the near-simultaneous mass uprising for Black lives, which produced significant leftward shifts on mass incarceration, policing, and immigration enforcement. Since then, the backlash has been building, and opportunities for major victories are now out of reach. In many ways, the current conditions require us to return to the basics of organizing and movement building. There are no easy solutions, and broadening the base of support is our best bet for combating the harmful narratives about immigrants and immigration.

Since the release of Project 2025,  about what a second Trump term would look like on immigration. His administration would strip status from millions of undocumented people who benefit from programs such as Temporary Protected Status, which allows them to live and work in the United States. This would make them even more vulnerable to deportation. Along with local, state, and federal police forces, a second Trump administration plans to deploy the National Guard to round up immigrants already residing in the United States and warehouse them in detention camps across the country. The proposals conjure up images from World War II, when Japanese Americans were labeled 鈥渆nemies of the state鈥� and incarcerated in 鈥渞elocation centers.鈥� In addition to the full-on attack of immigrants currently living in the country, the plans include a more robust Muslim and African ban and other efforts to shut down the border to people seeking refuge. Other proposals that have been floated, such as ending birthright citizenship, are more outlandish and difficult to accomplish, but the intent is clear. Right-wing politicians have embraced the racist 鈥溾�� theory, and the goal is to end immigration as we know it.

In the case of a Trump election win, demanding that the Biden administration dismantle the detention and deportation systems and rescind harsh border policies will be imperative. So far Biden has received a pass from liberals and even some immigration advocates on his ramping up of enforcement, but the short period of time between the election and inauguration will require a united front to make Stephen Miller鈥檚 dark agenda that much harder to implement. Once Trump is in office, there will no doubt be a relentless onslaught of executive orders requiring rapid response. Many will turn to litigation, but there are obvious limitations given the makeup of the courts. And if we want to build for the long-term, it is critical that we invest in organizing and base building.

It may seem difficult to imagine a Trump administration being affected by mass mobilization, but in 2018, after widespread public outrage, he ended the zero-tolerance policy separating families at the border. Separations continued, but not at the same scale. As immigrant communities are targeted, going local in our strategies will also take center stage to mitigate the harm of his administration. Creating spaces for sanctuary and community defense networks, limiting collaboration between police and ICE, and waging campaigns to prevent detention expansion will be essential to throwing a wrench in their plans. We must also create on-ramps for those newly engaged or returning to the fight, fortifying the movement to protect communities now and build for the future when there may be openings.

As for Harris, her  made clear that she is positioning herself as tough on immigration and will continue to campaign around what both parties like to call 鈥渂order security.鈥� Depending on the makeup of the House and Senate, an immigration bill could move in Congress in 2025. The bipartisan Senate border bill proposed earlier this year, and , created a new floor for how much Democrats are willing to trade off to get something passed. Before this point, legalization for a large portion of undocumented immigrants was always on the table, but in this instance the tradeoff was more funding for military aid to Ukraine and Israel, and nonpunitive reforms to the system were minimal.

The border panic has divided the movement, but it鈥檚 imperative for us to understand that anti-immigrant sentiment is driven in part by rampant and widening social inequality. Solidarity across movements for racial and economic justice and against U.S. militarism will be essential as we tackle the rightward lurch on immigration. Now is the time to offer an alternative approach, one grounded in a vision of a world without cages that embraces the freedom of movement鈥攐ne in which all our communities can thrive.

In addition to border policy, we should anticipate a Harris administration to follow Biden鈥檚 approach to interior enforcement. Despite Biden proclaiming a hundred days into his presidency that there should be 鈥渘o private prisons, period,鈥� his administration is still  and expanding their use. As of this summer, ICE has  for at least seven new detention centers in the Chicago, El Paso, Harlingen, Phoenix, Salt Lake City, San Francisco, and Seattle jurisdictions. Much as if Trump were to win, similar strategies of ending ICE鈥損olice collaborations and preventing detention expansion would be paramount.

Already sanctuary policies are being attacked, as a moral panic is stoked over 鈥渕igrant crime.鈥� In an attempt to debunk these claims, many organizations have emphasized data showing that immigrants commit fewer crimes than do citizens. But this only serves to accept public safety as a metric for immigration and ends up throwing  under the bus, effectively pitting working-class communities against each other. A better understanding of  with immigration enforcement has helped the movement limit deportations. Given the backlash moment we鈥檙e in, we must continue to challenge the whole system and not fall into the moral panic over crime.

Just as concerning is how conservative states have acted under Biden, which we can expect to continue under a Harris administration. From Texas to Florida, states across the country are enacting some of the harshest anti-immigrant legislation we鈥檝e ever seen. Through these efforts, such as Operation Lone Star and SB 4 in Texas, states are commandeering state-level criminal legal systems to target and prosecute migrants as well as people providing aid to migrants. SB 4, for example, includes a 10-year minimum sentence for 鈥渉uman smuggling鈥� or 鈥渉arboring鈥� undocumented immigrants. Governor Greg Abbott and Texas officials are essentially dictating immigration policy for the whole country. By filing lawsuits against forms of administrative relief such as DACA, deploying its own deportation force, and busing migrants to sanctuary cities, Texas has gone on a rampage, and Biden has done very little to intervene. If Harris wins, the question remains whether, given her history as a state attorney general, she will be more likely to push back on Texas and other states. But based on her recent comments on immigration, it is clear that she will need to be pushed, and we need to prioritize building up grassroots capacity to protect immigrant communities and fight back in these states.

The coming months will undoubtedly bring more heartache and confusion for immigrant communities. Regardless of who is president, educating people about their rights and expanding our base will be essential to building power toward longer-term change. Across the country, organizers and advocates are already planning for either outcome, hoping to be more prepared than we were in 2016. Dozens of organizations have gathered in multiple forums, such as Democracy 2025 and the Immigrant Movement Visioning Process, to develop strategies for preventing mass deportations if the worst were to happen. In this environment, abolition is a helpful tool for analysis and guidance. We must reject the reduction of immigrant lives to 鈥減ublic safety鈥� and 鈥渘ational security鈥� frameworks, and we must instead put forth a narrative of belonging and collectivity that helps bridge our struggles for racial and migrant justice. In this moment of political fervor, now is the time to start planting the seeds for a more grounded and accountable movement.

This article was originally published by . It has been republished here with permission. This essay was written in the author鈥檚 personal capacity. The views expressed are her own and and do not necessarily represent the views of Detention Watch Network. 

I鈥檝e written about my听grandfather鈥檚 story听补苍诲 about how redlining affected my family. But I never fully explored how this legacy continues to impact the housing situation of my family and many others. The legacy of redlining and housing discrimination has exacerbated California鈥檚 already devastating housing crisis for the Black community. As a result, California鈥檚 major cities stand to lose community members who have made some of the biggest contributions to our state鈥檚 rich culture.听

At the heart of all this is one simple question: Does every Californian have a right to remain in the city that they call home?

My family history on my mother鈥檚 side is relatable for many African Americans. My grandfather, Dave Campbell (from Galveston, Texas), and my grandmother, Lillian Lane (from Memphis, Tennessee), both hailed from the South. Like many Black folks from their time, my grandparents and their families moved to the West Coast to escape the crushing racial prejudices of the Jim Crow era. My grandmother arrived in 1943, and my grandfather arrived around 1950. This mass exodus, known as the Second Great Migration, shepherded thousands of Black families to regions like the Bay Area, where they hoped for a better future and more opportunities. 

Sadly, in California, many of these families faced redlining, discrimination, and police brutality. Nonetheless, they settled here, helping to shape the Bay Area鈥檚 trendsetting culture, politics, and distinct sense of identity. In the decades that followed, Black residents in Oakland, where I live, created things as varied as the Black Panther Party to the musical and countercultural hyphy movement. They led America鈥檚 fight against South African apartheid, thanks to the . Black Oaklanders also set down roots by building churches, opening popular small businesses, and even creating an  that helps all Oaklanders understand the role Black cowboys played in American history. The Black community in my beloved city of Oakland has often been on the forefront of radical and cutting-edge politics and culture.

Now, Oakland is losing the identity that Black Oaklanders worked so hard to create. The city is hemorrhaging its Black population due to gentrification.

My Mother鈥檚 Story

To get a sense of how living in Oakland has changed over time, I talked to a longtime Black resident and the most reliable source I know: my mom. Karen Campbell was born and raised in West Oakland and attended McClymonds High School. When she was growing up, in the 1960s and 鈥�70s, West Oakland was one of the few communities where working-class African Americans like my grandparents could afford to live and purchase a home. My mom hoped to do the same when she grew up. In 1990, the time came for her to leave her parents鈥� house, but housing prices had already begun to rise, and she found herself with limited options. 

Apartments near the centrally located Lake Merritt were far too expensive for her budget as a fast-food worker. The most affordable option was to rent in East Oakland, but my mom worried that the area鈥攖hen ravaged by violence due to the crack-cocaine epidemic鈥攚ould be unsafe for a single woman living alone. With a heavy heart, she left Oakland and moved in with an uncle in San Jose who needed a roommate to split the rent with. She left behind her close friends, childhood home, church, and community.

My mom continued to dream of one day owning a house in Oakland. But when she began the hunt for a home again in the mid-2000s, now with a union job in the Alameda County Superior Court system and a middle-class income, there was nothing left within her price range. She did find an affordable option in Vallejo, 30 minutes north, but backed out after a lender attempted to sneak a balloon payment into the mortgage agreement that she never would have been able to pay. 

Eventually, she did move back to West Oakland, but as a renter. Extended family had sold my grandparents鈥� home long ago, never imagining this would lock them out of the housing market indefinitely. Today, my mom rents a duplex owned by her childhood church, which generously keeps her rent low enough so she can afford it. 

Many of my mother鈥檚 Black friends and co-workers who grew up in Oakland have not been so lucky. Although they still work in the city, some commute 2 to 3 hours each way from as far as Sacramento for work, church, or community events. Many others have given up on the dream of homeownership and moved away for good.

An Exodus of People of Color

As I finish grad school, prepare to reenter the workforce, and plan for my future, I, too, must grapple with the issues that affected my mom, including unaffordable home prices and limited access to equitable financial support for homeownership.

The reality is that living in Oakland has slipped out of reach for many Black residents. This is happening across the state as Black Californians move from urban cores to more affordable regions. But the Bay Area is seeing one of the largest exoduses of people of color. Of all large U.S. metropolitan regions, the Bay Area has the  in education and affluence between in-movers and out-movers. People moving to the Bay Area tend to be wealthier, highly educated, and either . In contrast, a disproportionate share of low-income out-migrants from the Bay Area are Black and Latino. Over time, this type of disparity deeply reshapes the sociocultural and economic makeup of communities while also pushing historically oppressed groups to the peripheries and away from centers of economic opportunity.

It鈥檚 clear that housing unaffordability is a major factor that drives Black Oaklanders out of the city鈥攕o what can we do about it? I鈥檝e written about nonprofit organizations like the  that seek to preserve low-income housing stock and promote wealth-building by acquiring properties and selling or renting them at affordable rates. Land trust programs are helpful, but more needs to be done to address the systemic issues that impact Black Californians.

Policymakers need to go further in protecting Black Californians from predatory financial products like the one that was offered to my mom. And they need to expand programs that promote Black homeownership and housing affordability. Research has shown that non-bank financial institutions have grown greatly in recent years,  home lenders in California being non-banks. These types of lenders are not subject to the regulations present in the Community Reinvestment Act, a law passed in 1977 to reverse redlining and shield low- and moderate-income communities from financial predation. 

Poor access to credit, predatory financial practices, and the nuances of the Bay Area housing market make homeownership challenging for many of the region鈥檚 Black residents. In California, Black residents access  of home loans despite making up more than 5% of the population. Many of the home purchase loans given to Black Californians are from non-bank lenders. 

I support efforts by racial equity advocates to increase accountability by further regulating non-bank financial institutions through a  for California. This would allow regulators to curtail racially discriminatory practices and also promote greater access to credit for Black households seeking to own or maintain their homes. Beyond this, policymakers must also continue to protect tenants and build affordable housing for low- and moderate-income Black families in cities like Oakland.

Oakland has been  for decades. Each loss represents a small tear in the rich cultural and social fabric that has held Oakland together for years. As housing costs continue to shatter the community and bleed Oakland of the rich culture that put it on the map, I fear for the city鈥檚 future. Now is the time for policymakers, housing advocates, and residents to come together and protect that diverse tapestry that makes Oakland and cities like it great. 

This commentary was produced in partnership with the .

In 2018, her work in creating and promoting D铆a de los Muertos-themed altars was recognized with the nation鈥檚 highest honor for folk and traditional art with a  from the National Endowment for the Arts. 

She spoke with 猫咪社区! about the essential elements of altar-making and how she is passing on the family tradition to her children. Esparza is a mother to nine children. Her fifth child, Rosanna Esparza Ahrens, joined us partway through the conversation. 

This interview has been edited for length and clarity. 

Sonali Kolhatkar: Is there a standard method of altar-making among Mexican Americans or is it an evolving art?

Ofelia Esparza: Altares or ofrendas are a bridge between life and death, between the living and the dead. When we create an altar, we鈥檙e creating sacred space. 

Over the years I鈥檝e learned of different traditions, so I can鈥檛 really say what is the prototype for an altar, but the elements that I feel are important are the photographs, the candles, the flowers, of course, the food, incense, and papel picado. 

It鈥檚 become such an art form that many artists do representations of these elements, not necessarily the items themselves. 

There are so many ways of celebrating D铆a de los Muertos in Mexico, which of course has come over with the immigration of people into the United States, that I don鈥檛 say, 鈥楾his is the way it has to be.鈥� The way that I do it is based on my mother鈥檚 tradition. 

My mother always had an altar with photographs. To me those are the main pieces because the photographs are what generate the stories, and then the actual images of ancestors that you might not have known in person but that you know were part of your background. 

Read about how Chicano artists like Esparza helped promote the modern-day version of D铆a de los Muertos and how they are fighting against hyper-commercialization of the tradition.

Kolhatkar: Besides photographs of ancestors, are there any other elements to an altar that you feel are essential?

Esparza: I have to represent the four natural elements鈥攖hat goes back to Indigenous culture鈥攁nd that鈥檚&苍产蝉辫;wind, earth, fire, and water. 

Wind

In Mexico, and today here in the U.S., people are using papel picado. The papel picado are the cut paper banners that are made out of tissue paper that represent wind. So, with any breeze they move. They create the ambiance for the soul to come and partake of the altar that we have prepared for them. 

Also, candles are part of the wind element. 

Earth

Food and flowers represent Mother Earth. 

Marigold is essential, I believe. The marigold has a strong aroma, which beckons the soul, [saying], 鈥楬ere is your altar.鈥� The scent draws them to the altar. Also, in ancient times it represented the sun, which was the major element of the deities. 

We also make tissue paper flowers. That tradition came from my mother. Something handmade for the ofrenda is your offering. Ofrenda means offering and sometimes I use the words altar and ofrenda interchangeably. It鈥檚 an offering to our loved ones, our ancestors. 

The handcrafted or handmade items, including food, are part of your essence that you鈥檙e offering to this altar, to your ancestors. 

Fire

In addition to wind, candles also represent fire. 

And incense is also a representation of fire. We use copal, which is a natural incense that is traditionally used since ancient times. 

Water

You need a glass of water on the altar because the souls came from so far away, they were going to be very thirsty. That鈥檚 a tradition that I learned.  

Watch a video of Ofelia Esparza explaining the essentials of altar making:

Kolhatkar: Rosanna, what is it like to learn the tradition of altar-making from your mother? Can you share some experiences of making altars?

Rosanna Esparza Ahrens: I remember the flower-making. It鈥檚 almost therapeutic, mediative, because you鈥檙e cutting paper and manipulating it. It has this familiar sound from moving this tissue paper. There鈥檚 a lot of folding and cutting. And meanwhile we鈥檙e sharing stories or having coffee and pan dulce, or wine, or tequila depending on who鈥檚 present and what stories we鈥檙e sharing. 

And those flowers are part of the arch that is on the ofrenda. Once that arch is up, it鈥檚 like, now we can do everything else because it is the first thing that goes up. 

We bring all the items together. We鈥檝e made all the levels with shelves and boxes and covered them with fabric. We usually have three or four levels. Maybe there鈥檚 somebody that recently passed that you want to honor this year and so they have the higher position on the altar. And all the other ancestors are there because they鈥檙e all together. 

View a photo essay from the 2021 Noche de Ofrenda in Grand Park, Los Angeles, where Esparza set up her annual large-scale community听altar.听

While boarding the plane, we get the text. Mom was in the hospital.

My mother is a downwinder. She spent her early childhood in Kingman, Arizona, where the fallout of U.S. nuclear tests rained. She has nonsmoker’s lung cancer, diabetes, and blood clots. Now dialysis has entered the picture. She and my father left rural New Mexico for Phoenix, Arizona, when she first got sick. They figured big city doctors were better.

When my husband and I flew home that time in October 2017, we originally planned just a short visit to see my mom and dad. We’d use their house as a base camp, we had thought, fulfilling our filial duties before heading out for a two-week backpacking trek.

We’d loaded our backpacks with cold weather clothing, headlamps, two-person tent, sleeping bags, butane canisters, bug spray, powdered eggs, dry hummus—the usual stuff. But things didn’t go as planned.

Upon landing, we drove straight to Chandler Regional Medical Center. After four days, the doctors found the source of mom’s infection, and she stabilized. Dad told us to go on our trip anyway. He could see that we were tired of the waiting rooms, hurried doctors, cafeteria food. The white halls of institutionalized death are exhausting

As we jumped on the freeway to leave the suburban sprawl, I felt the pang of guilt. I was leaving my mother still in recovery. We were heading north to Sedona rather than southwest toward my homeland along the Colorado River and the Yuma Reservation where I was born and raised. Where most of my relatives still live.

Looking out the window as we climbed away from the valley’s buzz, I told myself my heart is in the right place. Far from being a rejection of my family, this trip would be a return to my spiritual values, I decided, a walking prayer for my ancestors and elders.

My bloodlines are more than half Native American, but thanks to the boarding school era, my elders all came from different tribes. My grandfather was born into the Quechan (Yuma) Nation in southeastern California, and I write about his traditions here.

We were delta dwellers, fish eaters, and bean growers living along the once-mighty Colorado. We thrived in an arid desert made fertile by the river’s rising. Every spring it busted its banks, and our people planted seeds when the waters receded.

We are a people of dreamers. Our way is the icama, a state of being that is more than ordinary sleep. Our elders teach us that our experience in the world manifests itself in two dimensions. Daytime experiences offer material gain; the dream world provides spiritual benefits. Nature writer Ellen Meloy writes about us as she hikes the canyons of our homeland, calling us sleepers “so laden with dreams that all during the day you carry them into waking thick as stones.”

The Yuma region is known for its geoglyphs, best visible from the windows of planes. Patterns, figures, and mazes cut into the desert by scraping off the dark top-layer of rocks to reveal the light-colored soil underneath. My ancestors hovered over the earth in their dream bodies, bringing designs from their sleep into their working day. They crafted routes followed by gods in the time of creation.

If I felt sad that my ancestors had been driven off these lands, I reminded myself that the land was still there.

Our people were whirled into existence in a windblown desert pockmarked by dust devils. Our desert trails are thousands of years old. Into the sandstone we roam, travelers, traders, long-distance trekkers, a people who find their sacred spaces with dreams and song. An old Arizona map I found in my basement refers to our beliefs in their legends: “Rock Maze built so the spirit of the dead could shake off the evil ones pursuing them in these tangled paths.”

I want to hike these tangled paths until I give my fears the slip. I want to exit the rock labyrinth with my peace of mind restored. I want to shake the anxiety of my mother’s impending death. Driving between Arcosanti and Camp Verde in the Coconino National Forest, my hospital headache started to fade. I couldn’t wait to tighten my boots and hit the trail.

My husband and I drove to the Red Rock Ranger Center to purchase our backcountry pass. I didn’t think twice about the $20 expense. The sandstone hoodoos—the spires, pinnacles, and cap rocks—are hard to maintain and protect.

When we arrived at the station, we found the parking lot packed with RVs, a gang of white-haired retirees milling around the information booth inside. The National Park Service’s centennial celebration had just ended, and the place was flooded with visitors. Looking around, I suddenly realized I was the only person of color in the station.

 of National Park visitors are people of color. The statistics are not surprising given the history of back country lynching and Native American removal campaigns. For many of us, America’s most stunning landscapes trigger memories of trauma. Survivors have nightmares in which they get hunted by blood hounds. To this day, the animalization of Native peoples as a tool for conquest makes some of us fearful of the outdoors: of sleeping outdoors without locked doors, or of being too closely connected to the outdoors in reductive, simplified, or romanticized ways.

Only twenty-two percent of National Park visitors are people of color.

My father grew up in the era when mountain resorts, alpine lakes, and soft sand beaches were labeled with signs that read “Whites Only.” He recounted a story about a powwow he went to with his family in the early 1950s. The Yuma Tribal Council rented an old school bus to take dancers and marching band members up north for the festivities, but as they passed through Sedona they were pulled over and harassed by the local sheriff and his deputies.

“We don’t like Indians in these parts,” they were told. The bus was turned inside out and their regalia were thrown on the side of the road. Dad said they were held for hours before the White bus driver finally managed to convince the sheriff it was OK to let them go. OK to let them go on the sacred land of their ancestors. OK to let them go, as long as the kids hiding and shaking under the bus seats understood that they didn’t belong.

Not me, I thought, as we chatted with the gang of RV owners in the visitor center. I had spent my adolescence in the 1980s sharing trails with White hikers and rock climbers all over the Southwest. But I had never begrudged anyone space on the trail. If I felt sad that my ancestors had been driven off these lands, I reminded myself that the land was still there, and I was still on it. Nothing was going to get between me and my sacred places.

Except perhaps the cost it took to get here after I moved away.

More than 20 years had passed since I last lived in the Southwest, and as we pitched our tent in Oak Creek Canyon and I plotted the week’s trails, I vowed to see the land and meet it where it was. Some things did not change, things I had somehow forgotten: the infinity pools at the top of mesas after an October rain, the sponginess of the wet soil under my boots, and the sound of mud falling off the bottom of the car like hail hitting pavement when we drove away. The enormous size of the crows and the way their wings make a scratching sound as they fly above you in a canyon.

Some things, on the other hand, did change: the cost of two eggs and a cup of coffee in downtown Sedona. The extra $10 per car and $2 per person fee at the start of the West Fork trail. The price of local real estate and the commercialization of the canyon with massage therapy, all-terrain vehicle tours, and other businesses catering to vortex seekers, outdoor enthusiasts, and retirees. The absurdity of the vision quest workshops and sweat lodge gurus charging tourists a mint.

My ancestors had wandered through here freely for centuries, but I saw no acknowledgement of my people or their memories.

When we approached the start of the West Fork trail, and a woman with a Make America Great Again hat told us we had to pay to use it, I broke down.

“It feels like Disneyland,” I told my husband. The trail fee wasn’t exorbitant. It was the principle of the thing. All around me I saw sacred beauty. My ancestors had wandered through here freely for centuries—it was their place to pray—but I saw no acknowledgement of my people or their memories. I had to pay a volunteer to visit.

Merrill Gates, chairman and then secretary of the Board of Indian Commissioners from 1899 to 1912, said losing the land was good for Natives. “We have to awaken in the savage Indian broader desires and ampler wants. To bring him out of savagery into citizenship we must make the Indian more intelligently selfish,” he said. He thought Native people had to learn the value of personal property, that we had to have “a pocket that aches to be filled with dollars.”

The capitalism in Sedona struck me, the way New Age seekers and retirees had transformed the place into something unrecognizable. My poorest cousins in Yuma would never be able to afford this place. And I wondered, if I had the money, would I live here?

Everywhere I looked I saw where money had purchased our Nation’s treasures. I resented this fact, but at the same time I knew it was greedy to wish outsiders away from this beauty. The sacred is meant for all.

Everywhere I looked I saw where money had purchased our Nation’s treasures.

My husband and I went to a diner to mull over our plan for the remaining days. We didn’t want to stay in Sedona. “Why don’t we hike down into the Grand Canyon?” I asked.

We both knew it was a long shot. Havasu and Beaver Falls have become famous for their aquamarine waters. The waterfalls sit on the Havasupai Reservation and the tribe only issues about 300 permits a day. Phone lines open on the first of February and spots for the entire season are filled within hours. Still, I decided to call them. I said nothing about being a Colorado River tribal member until after they praised my impeccable timing. I’d called on the heels of a cancellation.

The next day, we wended our way down the slot canyons and cottonwood-lined washes to the Havasupai’s tribal land. Once I told them I was an enrolled Quechan Yuma member, they refused to accept any payment for the nights we would stay there. “This is what Natives need,” I said as we hiked, a bit embarrassed to admit I wanted preferential treatment for my people.

But I do. Deeply discounted “senior passes” are offered to America’s retired citizens when they visit the great outdoors. Since the inception of the National Parks, pristine places have been set aside for wealthy individuals who need time off to relax. The concept of vacation—the eagerness to partake in the “wild” and feel a bit of nostalgia for yesteryear—is a privilege for those who can afford it. Vacationers drive prices up, too often holding local Indigenous populations at a distance from their own lands. My ancestors saw “wilderness” not as a place to retreat but as part and parcel of themselves.

My parents and grandparents were made sick by the loss of their land, by the development of the land, by the nuclear testing done on the land. When I return to Phoenix after our trip to the Grand Canyon, I stand by my mother’s bed and think of all my ancestors gave to this country to make it what it is today. I think of the blessing I received as I swam in Beaver Falls at the Havasupai Campground. Would giving the descendants of Native Americans, their grandchildren who too often struggle for a decent paycheck in America, free passes to visit their ancestral lands be too much to ask? Would showing an awareness of what our people sacrificed in the name of westward expansion and national security be a form of reparation?

Our presence complicates other American stories, like the ones that get told about Appalachia. Historian Ronald Eller has pointed out that the region has long been seen as the 鈥�,鈥� defining what the nation as a whole is not. According to this myth, America is prosperous, while Appalachia is poor. America is modern and progressive, while Appalachia is mired in the past. America is racially and ethnically diverse, while Appalachia is uniformly White, a land of hillbillies and moonshine.

鈥淲hen someone hears 鈥楢ppalachia,鈥� the first thing that pops into their head isn鈥檛 an African American face, ever. It鈥檚 kind of irritating.鈥�

鈥� (Washington Post interview, 2017)

Myths about Appalachia linger in the national subconsciousness and rise to the surface when politicians and pundits find them to be particularly useful. In the 1960s, for instance, President Lyndon Johnson made Appalachian poverty the face of his War on Poverty, believing that voters would be more willing to support programs that seemed to be aimed at poor White people than poor African Americans.

Recently, myths about Appalachia have been recruited to explain the rise of Donald Trump to the presidency. As historian Elizabeth Catte points out in her important new book, , the myths of poverty, backwardness, and homogeneous Whiteness have made it easy to paint Appalachia as 鈥淭rump Country.鈥� In the aftermath of the 2016 election, an entire journalistic genre emerged that ignored Trump鈥檚 support among White voters of all income levels and in all regions of the country and instead focused on White working-class voters, especially in Appalachia. Somehow, the ignorance and racism of this 鈥渙ther America鈥� had propelled Trump to victory, not the votes of middle-class suburbanites in Michigan, Wisconsin, Florida, and Texas.

The Whiteness of Appalachia is one of its most enduring stereotypes. Black folks, the story goes, live elsewhere. But in fact, African Americans, some of them enslaved, have inhabited the region since the first soldiers and pioneers drove Native Americans off of their land. Catte notes that when coal industry employment was at its height, in the early to mid-twentieth century, African American miners made up 鈥�20 to 50 percent of the workforce.鈥� Even today, she writes, more people in Appalachia 鈥渋dentify as African American than Scots-Irish.鈥� Yet the myth of Whiteness is so strong that even well-known Black people from the region鈥攖he educator and politician Booker T. Washington, singers Nina Simone and Bill Withers, and writers August Wilson, Nikki Giovanni, and John Edgar Wideman鈥攁re rarely associated with it.

Twenty-five years ago, poet and scholar , coined the term 鈥淎ffrilachian.鈥� It was a response to the long history of writing African Americans out of the stories we tell about Appalachia, giving a name to the Black presence in the region and raising its visibility. The term struck a chord and is now widely embraced.

鈥淲hen I imagine our history, I see photographs.鈥�

鈥擡lizabeth Catte

Photography, Catte shows, played a crucial role in the creation of the mythology of Appalachia. Many others agree. Appalachian filmmaker Elizabeth Barret once noted that outsiders with cameras 鈥渕ined images in the way the companies mined the coal.鈥� Too often, the images they made were the ones that myths and stereotypes had prepared them to see鈥攑overty, despair, and a cast of characters that was uniformly White.

Some photographers, however, have come to Appalachia with their eyes and minds wide open. Ben Shahn and Marion Post Wolcott were two of the best. Although Shahn is , the photos that he made during two brief stints working for the federal government鈥檚 now-famous documentary photography project at the are among the most significant documents that we have from the 1930s. as a photographer, although longer than Shahn鈥檚, also was short. No matter. At the FSA, she still made some of the best and .

Neither Shahn nor Wolcott knew very much about Appalachia when they first arrived. But they were both sharp observers of people and society. And if they were burdened by stereotypes, they soon learned to discard them. They were both politically progressive and opposed to racism and segregation, and they shared an openness to and curiosity about African Americans.

鈥溾�� my first assignments were very close to Washington. I think one of the first ones, if not the very first, was in the coal fields in West Virginia. That was a very short assignment, of course. And it was a very interesting one, too. I found the people not as apathetic as I had expected they might be. They weren鈥檛 too beaten down. Of course, many of them were, but they were people with hope. 鈥︹��

鈥�

In this article, I鈥檝e selected only photos from West Virginia. That鈥檚 in part because it鈥檚 the , and in part because the images that Shahn and Wolcott made there are so strong. But these photos are only a small sample of the images of Affrilachians that can be found in the FSA archive. A rich history is waiting to be explored.

鈥淚 was offered this job [at the FSA] 鈥� but first it was suggested that I take a trip around the country in the areas in which we worked to see what it鈥檚 all about, and I tell you that was a revelation to me. 鈥� my knowledge of the United States rather came via New York and mostly through Union Square. 鈥� I had desire to go to the United States, [but] I didn鈥檛 have a penny. It was in the middle of the Depression, you know. I couldn鈥檛 get as far as Hoboken at that time. It was really a very serious time. 鈥� the present seemed to be hopeless and I just felt that I鈥檇 never get out of New York again.鈥�

鈥�

There鈥檚 nothing special about the way that Shahn and Wolcott depicted African Americans. That鈥檚 one of the reasons that I like their photos so much. Black people here鈥擜ffrilachians鈥攁re part of the very fiber of society.

鈥淢y wife would do the driving. She was very understanding of the whole thing and just as much enthusiastic about it as I was, so that we鈥檇 retrace steps, sometimes 500 miles. I needed something to fill in. I鈥檇 missed it and back we鈥檇 go. We had a little A Model Ford that we knocked around in. It gave us no trouble but it didn鈥檛 have much speed, so going back 600 miles meant almost three days.鈥�

鈥擝en Shahn

鈥淲hen I first wanted to take their picture, they would be antagonistic, but as soon as I would explain, or briefly explain what the pictures were for and what I intended, they were cooperative.鈥�

鈥擬arion Post Wolcott

鈥淚n the South or in the mine country, wherever you point the camera there is a picture. But here you have to make some choices, you see.鈥�

鈥擝en Shahn

It鈥檚 possible to look at an isolated photo, out of the hundreds that Shahn and Wolcott produced in Appalachia, and imagine that it merely confirms the stereotype of an impoverished and beaten-down people and region. But that would be wrong. The bodies of work that they produced show people and communities that couldn鈥檛 be defined by any single aspect of their lives.

It鈥檚 tempting to see Shahn鈥檚 and Wolcott鈥檚 Appalachia as an interracial paradise. It wasn鈥檛. Schools were segregated. African Americans faced discrimination in the workplace, as well.

Yet it鈥檚 also clear that Blacks weren鈥檛 merely outcasts. They were part and parcel of their communities.

Neither Shahn nor Wolcott sugar-coated things. Poverty was real. But the people in the photos were always much more than simply poor.

Wolcott and Shahn are by no means that only photographers to picture the lives of Affrilachians. The great documentary photographer Lewis Hine did so in the early 20th century, as did Russell Lee, a former FSA photographer, in the 1940s. Recently, photographer and curator Roger May has spearheaded , a photo-documentary project that engages scores of Appalachian photographers in a collective effort to overturn visual stereotypes about the region. Affrilachians appear in many of the images they鈥檝e made.

Why have Affrilachians remained almost invisible in American culture, despite this visual record? Perhaps it鈥檚 because, as Nell Irvin Painter has suggested in her introduction to , Affrilachians upset two cherished stereotypes鈥攖hat Appalachia is uniformly White and that Black people can be found only in inner cities or what used to be the plantation South. And, because stereotypes help to orient us in a complex world, it can be hard to see them for what they really are. And, so, photographers and writers continue to reproduce myths and stereotypes about Appalachia and African Americans alike. We should demand that they do better.

But we must also ask more of ourselves as viewers and readers. Passive looking and reading is lazy, and it leads us astray. When we see beyond the myths, we find a world that鈥檚 infinitely richer and more rewarding than anything we鈥檝e been taught to imagine.

This story was funded in part by a grant from the One Foundation.

鈥淲别 all suffer three deaths, and the first death is the day that we die. The second death is the day that we鈥檙e buried, never to be seen on the earth again. And the third, but the most dreaded death of all, is to be forgotten.鈥�鈥擮felia Esparza, artist, recounting her mother鈥檚 words on D铆a de los Muertos

Screenings of the popular Pixar film Coco have become commonplace across the United States during the fall season. Released by Walt Disney Pictures in 2017, Coco follows the adventures of a young Mexican boy named Miguel who finds himself in the Land of the Dead. The film is steeped in the cultural aesthetic of D铆a de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, replete with calaveras, or sugar skulls, and marigold flowers. Today, thanks in no small part to Coco, D铆a de los Muertos is a de facto aspect of Halloween festivities across the United States.

Chicano artists in East Los Angeles helped to popularize the celebration starting in the 1970s, expanding on an Indigenous tradition that had been melded with Catholic observances of All Saints Day and All Souls Day on November 1 and 2. Now, with the mass appeal of D铆a de los Muertos culminating in commercially produced art and a Disney film, observers of the holiday are questioning whether the sought-after visibility has come at a price too steep. 

The Disney-fication of Day of the Dead

Walk into any department store, drug store, or even 99-cent store after August and you鈥檒l find alongside seasonal markers like jack-o鈥�-lanterns and scarecrows,  decorations, figurines, temporary tattoos, coloring books, and other knick-knacks. Halloween costumes of Coco characters are easily available, as well as makeup kits with accompanying instructions for transforming one鈥檚 face into a calavera. 

Even before Coco鈥檚 release, the tradition had started to gain traction across the U.S. and beyond. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 not Pixar or Disney鈥檚 fault鈥攖hey鈥檙e not responsible for it,鈥� says , a well-known political cartoonist and writer. Speculating about why D铆a de los Muertos is popular, Alcaraz says, 鈥泪迟 just has been a general trend because of mass communication, capitalism, and maybe NAFTA,鈥� (because of the cross-border commerce between the U.S. and Mexico via the trade agreement). Disney and Pixar jumped on board a train that was already going full steam ahead. 

Still, there is perhaps no more fitting an example of the attempted commercialization of the tradition than Disney鈥檚 2013 effort to  for the phrase 鈥淒铆a de los Muertos,鈥� which was the original working title of Coco. 鈥淲hen we all found out, all the rabble, all the Raza, we went crazy,鈥� says Alcaraz, who drew a scathing cartoon titled  as part of the campaign to oppose the trademark.  

Alcaraz relates how, 鈥渢he Disney attorneys did not think twice about trademarking a community鈥檚 religious and cultural observance. They thought it was just part of doing business,鈥� he says. 

鈥淚n our country, every tradition, every celebration can become so commercialized that it loses its significance,鈥� worries Ofelia Esparza, an East Los Angeles-based master altar-maker whose cultivation of the art of D铆a de los Muertos earned her a  from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Artists like Alcaraz and Esparza have feared that without their stewardship, companies like Disney and Walmart will appropriate and exploit the tradition of the cultural holiday. Disney, embarrassed by the negative attention over its trademark application, quickly backed off. Eventually the filmmakers at Pixar invited Alcaraz, Esparza, and other Chicano artists to be cultural consultants for Coco to influence the film鈥檚 plotline and visuals. 

A Mash-up of Culture, Religion, and History

鈥淭he origins of this tradition go back thousands of years before the Europeans came in with the Catholic church,鈥� Esparza says. Indigenous communities in Mexico and Central America melded their traditions with those of the Catholic Church. According to Alcaraz they, 鈥渕ixed it together and came up with something new,鈥� creating a 鈥渕ix-master of culture and ingredients.鈥�

Infused into this was the work of the famed Mexican political artist and lithographer , whose art satirized corruption in politics more than a century ago in the form of calacas, or , and who is credited with originating the iconic  imagery. Guadalupe Posada鈥檚 work, according to Alcaraz, 鈥渨as cutting-edge back then鈥� even as it has now become a mainstream aspect of D铆a de los Muertos.

Alongside the skeleton imagery, a hallmark of the festival is the ofrenda, or altar鈥攁 visually arresting display of paper and real flowers, candles, food, water, and, most importantly, images of lost loved ones. The word ofrenda means 鈥渙ffering鈥� in Spanish and each October, artists like Esparza make an offering to their local community during D铆a de los Muertos celebrations.

Read Ofelia Esparza鈥檚 explanation of the essential elements of altar-making.

How Chicano Artists Shaped the Modern-Day Tradition 

Esparza first learned how to make altars from her mother who learned the art of altar-making from earlier generations. Today, the 89-year-old matriarch has passed down her expertise to her nine children and members of her local community. 

While families of Mexican and Central American Catholic background often built altars in their homes to honor their ancestors, the evolution of D铆a de los Muertos into a community event with social significance can be traced to the 1970s, when Chicano artists at a small East LA-based non-profit organization called  began promoting it. 

The organization claims credit for originating the practice of  the familiar calavera designs that are a signature of D铆a de los Muertos community events. And, it was at SHG where Esparza turned her family tradition into a community art form, creating large-scale interactive altars as art installations. 

Betty Avila, executive director of SHG, explains that the organization鈥檚 co-founders, 鈥渨ere interested in providing a cultural celebration that wasn鈥檛 Cinco de Mayo, that wasn鈥檛 totally commodified, and that was truly grounded in the culture of the community.鈥� The early D铆a de los Muertos celebrations were 鈥渃losely tied to this very nascent identity of the time鈥攖he Chicano aesthetic political identity,鈥� she says. 

Decades later, SHG continues to organize large community celebrations in LA each October leading into early November, promoting the rich cultural tradition that it helped to craft and popularize. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 evolved over time for both the processing of communal grief and trauma and also as a platform to speak on issues that are impacting the community,鈥� Avila says. 

Large altars at Grand Park in downtown LA invite interaction from attendees who are invited to display photos of their own loved ones who have passed away. The point is, according to Avila, for the community to acknowledge 鈥渢hings that are extremely personal but that are also universal.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Alongside personal altars, it is common to see altars reflecting social movements centered on collective traumas such as remembrances of the victims of police brutality, of missing and murdered Indigenous women, and of undocumented migrant deaths along the border.  

View a photo essay of the 2021 Noche de Ofrenda organized by Self Help Graphics in Grand Park, Los Angeles.听

Over the years, many other community organizations in U.S. cities with large Mexican American populations have held annual D铆a de los Muertos celebrations, bringing together families for events that feature face painting and costumes, altar-making workshops, local artist performances and exhibitions, and food vendors. 

鈥淐ulture is shared and transported between people and it flows in both directions,鈥� Avila says. Still, she finds the inevitable conflation of D铆a de los Muertos with Halloween to be particularly galling, saying that the Day of the Dead celebration 鈥渋s very different, it is totally something else.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Eventually the Chicano-led cultural movement that SHG was central in promoting throughout LA spread across the U.S. and even flowed back across the southern border, feeding into Mexican celebrations. Outside of cities like Oaxaca, 鈥渋t wasn鈥檛 really a huge, huge tradition [in Mexico] until now,鈥� Alcaraz says. 

鈥淐hicano artists had everything to do with making it popular,鈥� he continues. 鈥泪迟 only took 40 to 50 years. But that鈥檚 how culture works, and then all of a sudden, boom! It explodes, and there鈥檚 D铆a de los Muertos in every corner.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Recentering the Tradition鈥檚 Original Intent: To Honor the Dead

Years before Coco was conceived, Sony Pictures Entertainment invited Alcaraz to pitch a Day of the Dead-themed animated film. Alcaraz remembers the studio executives telling him, 鈥淲别 like the pretty flowers and the sugar skulls, but could you keep the 鈥榙eath鈥� part out of it?鈥� 

But of course, death is central. 鈥泪迟 was the ancient belief that death is not the end of life but another phase of life,鈥� says Esparza, who sees the altars she builds each year as 鈥渁 bridge between life and death.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

At the heart of the yearly celebration is family, ancestral memory, and the intimate connections between generations. Esparza recalls her mother telling her that 鈥渢he remembrance of our ancestors, of our family members,鈥� is the most important part of the celebration. 鈥淲别 are here on their shoulders, on their resistance, their resilience, their survival, their love.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

It is a concept that can get lost amid the eye-catching motifs of skeletons and flowers, both for consumers and those seeking to capitalize on the tradition. And it is what practitioners of the traditions are hoping to remind those who revel in the art, face paint, costumery, and other accoutrements of D铆a de los Muertos.  

Chicano Artists Continue Their Fight for Visibility

鈥淚 told them, 鈥業鈥檓 not going to rubberstamp your project,鈥� says Alcaraz, recalling his reaction when Disney/Pixar invited him to be a consultant on Coco. He told the filmmakers then that he wanted no part of a film that would engage in what he called 鈥淏rown-facing,鈥� with White actors playing the roles of characters of Mexican origin. 

Participating in the making of Coco offered Alcaraz, Esparza, and others an opportunity to shape the way in which their cultural tradition would be presented to the world by a massive commercial enterprise. 

Ultimately the film鈥檚 cast was , a significant achievement for a community that is routinely  on American screens. 鈥淲别 needed that film to show Indigenous people, brown-skinned Mexican people on screen. It鈥檚 super important to show that,鈥� Alcaraz says.

D铆a de los Muertos has offered Chicanos and Mexican Americans the chance to be uniquely visible in a nation that has overwhelmingly marginalized and oppressed their communities. If the tradition has become so pervasive today that it faces cultural appropriation and commercial exploitation, some see that as a marker of success and an opportunity for practitioners to continually re-center their communities and the original intent of ancestral connectedness. 

While artists like Esparza have seen the demand for their work increase dramatically over the years, they have faced increasingly powerful pressures to commercialize their art. 鈥淚 feel it鈥檚 a spiritual endeavor far removed from being commercial,鈥� says Esparza, who is often offered commissions to create altars that include product advertisement and has refused. 

Others see a bright side to the visibility. 鈥淢exican culture is already a super popular culture all across the planet. I think that鈥檚 fantastic and I think we should get more of it,鈥� Alcaraz says. 鈥淢ore, more, more!鈥�

鈥擲cout Oath of the Boy Scouts of America

A Scout is: trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.

鈥擲cout Law of the Boy Scouts of America

I was not athletic or popular in school. I was a nerdy, artistic kid who struggled mightily to fit in with my male peers, especially. I felt I lacked a certain toughness or masculine edge that all the other boys seemed to possess effortlessly. While they played first-person shooter video games with zeal, I sat in the corner and pretended to care. When my parents signed me up for Little League, I passed the time picking dandelions in the outfield.

It was in this environment鈥攐f awkward attempts to join sports or otherwise butch myself up鈥攖hat the Boy Scouts of America (BSA) became my refuge. It was one of the few places where the rules made sense to me, and where my skills were valued. Maybe I鈥檇 never learn how to throw (or catch) a football, but I could create a Pinewood Derby car that took home a trophy every year. And maybe I would never be good at Call of Duty, but I could organize a campout without hesitation. In other words, the Boy Scouts was the place I fit in and knew how to succeed.

What I鈥檝e come to discover by writing this book about LGBTQ people in the BSA is that I鈥檓 far from alone. Nearly every LGBTQ Scouter I鈥檝e interviewed has told me something similar: that in a world of toxic masculinity and homophobia, Scouting鈥攖hough not totally immune to those forces鈥攚as the closest thing they had to a safe haven. This is why it is particularly cruel that antigay policies existed at all, and that they were often obfuscated and not clearly shared with membership: It was entirely possible for queer kids to gravitate toward Scouting鈥攆ind a home there, excel there鈥攐nly to discover after the fact that their identity rendered them an outcast.

This is true of James Dale, the Scouting poster boy turned Supreme Court plaintiff, who learned about the ban on gays only as he was being kicked out for being gay. It鈥檚 true of countless others. And it鈥檚 true for myself: I didn鈥檛 realize that Scouting prohibited gay members until the policy debate blew up in 2012, a year after I earned my Eagle Scout rank, and a couple of years before I would come to accept my own queerness.

The tragedy of this state of affairs did not fully click for me until recently, during a conversation with John Halsey. Halsey has been an active member of the BSA for more than 60 years and has accomplished just about everything you can in the program. He鈥檚 an Eagle Scout, of course, and as an adult volunteer he鈥檚 served as a council president in Boston, not to mention various regional and national leadership roles. His uniform is positively dripping with awards.

The first time I called up Halsey, I was looking to conduct a pretty routine interview for this book. I wanted to know about his experience at the Boy Scouts of America national meeting in May 2013, where he was one of the hundreds of Scouters who voted to end the BSA鈥檚 ban on gay youth.

But before I could start asking my questions, Halsey wanted to make a point: The ban on gay members never should have existed in the first place; voting to end it simply steered the BSA out of a decades-long detour it never should have taken.

Halsey said this as someone who has been involved in Scouting almost his entire life, long before any policy concerning gay members existed. He joined in the 1950s, his youth in the program coinciding with what many see as the golden age of Scouting. Membership was at an all-time high, and it seemed that virtually every boy in America joined the program, at least briefly.

And yet, despite those decades also being a time of rampant homophobia, Halsey says 鈥渟exuality was never a topic in Scouting.鈥� He told me: 鈥淭he fact that somebody might be gay really didn鈥檛 have any bearing on anything. And, frankly, nobody thought anything of it.鈥�

That is, until 1978.

The 1970s were a tough time for the BSA. 鈥淚f the period from roughly 1945 to 1970 was the 鈥榞olden age鈥� of American Scouting, the 1970s was, to a certain extent, its dark age,鈥� writes Chuck Wills, in the BSA鈥檚 .

The membership boom had faded. To stem its losses, Boy Scout executives were trying to retool the program to appeal to a growing number of urban (read: non-white) youth. The BSA had never explicitly endorsed racial discrimination but had historically allowed local troops to keep out Black Scouts if they wanted to. The last racially segregated Boy Scout council (in North Carolina) was not integrated until 1974.

This massive registration drive started in the late 鈥�60s but fell apart by the mid 鈥�70s, when news broke that the BSA was inflating its membership numbers for the sake of federal funds. Reports showed that a council in Chicago claimed a membership of 87,000, when the true number was about 52,000, according to a New York Times article. The BSA鈥檚 chief executive at the time, Alden Barber, owned up to the problem, and was quoted in the Associated Press saying, 鈥淚f we were in the business of covering it up, it could be the Watergate of the Boy Scouts.鈥�

But the BSA was covering something up in those years鈥攁nd it was much more sinister. From almost the inception of the Boy Scouts of America, its leaders knew it had a pedophile problem.

The organization鈥檚 so-called perversion files鈥攁 record of child abusers within the ranks鈥攄ate back to around the time the BSA was founded in 1910. The list was a closely guarded document available only to top BSA executives.

The BSA used these files to systematically identify child abusers, kick them out, and ensure they couldn鈥檛 rejoin a different Scout troop (though plenty of pedophiles slipped through the cracks of the BSA鈥檚 blacklist, allowing hundreds of child molesters to continue in Scouting). The organization鈥檚 leaders, however, typically kept all of this information away from the general public, the police, the media, and sometimes even the parents in the offender鈥檚 troop. So it went for more than 50 years.

In 1978, when the Boy Scouts prohibited gay members in writing for the first time, Halsey watched with skepticism. By this point, he was in his 30s, a businessman who still volunteered heavily with the Scouts. The BSA, on the surface, said its new antigay policy was a response to an incident in Minnesota, in which two teenage boys were kicked out of a Scouting unit for admitting they were gay. The new policy, the Boy Scouts explained, was in the 鈥渂est interests of Scouting,鈥� as homosexuality was not 鈥渁ppropriate鈥� and could not be condoned in the program.听

But Halsey saw the policy as something entirely different. 鈥淭he Boy Scouts鈥攏ot unlike elementary schools, not unlike YMCAs, not unlike youth sports鈥攖ends to be a magnet for people who have a predilection to be involved with young children: pedophiles. And that鈥檚 no secret, everybody realizes鈥攁nd has realized probably for decades鈥攖hat the antenna needs to be up around pedophilia where there are young children. And the Boy Scouts failed in their mission there, and then they looked for a scapegoat,鈥� Halsey says. 鈥淎nd they decided the way to create a scapegoat was to create division within the membership by placing blame on the gay community, which has nothing to do with the problem at all.鈥�

When I first heard Halsey say this, I nearly fell out of my chair. It hit me as a theory I had encountered before, or maybe even arrived at myself. But I couldn鈥檛 place it. I dug through my notes, racked my brain, but couldn鈥檛 find any trace of this idea. Perhaps it simply matched up with a deeply held intuition I had: that, from the very beginning, the BSA knew gay men were not a problem, but decided to villainize them anyway.

I called Halsey again to try to flesh this out, maybe scare up some proof for what I saw as a provocative claim.

He explained his theory to me one more time: The antigay policy in 1978 grew out of a series of management failures at the highest levels of the BSA. The membership cheating scandal was certainly one of them鈥攁nd the only one known to the public at the time. But there was also the compounding failure to stem decades of known child abuse in the organization.

鈥泪迟鈥檚 my opinion that a decade-long鈥攐r longer鈥攙ery poor management, failure to address the issue, denying that pedophiles roamed among us, caused an explosive situation,鈥� Halsey said. It could not be kept under the covers for much longer. In the mid-1970s, news broke that a Boy Scout troop in New Orleans was formed for the express purpose of giving its adult leaders access to children whom they sexually abused, causing a PR nightmare for the BSA. And indeed, the BSA would come to face many sex abuse lawsuits in the 1980s. 鈥淪omebody had to be the scapegoat. It couldn鈥檛 be the chief Scout, it couldn鈥檛 be regional directors,鈥� Halsey continued. 鈥淢y opinion is that when the lid was blown off, a clear decision was made to introduce a person鈥檚 sexuality into the equation, and I feel that gay Scouters were targeted as the problem.鈥�

Many, if not most, Americans at the time did indeed conflate homosexuality with pedophilia, and some still do to this day. In 2024, 鈥済roomer鈥� has become the slur of choice for Republican politicians looking to demonize the LGBTQ+ community. So it might seem, on the surface, that the BSA鈥檚 religious, overwhelmingly conservative leaders in the 1970s were genuinely trying to keep pedophiles out by banning gays from the ranks. But the logic didn鈥檛 hold.

When I spoke to Neil Lupton, a Scouting volunteer of roughly the same age and experience as Halsey, he told me about a conversation he had with a friend who was a regional Boy Scout staffer in the late 1970s. It was right after the antigay policy was instituted when women were being admitted to the organization for the first time as adult volunteers. Lupton, in a joking way, posed a question to his friend: If the antigay policy is about keeping out gay men who would naturally be attracted to little boys, wouldn鈥檛 the same logic also prohibit straight women? In other words, should we admit only lesbian women to ensure they won鈥檛 be attracted to the boys? His friend chuckled and said, 鈥淎sking those types of questions is the kind of thing that will prevent you from rising higher in this organization.鈥� The exchange was casual, but it illustrated a truth about the BSA: Pointing out logical inconsistencies was not welcome.

The BSA鈥檚 actions also belied the idea that pedophiles and gay men were one and the same. Though gay men could and did end up in the BSA鈥檚 confidential files alongside child molesters, their files indicated it was their sexual orientation, not crimes against boys, that barred them from the ranks. Indeed, records dating back to the 1920s show that BSA knew exactly who these child abusers were, and鈥攃onsistent with research about the demographics of pedophiles鈥攖hey were usually straight, often married men with families. As Patrick Boyle notes in : 鈥淧edophilia is a sexual preference all its own, independent of one鈥檚 preferences with adults.鈥� The playbook for dealing with these molesters was consistent: remove the offending leader, but protect his identity and his reputation.

This is not quite how the BSA handled known gay men in the organization. 鈥淎vowed homosexuals,鈥� as the organization long called them, were often swiftly kicked out, and when they had the audacity to fight back, they were publicly maligned in the press and the courts. 

So while the general public may have thought pedophiles and homosexuals were one and the same, the BSA seemingly knew the difference, and treated them accordingly. Child abusers, it must be said, were sometimes given more respect and privacy than openly gay men who committed no such crimes.

It is, of course, impossible to know the motives of Scout executives from decades past. Alden Barber, Harvey Price, and Downing Jenks鈥攕ome of the top BSA leaders during the late 1970s鈥攈ave all since died. We can鈥檛 ask them why they instituted the antigay policy, or why they failed to properly address the issue of child sex abuse.

But here鈥檚 what we can say: Experts have known for decades that homosexuality is not linked to pedophilia. In fact, most offenders are heterosexual men who are close relatives of the abused child. The idea that gay men are somehow more likely to abuse children has been thoroughly debunked. Whether the BSA鈥檚 executives knew this in 1978, we may never know, but it doesn鈥檛 seem inconceivable. Their actions鈥攖reating pedophiles and homosexuals somewhat differently鈥攕uggests that they did. Gay men at the time, with little cultural acceptance or power, were a prime scapegoat, even if the BSA knew they weren鈥檛 the problem. And there were certainly others during this period, like John Halsey and Neil Lupton, who did not buy into the myth of gay abusers.

But maybe divining the motivations of these executives is not the point. Because whether by design or by effect, the battle over gay membership served as a 40-year distraction to solving the problem of child sex abuse in the organization. As sex abuse claims rolled in through the 1980s and 1990s鈥攔esulting in large financial settlements鈥攖he BSA spent untold sums of money in court fighting the likes of Tim Curran and James Dale: exemplary Scouters who committed no other sin than being gay.

鈥淔or Scouting, it seemed to be more important to exclude gay Scouts and Scout leaders than it was to fix the pedophile problem,鈥� said journalist Nigel Jaquiss, speaking in James Dale鈥檚 attempt to volunteer as an openly gay man in the program grew into a highly public, eight-year legal battle that ended in the Supreme Court of the United States in 2000. What most people didn鈥檛 know was that in the very same years that the BSA was in court fighting to keep Dale out of the ranks, the Scouts were receiving more than 100 child sex abuse allegations annually.

Indeed, the BSA trailed other youth organizations in their eventual efforts to prevent abuse. The organization did not start requiring criminal background checks for volunteers until 2008, and it wasn鈥檛 until 2018 that those checks became required for all adults, including parents, who chaperone campouts. And while the BSA launched its Youth Protection Training in 1990, it did not start requiring its volunteers to take the training until 2010.

For Halsey, it all comes back to a failure in leadership鈥攖he very thing the Boy Scouts prides itself on teaching its members. 

鈥淚 personally believe, based on my observations and analysis and what I鈥檝e seen, we had a 20-year window where national BSA leadership was so timid and ineffective that they chose to scapegoat a whole community,鈥� Halsey said.

With catastrophic consequences.

Amid mounting sex abuse lawsuits, the BSA filed for bankruptcy in 2020, and by November of that year some 82,000 claims of abuse had been made against the organization, according to The New York Times. The resulting fallout鈥攆inancially and reputationally鈥攃ould threaten the very existence of the Boy Scouts of America.

Adding to these tragedies, the ban on gays heaped on another layer of shame and stigma that incentivized victims of sexual abuse to stay silent, for fear that speaking up could get them (incorrectly) branded as gay, and potentially even kicked out because of it. Not to mention an entire generation of boys and men in the organization who were gay but were irreparably scarred by their experience in, or rejection from, an organization that otherwise could have been a safe haven.

鈥淲别 added to a challenging time for these young men. That was unnecessary,鈥� Halsey said. 鈥淭hey had an anchor called Scouting, which helped them weather the challenges of growing up, because there are challenges in growing up. And we鈥檙e talking about sexuality, that鈥檚 obviously one of those challenges, but there are many challenges of growing up, and Scouting has the beauty of being the anchor in the storm. And the sad truth is, we denied a certain group of boys and men, young men, the opportunity to hold on to that anchor.鈥�

This excerpt from听 (Simon & Schuster, 2024) appears by permission of the publisher.听

Watching the Taliban鈥檚 consolidation of national control is like seeing the start of the war in reverse, when American forces with stunning speed in 2001. But now, the Taliban aren鈥檛 just back where they started鈥攖hey鈥檝e gained a well-armed military , bought and paid for by American tax dollars. And just as Western media pundits and liberal feminists in 2001 in the name of saving Afghan women from the institutionalized misogyny of the Taliban, today we hear about how women 鈥渨ill now be subject to laws from the seventh century鈥� under Taliban rule.

I first became aware of the appalling conditions facing Afghan women in 2000 via reports by the Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan. RAWA鈥檚 detailed the Taliban鈥檚 edicts and how the Orwellian-sounding Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice enforced those strict rules against women鈥檚 education, employment, and assembly. RAWA is the oldest feminist organization in Afghanistan and for decades has been operating underground inside the country as well as in the Afghan refugee camps of neighboring nations such as Pakistan.

Inspired by their courage, I joined a handful of other Americans in starting a to gather small donations from American individuals and grassroots groups to financially support RAWA鈥檚 long-term educational, health, and employment projects for women and girls. In 2000, I organized a nationwide speaking tour for two young RAWA members who spoke enough English to explain to American audiences why they should care about the Taliban鈥檚 misogyny. During their speaking events, the women showed an that a RAWA member had secretly recorded under her burqa in 1999 of the Taliban鈥檚 public execution of a woman in broad daylight in Kabul Stadium.

Then, the 9/11 attacks happened, and less than a month later, American aircraft were dropping bombs over Kabul and other Afghan cities. My colleagues and I, educated by RAWA of the history of U.S. involvement in Afghanistan, knew in 2001 that a war would do nothing to solve the nation鈥檚 problems. In fact, as RAWA members had explained during their American events, the Taliban first came to power to quell a bloody civil war that was fought by fundamentalist warlords (known as the mujahedeen) hired by the CIA to defeat the Soviets using American-supplied weapons. War was the problem, not the solution.

Warnings Ignored

Within days of the U.S. invasion, RAWA released a titled, 鈥淭aliban should be overthrown by the uprising of Afghan nation.鈥� The organization knew that war would only hurt ordinary Afghans: 鈥淭his invasion will shed the blood of numerous women, men, children, young and old of our country,鈥� RAWA鈥檚 statement read in part. They were right. The eventual for Afghan civilians was more than 70,000鈥攍ikely an underestimate, given that bombing victims were often and not counted as civilians.

RAWA also warned that, 鈥淭he continuation of U.S. attacks and the increase in the number of innocent civilian victims not only gives an excuse to the Taliban, but also will cause the empowering of the fundamentalist forces in the region.鈥� Once again, they were right. The Taliban has justified their return to power by claiming, , that 鈥渆mancipating the country was a great, noble cause, to get rid of the occupiers.鈥�

RAWA was also prophetic in its prediction that U.S occupation would fuel fundamentalist violence. The U.S. oversaw the , who were handed power and money and offered up as a less extremist . These men spent the past decade and a half ensuring that freedom for most women. As Human Rights Watch鈥檚 to the Senate Foreign Relations committee in 2010: 鈥淭he Afghan government, often with the support of the Bush administration, has empowered current and former warlords, providing official positions to some and impunity to the rest.鈥� She added, 鈥淏ackroom deals with extremist and abusive commanders profoundly undermine the rights and security of Afghan women.鈥�

What the Afghan People Want

When my partner James Ingalls and I visited Afghanistan in 2005 to research our book, , we were struck by the profound thirst among Afghan people for democracy, education, and women鈥檚 rights. Not only did we meet women who were working in dangerous conditions to educate their people, but we also met men who deeply believed in equality for their mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters.

We visited an orphanage filled with bright-eyed children who had lost both parents to the civil war fueled by the U.S. or whose parents simply could not afford to care for them. We spoke with the male principal of a brand-new in Farah province run by RAWA. We met the widows of men who had died valiantly standing up to years of American-sponsored terrorism that predated the 2001 war. And, we met a young, soft-spoken woman named Malalai Joya who would go on to in 2005 to the Afghan parliament and emerge as one of the most vocal critics of the warlords, the Taliban, and the U.S. occupation.

As a member of Parliament, Joya gave voice to Afghan demands for democracy and women鈥檚 rights. Whether or not Afghanistan鈥檚 nascent government would tolerate her presence was to be a measure of the freedoms that Americans believed they had delivered via war and occupation. Within just two years, Joya鈥檚 outspokenness proved to be too much for the U.S.-backed warlords in government to bear. In 2007, they and forced her in what was a stark symbol of America鈥檚 failure to live up to the promises of Afghan women鈥檚 rights.

The Taliban Are Back鈥擝ecause of Us

In a 2008 interview with , Joya warned, 鈥淭he perpetrators of these crimes should have to face the courts. But every day, they become more powerful.鈥� Like , she called for international accountability for war crimes by U.S.-backed warlords. Instead, the U.S. allowed the warlords to keep a stranglehold on political power, thereby ensuring that Afghan democracy remained weak and hostile to women.

Even more presciently, Joya pointed out in the interview, 鈥淣ow the U.S. wants to negotiate with the brutal Taliban and share power with them.鈥� Indeed, it during Barack Obama鈥檚 presidency that U.S. diplomats had been engaging with Taliban leadership to lay the groundwork for a withdrawal. Now, as the Taliban resume control of Afghanistan, we see the fruits of the Western validation of the very group that the U.S. had designated as an enemy and claimed to be saving Afghan women from. 

The Taliban鈥檚 return ought to be sparking retrospection among American elites about the folly of exploiting Afghan women鈥檚 oppression for war. Instead, a deeply racist victim blaming has emerged, exemplified most recently by an ignorant written by USA Today鈥檚 Jill Lawrence: 鈥淲别 can鈥檛 make a country care about its own women. Only Afghanistan can do that.鈥� Like so many in U.S. media today, Lawrence ignored the U.S.鈥檚 central role in deliberately undermining women鈥檚 rights and democracy for decades by choosing over and over again to work with fundamentalist misogynist leaders.

Perhaps if Lawrence had met people living in the U.S.-backed fundamentalist hell that has been Afghanistan since the 1970s, she might have insisted on a different headline. Perhaps she would have realized that we can鈥檛 expect women鈥檚 rights to flourish when we have empowered misogynist leaders in Afghanistan.

We should have listened to RAWA and Malalai Joya. But we didn鈥檛, and the Taliban are back.

Of the many people I met more than 15 years ago in Afghanistan, the words of a woman named Mariam, who lost her husband to war in the 1980s, still remain with me:

鈥淲别 are also human beings. We are women. We want our rights, we want education. We also want all these things that your people want. I also want to be free like you people, to go freely to America, and to Japan, and to other countries to visit and see other people, to see how they live. For how long should we be living in these rooms with no freedom and such cruelty?鈥�

I have no answers left for Mariam. Today, we have relegated Afghan women once more to a locked room with no freedom and such cruelty. No amount of bombing or U.S. troops will free them. No amount of hand-wringing or judgmental ignorance will absolve us.

When I asked RAWA about its response to the Taliban鈥檚 takeover, the group promised to persevere: 鈥淲别 will continue our struggles while finding smart ways to stay safe,鈥� they wrote. But they still have fears鈥攏amely that 鈥渢he world may forget Afghanistan and Afghan women like under the Taliban bloody rule in late 鈥�90s.鈥� After so many decades of using women鈥檚 oppression to justify our war and occupation, the very least we can do is not forget about the women of Afghanistan.

In 2022, Joe Biden made history as , which he did . States such as  and  have passed legislation to make the celebration an annual event, and dozens more .

This recognition is important, given the simplistic ways Arabs are often portrayed in American culture. From TV stations to , people of Arab descent are often stereotyped as violent, oppressed, or exotic. Nevertheless, as  who studies religious and racial dynamics in Arab societies, I am concerned that as the celebration of 鈥淎rab American heritage鈥� becomes more mainstream, the diversity and complex stories of Arab Americans鈥� many different communities may be papered over. In short, Arab Americans are not a monolithic group.

Arab Christians

In 2023, Arab American Heritage Month overlaps with the second half of Ramadan, . For many in the United States, this overlap seems natural, given how often Islam is conflated with Arab identity. But just as most Muslims around the world , not all Arabs are Muslim.

While the 22 countries that make up the  all have Muslim majorities, Christian communities predate Muslim ones in the region. Indeed, Christianity began in the Middle East, with the , which is revered as Jesus鈥� birthplace, an important pilgrimage stop for Christians from all over the world. During the first significant wave of Arab immigration to the U.S. in the , families more often than not were Syrian, Lebanese, and Palestinian Christians.

Today, most  identify as Christian. While the Arab community in the greater Detroit area, a short drive from where I live and work, , that sets it apart from many other Arab communities in the U.S.

 are themselves diverse, identifying as Protestants and Catholics, and with a variety of Eastern Christian traditions, such as Antiochian and Coptic Orthodoxy. 

Furthermore, some sects of Christianity have become intertwined with specific ethnic identities. For example, some Coptic Christian Egyptian Americans  鈥淎rab,鈥� even if they grew up speaking Arabic at home or learn the language to connect with their family roots. This refusal is often rooted in Copts鈥� collective experiences of marginalization in Egypt, where they face , including on .

From Mizrahi Jews to Shiite Muslims

Just as Christianity is an integral yet complex part of Arab heritage, so is Judaism. Arab Jews, often called , have existed since ancient times and helped shape Arab heritage through their philosophical, poetic, and political contributions across centuries.

To be sure, Israel鈥檚 establishment and its occupation of Palestinian territories has complicated Arab Jewish identities, with  becoming more common within many Arab communities. Still, there is  among scholars and Arab American Jews themselves in learning more about , as well as the Jewish background of beloved pan-Arab celebrities, such as , an iconic midcentury Egyptian actress.

The San Francisco Bay Area for generations has been home to the Egyptian  community. Karaites reject the authority of the rabbinic oral tradition used by more mainstream branches of Judaism, such as Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox groups in the U.S. Here in the U.S., as in Egypt, members struggle for recognition as a religious minority within a religion that is itself a minority, Judaism. 

Arab American Muslims are not a monolithic group, either. Over half identify as Sunni, 16% as Shiite, and the rest with neither group, according to a . Of course, the diversity of beliefs and practices within Sunnism and Shiism, the largest two branches of Islam, are themselves present within  as well.

Finally, many Arab Americans identify with no religion at all, or with other faiths beyond the Abrahamic traditions.

Many Nations, One Box

Arab heritage not only includes a variety of religious traditions, but also encompasses a wide range of ethnic and racial identities. It is difficult to make generalizations about Arabs, whose skin tone, facial features, eye colors, and hair textures embody the rich histories of human migrations and settlements that characterize western Asia and northern Africa.

The U.S. census erases this internal diversity, however, by categorizing Arabs and other Middle Easterners as 鈥渨hite.鈥� Arab American advocacy groups have  that the form鈥檚 categories do not reflect the actual experiences of the vast majority of Arab Americans, who are not treated as white in their everyday lives. And Arab identities in the U.S. are becoming only more complex, given the diversity of national backgrounds reflected in the  from the 1960s to today.

Complicated Identities

Asking that Arabs check the box as 鈥渨hite鈥� also marginalizes Black Arabs. The term  is growing as a term of self-description for Black Arab Americans seeking to make space for their multifaceted identities and heritage. Black communities are a part of every Arab country, from  to .

These dual identities are still fraught, given the pervasiveness of anti-Black racism within some Arab communities, which often stems from the legacies of . An estimated 15% of Tunisians, for example, are descendants of  from sub-Saharan Africa. Tunisia abolished slavery in 1846, two decades before the U.S., yet it passed a  only in 2018, making it the first Arab country to do so. Still, Tunisia鈥檚 president recently provoked outrage after he gave a  targeting African migrants and Black Tunisians.

Around the world, Black Arabs have consistently  such racism, especially after the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests in the U.S., which sparked a  with anti-Blackness.

As the Sudanese American museum curator Isra el-Beshir , 鈥淚 am an African person, who speaks Arabic and who as a result of speaking Arabic has Arab cultural tendencies. But I do not racially identify as an Arab. It鈥檚 still murky territory for me that I am trying to navigate.鈥�

500-Year Journey

In her historical novel , which won the Arab American Book Award in 2015 and was , Laila Lalami recounts the experiences of Al-Zammouri, more commonly known as Estebanico. Based on true accounts, Lalami narrates how he was enslaved and brought to current-day Florida by 16th-century Spanish colonizers. Al-Zammouri鈥檚 name reflects his Moroccan hometown: Azemmour, a city famed for its ocean breeze. His identity鈥擝lack and Arab; Muslim, then Catholic鈥攔eflects the complexity of the Arab world while bringing to light the complex origin stories of America itself. 

Ideally, heritage month celebrations will create more opportunities to reflect on stories like Al-Zammouri鈥檚, which portray how rich and diverse Arab American identity is鈥攔eally, many different identities rolled into just two words. If heritage months are an opportunity to celebrate the diversity of America, the diversity of the Arab community itself should not be overlooked.

This article was originally published by . It has been republished here with permission.

Each year, those who live near the Atlantic Ocean, particularly those near the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean, brace themselves for . As the water temperatures increase and mix with warm, humid air, tropical thunderstorms form and gather speed. Once a storm鈥檚 winds reach 74 miles per hour, the storm is officially classed as a hurricane鈥攁nd people on land begin paying much closer attention. Between June and the end of November, the looming threat of high-speed winds, heavy rainfall, and coastal flooding hangs in the air; those who live closest to the water make emergency plans, keep an eye on their vulnerable neighbors, coordinate mutual aid efforts, and hold onto hope that, this year, they鈥檒l be safe.

If a hurricane does make landfall, many in the area of impact will have the option to drive, fly, or run away from the danger and ensure their families are warm, dry, and far from danger. Some will choose to stay behind in spite of the risks, but thousands of others will be left with no choice at all. Prisons and jails are often when natural disasters hit. While people on the outside are given ample warning, the incarcerated are at the mercy of prison staff, government officials, and state politicians.

On Sept. 26, 2024, Hurricane Helene smashed into northwestern Florida and quickly made its way toward Tennessee, Georgia, and North Carolina. When it made landfall, its winds whipped the air at 140 miles per hour, causing massive flooding and destruction across all four states. Authorities were well aware Helene was on its way, with each state declaring a state of emergency ahead of the storm. 鈥淭here will be no place for you to go if things get bad,鈥� on Florida鈥檚 Gulf Coast warned. 鈥淭his is going to be a life-threatening surge. It is nothing to take lightly.鈥�

Yet, even as the hurricane barrelled down, people incarcerated in prisons and jails in multiple states were not allowed to evacuate. Instead, or, as was the case in Florida, to 鈥� built to withstand high winds.鈥� In other cases, they were simply . 

Less than two weeks later, Hurricane Milton hit Florida again, knocking out power for millions, throwing up , and causing widespread flooding. The lead-up to the storm was grim, and photos of fleeing residents stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic only added to the alarm. Tampa Mayor Jane Castor went on television to tell Floridians, 鈥淚f you choose to stay in one of those evacuation areas, you are going to die.鈥�

For the second time, though, thousands of the state鈥檚 incarcerated people鈥攊ncluding more than 鈥攚ere left with no option but to ride out the storm behind bars. The stated it had 鈥渟uccessfully relocated鈥� 5,950 people ahead of the storm鈥攐ut of 28,000 who lay in the hurricane鈥檚 path. As Jordan Martinez, an organizer with watchdog Fight Toxic Prisons, told , the number of evacuees only made up a small percentage of the individuals in harm鈥檚 way and some of the evacuations barely qualified as such.

The majority of those evacuated came from work camps, halfway houses, and work release centers, and in many instances they were 鈥渆vacuated鈥� to theoretically stronger facilities nearby. For example, women at Lowell Work Camp, a section of the Lowell Correctional Institution in Marion County, Florida, were evacuated just a few dozen yards away 鈥� to another part of the same prison complex.

鈥淭he fact that they are unable to evacuate people in mandatory evacuation zones goes to show the complete lack of prioritization of the lives of incarcerated people during hurricanes,鈥� Martinez said. 鈥淚f we are prioritizing the safety of our communities, those communities must include the incarcerated people inside that are themselves organizing on the inside to fight for better conditions, and quite often being forced during hurricanes to prepare to protect their communities via forced slave labor with sandbags or in cleanup in the aftermath.鈥�

As Martinez noted, the trouble does not end once the wind stops blowing, either. Hurricane damage can disrupt incarcerated peoples鈥� access to light, clean water, food, and medical supplies, leaving them cold, hungry, thirsty, or sick for days or weeks at a time. Power outages can cut them off from communicating with their loved ones and the rest of the world, which also hamstrings their ability to report unsanitary or dangerous conditions inside their facilities. It also leaves them unable to check in on their own communities, or to find out whether their own families are safe.

When Helene slammed into western North Carolina, prisoners in multiple facilities outside Asheville told about losing access to running water鈥攁nd having to relieve themselves in plastic bags. As one woman鈥檚 husband told her, 鈥淲别 thought we were going to die there. We didn鈥檛 think anybody was going to come back for us.鈥�

Elsewhere, Jailhouse Lawyers Speak, a nationwide collective of incarcerated individuals who provide support and legal resources to other prisoners, were able to share as Milton tore through the state: 鈥淧ower鈥檚 out in here, and the COs are hiding in their offices while we鈥檙e left in the dark. We鈥檙e shouting for meds and updates, but no one鈥檚 listening. Just trying to hold on and hope this storm doesn鈥檛 swallow us whole鈥︹��

Another message illustrated the inhumane conditions inside as the storm raged, mirroring the hellish conditions stirred up by Helene: 鈥淭oilets backing up, feces running over. We鈥檝e been told we鈥檒l have to lay in it. No movement allowed.鈥�

While incarcerated people can be denied the most basic level of hygiene inside their dorms, they are also often the first to be drafted to clean up after a climate disaster. As reported, both and to clear roads and haul debris after Helene and Milton. During a press conference, cheerfully framed this forced labor as 鈥渦tilizing鈥� the state鈥檚 鈥渞esources.鈥� 鈥淭hey do prison labor anyways,鈥� he said. 鈥淭he good thing about that is you can use that on private property, not just on public.鈥� He also noted the cleanup 鈥渨ould cost us way more money if you had to do that through some of these private contractors.鈥�

Unsurprisingly, Florida and are two of seven states in which incarcerated workers are for nearly all prison jobs.

As the climate crisis worsens, incarcerated people and those who love them will continue to worry that every new weather emergency may mean a death sentence unless real, concrete action is taken and laws are put into place to ensure state and local county officials are prepared in advance to evacuate everyone who may be under threat, regardless of their address or legal status.

Amid this ever-growing threat, incarcerated people, their loved ones, and organizers are on the front lines, advocating for themselves and their co-prisoners. 鈥淲别 urge the public to understand our plight as people in jails and prisons,鈥� a member of Jailhouse Lawyers Speak told . 鈥淲别 suffer during natural disasters and lock our dark cells, not knowing if we will survive or not.鈥�

Publications such as , , and are also closely following the impact of the climate crisis on prisoners and amplifying the stories of incarcerated individuals who have been subjected to dire conditions or left behind during catastrophes. Every letter, every social media post, and every phone call counts. The louder the public outcry about this cruel practice becomes, the less likely officials will give a repeat performance the next time a deadly storm starts brewing.

鈥淭his is not just a logistical failure, it鈥檚 a profound moral failing,鈥� the member of Jailhouse Lawyers Speak emphasized. 鈥淲hile entire towns are evacuated and communities band together to seek safety, we remain locked within these walls, treated as less than human. It is heartbreaking to think that while the world preps for survival during a pending natural disaster such as Hurricane Milton, we are still treated as if we don鈥檛 matter, as if our lives can be tossed aside in the name of protocol. We must end this normalized routine. We beg the public to pay attention and have a heart of compassion.鈥�

At first, getting in this much of a tizzy over what to wear to an abortion might seem silly or frivolous. But as Bracey Sherman talked to more people about their abortion experiences, she found that worrying about what to wear was quite common. It is the manifestation of uncertainty that stems from near-constant abortion stigma and lack of knowledge and expectations.

鈥淚 wish I had known鈥� is a common refrain. Despite abortion being a near-universal experience, it can be hard to find advice that resonates. That鈥檚 the reason we believe a critical part of sharing our abortion stories and changing the narrative is sharing abortion wisdom.

Somatics coach, artist, and abortion storyteller Nik Zaleski taught Bracey Sherman about abortion wisdom鈥攖he advice that those of us who鈥檝e had abortions impart to one another to try to make the path forward a little easier for those coming after us. These are the little tips and tricks we鈥檝e learned from experience or that someone passed along to us鈥攖he little touches of care that we know to provide when showing up for one another, because we鈥檝e been there, too.

We hope you can create an abortion experience that鈥檚 meaningful for you based on the advice of those of us who鈥檝e been there. Although we can鈥檛 pick out your appointment outfit for you, we hope you鈥檒l pick out clothes you feel confident in as you begin this next chapter of life.

Confirm What You鈥檝e Suspected

There are a lot of reproductive conditions that mimic pregnancy symptoms, so first and foremost, confirm your pregnancy with a test. Pregnancies can be confirmed through a blood test at a clinic or hospital or by using a urine sample with an over-the-counter pregnancy test at least one week after missing an anticipated period.

Also, despite what the marketing suggests, the cheap pregnancy tests from the dollar store work just as well as the expensive ones at the pharmacy or grocery store, so grab whatever feels right for you and your budget. You may want to pick up more than one in case you don鈥檛 believe the positive result of the first one, which is quite common, or in case you take the test too early after your missed period and you need to test again in a few days.

We suggest picking up at least two鈥攐ne to confirm the pregnancy now and another to confirm you are no longer pregnant a month or so after your abortion. But if you don鈥檛 believe the first positive test, get as many as you want. They鈥檒l all say the same thing: It might be time to schedule an abortion.

You should be wary of free pregnancy tests. Anti-abortion crisis pregnancy centers love to advertise free pregnancy tests to entice you to stop in, only to use the opportunity to proselytize, slut-shame, and misinform you. A lot of really wonderful community organizations, clinics, and abortion funds give out free pregnancy tests because they know tests are expensive鈥攕o free isn鈥檛 always bad. But if you鈥檙e looking for a free test, be mindful about who is giving it out.

Cover Your Tracks

Depending on whom you live with, where you live, and a whole host of other factors, you should be careful about whom you text with, what you search on the internet, and what information about your condition and decision you share.

As Texas-based organizer and We Testify storyteller Nancy C谩rdenas Pe帽a explained, it鈥檚 often the people who are closest to us who put us at deeper risk. She knows this from experience: 鈥淚 wish I could have had more time to disclose my abortion story in the manner I felt comfortable with just as anyone should be able to share their story on their own terms.鈥�

Surveillance is a reality of life now and can lead to criminalization for people seeking abortions. Even if you end up not having an abortion, you should be careful about your digital footprint throughout your process.

Talk to people on the phone or in person rather than in writing. Try to use messaging apps with encrypted or disappearing messages or those that don鈥檛 allow screenshots. Delete your call log history. Clear the browser history of the search engine you use, or use a private browser that doesn鈥檛 save or track your history. Use a lock on your phone and computer so that others can鈥檛 look at your messages or browser history when you鈥檙e not watching. Protecting your communications can help keep you safe.

Get Your Money Right

One of the most challenging aspects of obtaining an abortion is paying for it. The cost of an abortion (depending on how far along you are and the method) can range from $150 to well over $15,000. If you鈥檙e seeking a first-trimester appointment at a clinic in the United States, the average cost is $500. On top of that, you may have to pay for short- or long-distance transportation to and from the clinic, a multi-night hotel stay, meals, childcare, and pain medications. Some state and federal policies ban private and public health insurance from covering abortions. If you are going to a clinic, ask if they accept insurance鈥攕ome do not.

Prepare for Your Abortion

It鈥檚 common to feel scared or embarrassed about asking questions during a medical appointment, even when it鈥檚 not an abortion. But the answers to your questions can put you at ease, so muster your courage and ask questions so you can feel as comfortable and informed as possible.

Travel Planning

If you鈥檙e traveling for your abortion, save all important phone numbers, including the numbers for the clinic, abortion fund case manager, practical support volunteer, or any other emergency contacts. Download maps to your phone so you can access them offline if cell service is slow or unavailable. Familiarize yourself with directions to and from the airport or train station so you know where you鈥檒l need to go to catch your ride smoothly.

Getting to Your Appointment

Arranging a ride to your abortion can be complicated, because you have to trust someone else with your experience, and they may need to travel across state lines with you. If you trust a friend enough, this is a good opportunity for a bestie road trip. If you have the cash, you can always take a cab or use an app service to book a car, but remember there may be a digital history of your ride to the clinic. If you need to enter a destination digitally, instead of using the clinic鈥檚 address, try choosing a spot nearby.

Local abortion funds and practical support organizations can arrange volunteers to drive you from your home, work, airport, or train station鈥攖ruly wherever!鈥攖o your appointment and back.

Be vigilant for police outside of the clinic or Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents, who set up traps on thoroughfares and near clinics, schools, and hospitals to detain and arrest Black and Brown people, undocumented immigrants, and other marginalized groups. This step is critical if you鈥檙e crossing checkpoints or borders or if you live in or near heavily policed communities. The morning of your appointment, you might want to check with your community and trusted immigration organizations that document ICE checkpoints.

When you arrive for your appointment, double-check to make sure the place you鈥檙e headed to is indeed the clinic. Anti-abortion crisis pregnancy centers often set up next door to abortion clinics, or an anti-abortion clinic may have a name similar to the name of the exact clinic you鈥檙e trying to get to. There are often anti-abortion protesters outside of clinics who scream and yell at anyone walking near the abortion clinic, in hopes of scaring people out of going inside or disorienting them so they walk into the wrong place.

Call 鈥淵our Person鈥�

In the first season of Grey鈥檚 Anatomy, Dr. Cristina Yang (Sandra Oh) sits at a bar with Dr. Meredith Grey (Ellen Pompeo) as they grieve their failing love lives over snacks. Cristina is pregnant and has an abortion scheduled, but according to clinic policy, she needed to designate an emergency contact on her form, so she wrote down Meredith鈥檚 name. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why I told you I鈥檓 pregnant,鈥� Cristina tells Meredith. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e my person.鈥� Meredith hugs her friend, who receives the hug reluctantly. 鈥淪hut up. I鈥檓 your person,鈥� Meredith replies.

This short scene in the iconic long-running television show created a beloved shorthand for best friends who promise to show up for one another, no matter what. That it grew out of a supportive abortion decision is just the icing on the cake for us. 

Like Cristina, you may want to identify 鈥測our person鈥� to check in on you, hold your hand in the waiting room, or sit with you as you pass the pregnancy while binge-watching Grey鈥檚 Anatomy. Ask your clinic whether you can bring a friend or loved one with you. 

You might be a little dizzy after the sedation or cramping a bit if you have an in-clinic procedure, so we recommend having someone else drive you home. We Testify abortion storyteller Cazembe Murphy Jackson suggests finding someone who can attend the procedure with you and be with you in the days following. 鈥淢aybe plan out some restful activities that you really like to do or that will keep you happy鈥攕hows you want to watch, stuff like that. I think that would have been really helpful for me,鈥� he explained.

If you鈥檙e having your abortion at home, you may want to call on someone from your community to sit with you through the process. They can help you get to and from the toilet, clean up, make food, and dote on you as you deserve.

Ask for What You Need

As wonderful as abortion providers are, some are still learning how to better care for patients with disabilities, those who are fat, survivors, or nonbinary or trans people, to name a few identities. Be ready to tell your provider what you need in order to have an abortion experience that is right for you. If your body doesn鈥檛 move in a particular way or you do not like body parts to be touched or referred to in a certain way, tell your providers during the counseling conversation.

You may also want to remind them your body requires a different dosage of pain medication compared with other patients. Good providers will be accommodating of your needs. While it is unfortunate you may have to be the one to initiate, you deserve an abortion experience that centers you.

Adapted excerpt from . Reprinted with the permission of the publisher Amistad, an imprint of HarperCollins. Copyright 漏 2024 by Renee Bracey Sherman and Regina Mahone.

On June 11, a week after a police training facility in Richmond, California, broke ground, organizers from the  marched to the Overaa Construction headquarters in protest. Citing concerns over rising police militarization and repression in the predominantly Black and Latino area, the protesters鈥攋oined by local residents鈥攃alled on Overaa workers to boycott .

鈥淏y furthering the militarizing and surveillance of our city鈥攁nd coordinating law enforcement resources across the region, including ICE [Immigration and Customs Enforcement]鈥攖hey鈥檙e actually making our cities into Cop Cities,鈥� said Refilwe Gqajela, a community organizer with the  in California鈥檚 Bay Area.

Gqajela said organizers in Northern California have been working to form the coalition since the facility was announced in August 2023. They鈥檝e expressed their opposition at , saying the money should instead be put into other programs that would benefit the community.

Of course, California isn鈥檛 the only state where Cop Cities are being built. The term first captured national attention in January 2023, when  while  that鈥檚 displacing one of the largest urban forests.

The influx of these facilities parallels the emergence of the Defund the Police movement, which鈥攆ollowing the murder of George Floyd in 2020鈥攕aw thousands of people across the country mobilize to decry police violence against Black and Brown communities. Within the last five years, there has been a across the country. 

This development is raising concerns with anti-police organizers, especially when it comes to the impact on marginalized communities and movements. There is now a facility in almost every state and, according to researcher and mutual aid organizer Renee Johnston, at least 10 states have multiple police compounds. 

鈥淭his nonsense with 鈥榯he training needs to improve鈥� has been on a slow incline,鈥� Johnston said. 鈥�2020 marks that period where, if we鈥檙e looking at a graph, there would be a sharp uptick in how quickly [Cop Cities] were going up.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Groups like , , and Stop Cop City Bay Area have been fighting these new police facilities in their communities by way of canvassing, holding rallies, petitioning, and more鈥攕imilar to the effort in California. 

At least seven cities, including Chicago and Baltimore, have allocated more than $100 million to their Cop Cities鈥攁nd many are meant to host international police training programs like . Activists and scholars have said that Cop Cities are replicated after Israel鈥檚 own Cop City,  against Palestinians. This would be an expansion of already existing police training exchange with .

鈥淲别鈥檙e told that police are here to serve and protect the public and they care about the community, but I just don鈥檛 think any of that is true,鈥� Johnston said. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why training doesn鈥檛 work, because there is no training that you can give that鈥檚 going to change the nature of a system.鈥�

While Cop Cities have been rolled out , activists around the country have been vocal about their opposition. Many have decried the multi-million dollar allocations to policing, and called on their local leaders to instead invest in resources needed by their communities.

Divestment From Police, Investment in Communities

Tennessee lawmakers are throwing $415 million into their , an 800-acre facility to be built in a historically Black Nashville neighborhood currently experiencing a housing crisis, extreme displacement, and gentrification, according to Erica Perry, executive director of Nashville鈥檚&苍产蝉辫;.

鈥�$415 million is a huge amount of money, especially in a state where we ranked low in health, literacy, education, and housing,鈥� Perry said. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 extremely frustrating because we know that money could be spent on things that would help people have healthy, thriving, safe lives.鈥�

In response, the Southern Movement Committee began advocating for in the creation of an office of youth safety, community centers, and alternatives to police in schools鈥攑rograms they say the community actually needs. In June, $1 million of this budget was approved by the Nashville City Council.

鈥淲别鈥檙e trying to approach our budget work in a way that addresses safety and creates alternative forms of safety that do not require cops, courts, and cages,鈥� said Southern Movement Committee Arts and Culture Director Mike Floss.

Activists in Chicago have shared similar concerns. In the years before the , the city had seen the closure of, as well as  in U.S. history. Naturally, many residents were outraged when the new multi-million dollar police training facility was announced, especially considering the Chicago Police Department already had seven other training facilities in the area.

鈥淲hy is there suddenly this new investment available, when we were told that the city was broke when we were asking for investments in our own communities?鈥� asked Benji Hart, an adult ally with the youth-led No Cop Academy Coalition.

Chicago鈥檚 Cop Academy came after the police-killing of 17-year-old Laquan McDonald, who was  by a Chicago police officer in 2014. Not long after, youth organizers from the Stop Cop Academy campaign began spreading information by canvassing and passing out fliers, as well as leading more disruptive actions like taking over trains in large groups chanting, passing out flyers, and talking to other passengers about the campaign. They also blocked city council building elevators. Eventually, they grew the effort into a coalition of more than 100 local organizations. 

 鈥淭he initial thought was that there has to be a challenge to this narrative,鈥� Hart said. 鈥泪迟 can鈥檛 just be that the city announced it was going to build this thing. There needed to be some evidence of pushback and opposition to the construction, and calling for different funding priorities on the part of the city and for investments in community resources.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

For many organizers, the work is about making it known that crime isn鈥檛 the biggest threat鈥攊t鈥檚 houselessness, rising rents, food deserts, and the myriad other issues plaguing communities competing for funds with Cop Cities.

鈥淭he safest communities in the United States are not the communities that are over-policed,鈥� said Kamau Franklin, a lead organizer with the Stop Cop City movement in Atlanta. 鈥淭hey are the communities that have resources that benefit the young people in their communities, that give people outlets, and make sure schools are satisfactory and building your mind. Those are the ways in which these resources could and should be used.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Repression of Movements

Within the last two and a half years, local activists have been leading the Stop Cop City movement in Atlanta through canvassing, demonstrations, rallies, town halls, and creating petitions that garnered more than 116,000 signatures, growing the mobilization into a national conversation.

They鈥檝e faced pushback from the other side. Dozens of  and . According to Franklin, this a coordinated effort to criminalize activism and scare organizers. He said a large part of the facility will be built by the end of the year, even though that 59% of residents don鈥檛 support it.

Over the last year, repressive policing has extended beyond Stop Cop City organizers to encompass Gaza solidarity student encampments as well. Tamera Hutcherson, an organizer with Stop Cop City Dallas, said the city council held secretive meetings and used vague language around 鈥減ublic safety鈥� to get  that gave $50 million to a police training facility. Soon after,  Gaza solidarity student encampment. 

鈥淔or students peacefully protesting, they came in riot gear and in tactical gear, they looked like they were ready for war against civilians,鈥� Hutcherson said. 鈥淚 think most residents are concerned about what this means, not just for the city of Dallas, but for Dallas county and North Texas as a whole.鈥�

While Hutcherson said there are still not many people in Dallas who are aware of the facility being built, she is starting to see more conversations happen as organizers continue canvassing, going door-to-door, and making phone calls to community members. 

鈥淣ot just in Atlanta, but around the country, the militarized police are on full display, meant basically to derail and destroy movements, to scare people,鈥� Franklin said. 鈥淐op City is a way for them to organize that policing and practice those tactics and strategies even more so.鈥�

In the Bay Area, Refilwe Gqajela said activists have faced increased police and city council repression amidst their efforts to host rallies and town halls. For example, when residents attended city council meetings to speak out about Cop City, the normal three-minute public comment period would be cut down to one minute. The San Pablo Police Department also shut down one of their attempted town halls at Costa County Community College. Nevertheless, Gqajela and others have continued to organize.

鈥淲别 understand this to be a direct threat to our organizing鈥攖his is a state repression tactic,鈥� Gqajela said. 鈥淲别 know that this isn鈥檛 just going to impact the people of San Pablo. It鈥檚 a regional training facility to organize the policing forces in the Bay Area to squash the kind of organizing that鈥檚 being done right now for Palestine, for example.鈥�

The Movement Continues

Activists vow to continue their advocacy, despite the pushback. Along with Black Youth Assembly, the Southern Movement Committee has been meeting with Nashville city officials to get their Varsity Spending Plan on the city council鈥檚 radar. 

鈥泪迟鈥檚 our work to help people see what is happening鈥攚hen it comes to their health and education needs鈥攊s connected to the state鈥檚 insistence on spending $415 million on this campus,鈥� Perry said. 

As the organizers with Stop Cop City Dallas continue to strategize and mobilize, Hutcherson said that she sees the mobilizing of students across the University of North Texas system as a victory. Four of the five campuses have to pressure administrators to back out of the partnership with the Dallas Police Department through protests and organizing.

鈥淲别 are continuing to educate the public, and also figure out and strategize ways to continue applying pressure to ensure that this is not built,鈥� Hutcherson said.

The organizers with the Anti Police-Terror Project and the coalition in the Bay Area have been holding town halls and rallies to stop their Cop City from being built鈥攁nd teachers, students, environmental activists, residents, and health care workers have been mobilized to join the cause. They鈥檝e also been organizing alongside the Ohlone people, who are native to Northern California where this project is being built and have been  being built on their land. 

In Chicago, activists were able to delay the Cop City project, but not its eventual construction. Undeterred, Hart said that some of the youth organizers involved in the No Cop Academy coalition successfully campaigned for  contract with the Chicago Police Department, which eventually led to the contract鈥檚 end.

Around the country, activists and organizers have been building solidarity with the struggle in Atlanta and other states, as well as Palestine. As Hart noted, solidarity is important during this 鈥渃lear orchestrated push for militarization and hyper investment in police鈥攊n the wake of arguably the largest protests in U.S. history calling for the defunding of the police.鈥�

鈥淲别 need to be supporting each other across city and state lines, and not just treating these as a bunch of little battles against individual Cop Academies or Cop Cities,鈥� he said. 鈥淥ur response needs to be as orchestrated as the police state鈥檚 response to our organizing.鈥�

A court of teenagers, by teenagers, and for teenagers, Teen Court is exactly what it sounds like: a program giving a new name to justice and serving young people across Texas. The court offers a voluntary alternative from the traditional court system for teens under 17 who commit Class C misdemeanors. Students can avoid a fine and instead receive their penalty in constructive ways such as community service and jury terms in the Teen Court. Once completed, the charge is completely removed from their record.

The program allows young people to plead guilty in front of a student jury that empathizes with their situation and asks them questions about circumstances鈥攖heir background, home situation, economic status, and what led them to commit the offense. Rather than face a punitive system, teens can avoid unpleasant experiences with law enforcement and move through an alternative criminal justice system that values them.听

Student attorney Alex Gonzalez, who is from El Paso, says the program is a way to avoid pigeonholing teens. 鈥淭he program shifts the focus from labeling students as 鈥榦ffenders鈥� or 鈥榡uveniles鈥� in a negative light to seeing them as people who made a mistake and are now learning from it,鈥� she says.

The goal of the court and the student jury is to set teens up for success by making sure the penalty is feasible for each person. In Teen Court, what counts as community service isn鈥檛 strictly limited to volunteering; it鈥檚 any self-improvement action, such as going to counseling, achieving a higher grade in a class, or joining an extracurricular class. 

Sophia Garza, the juvenile case manager and director of El Paso鈥檚 Teen Court program explains how community service is defined broadly to accommodate all students. 鈥淚 have kids that live on the other side, in Mexico, but they attend school in El Paso. 鈥� But as long as they鈥檙e doing anything that betters themselves or betters their community, I will take it as community service,鈥� she says.

Sherry Maximoff, Williamson County attorney and Teen Court supervisor, says the volunteer hours also work as constructive punishment for teens because it encourages them to take care of a community they have served. 鈥淚f you are taught to give back to your community and to volunteer, it gives you a sense of ownership and responsibility over your community. This is my community, and I鈥檓 going to clean up those streets, then why would I commit criminal mischief or litter?鈥� she says.

In recent years, Texas has increased criminalization and policing of teens, especially those of color. The state has intensified the number of law enforcement officers on K鈥�12 campuses with larger populations of Latinx and Black students. This has resulted in in arrests, court referrals, and use-of-force incidents. With students of color across the state saying they fear the officers on campuses, Teen Court allows them to avoid traumatizing experiences with law enforcement and have their stories heard without judgment from people within the system.

鈥淸Students are] not dealing with anyone who they identify as law enforcement. That鈥檚 the whole point of positive peer pressure, that it is their peers who stand in judgment of them, not law enforcement, not the system,鈥� explains Morales about how the program is a part of the justice system that veers heavily away from criminalizing students of color. 

Garza also says that she notices teens feeling more comfortable once they see other teens on the jury. 鈥淲hen I sit with the youth I can see some are being very cautious. I do see the youth open up more, share a little bit more with their peers, maybe because they feel like if they鈥檙e going to be judged, their peers are going to understand their situation a little bit better,鈥� she explains.

As a state that eschews gun regulation, Texas has also used the overpolicing of schools as a temporary for gun violence. At a time when students are being criminalized at such a high rate, Teen Court programs allow students from marginalized communities to have their stories heard. This is especially important because students going through the system are often dealing with issues far too serious for their age bracket and sometimes beyond their control.

Williamson County Teen Court volunteer Audrey Seigman talks about a case in which a teen was involved in an accident while driving their siblings to school. 鈥淭his person was put in a very difficult position. Their parents made them drive their siblings because they were busy with jobs. The accident wasn鈥檛 their fault, but the police found out they weren鈥檛 qualified to be driving and cited them,鈥� she says.

Other student attorneys say that they鈥檝e seen similar cases with teens who struggle with issues beyond their control because they come from first-generation families. 鈥淸There was] a case involving a student who didn鈥檛 speak English. He was charged with theft, but it became clear that he didn鈥檛 fully understand what was happening or how the legal system worked. His family had recently immigrated and there was a huge language barrier,鈥� says Gargi Singh, a student attorney with the Williamson Teen Court program.

Gonzalez says that declining mental health is common among teens who enter the program. 鈥淐ases involve students dealing with emotional or psychological issues such as depression, anxiety, or trauma. A student might engage in risky behavior as a coping mechanism for their mental health struggles.鈥�

In recent years, there has been a resurgence in 鈥渢ough on crime鈥� approaches to the justice system, including and harsh from the right. The conservative federal policy agenda Project 2025 seeks to increase criminalization and policing by eliminating training for federal law enforcement. Former President Donald Trump has promised he would increase the militarization of police and expand incarceration and the death penalty if elected. In such a context, Teen Court programs are more important than ever,  offering a crucial opportunity for teens to bypass the. Students are more likely to avoid entering the system later in their lives because Teen Court embodies a form of restorative justice that doesn鈥檛 use law enforcement or incarceration for discipline. 

鈥淎t the very lowest level, where the consequences are least impactful, we give them a positive experience with the criminal justice system. You interrupt that pipeline there, both with the way the child begins to define themselves and by actually physically dismissing the ticket,鈥� says Morales about how Teen Court directly curbs the school-to-prison pipeline. 鈥淲别 have defendants who have gone through the program and have had such a positive experience at the end that they have chosen to become volunteers,鈥� she adds.

Judge Elaine Marshall from Houston, Texas, talks about her Teen Court program and how it has discouraged recidivism among teens in her community. 鈥淚 started my Teen Court in 2000. From those years I have had no repeat offenders. It says a lot that we鈥檝e had students who come through as offenders wanting to join the program.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

For student volunteers, the program is also a unique way to learn about the legal system and restorative justice. Especially in a state like Texas, which from learning about historical injustices, Teen Court gives students a hands-on opportunity to learn about nuances within the criminal justice system.

鈥淸The program] is not about branding students as 鈥榗riminals鈥� but about showing them that they鈥檙e capable of growth. It has shown me how crucial empathy and understanding are in fostering real change,鈥� says Singh.

Teen Court is creating a generation of students who know that reform in the criminal justice system is both necessary and possible. The program bridges gaps between teens and builds community and empathy, giving students the confidence to fight for change.

In 2014, Christina Zaldivar found herself pondering these questions with some fellow activists after she had accompanied one of them to an immigration check-in in Centennial, Colorado. That friend had been living without legal status in the U.S. for more than 30 years and had no family left in Mexico.

鈥淲别 sat in [a coffee shop] afterward for about an hour or two talking about this,鈥� recalls Zaldivar, who is a member of #Not1More, an informal, immigrant-led campaign sponsored by American Friends Service Committee that advocates for and supports those caught up in deportation proceedings.

鈥淎nd we鈥檙e asking, 鈥榃hat are people supposed to do, how do they find help? If you鈥檝e not been there for 30-plus years, and they just drop you at the border, where could you go to find resources?鈥欌��

That 2014 conversation led to the creation in October 2019 of a called Crossing South, which provides those returning to four countries鈥擬exico, Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala鈥攚ith information they鈥檒l find useful along the way.

鈥淲别 both had been afraid of the 鈥榰nknown expectations鈥� of being tossed back South with no knowledge of what resources would be available to the already mentally, emotionally, and financially broke victims of our broken immigration system,鈥� Zaldivar says.

Their conversation turned out to be prescient.

U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement had allowed the fellow activist she鈥檇 accompanied to the check-in to remain in the U.S. until his daughter graduated from college. Then a few weeks after the coffee shop conversation, 鈥渟ure as shit, they took him,鈥� she says. He was then sent back to Mexico.

And then in November 2019, Zaldivar鈥檚 husband, Jorge Rafael Zaldivar Mendieta, was detained and in January, he, too, was deported to Mexico. Although he was eligible for permanent legal status because of their marriage, (she is a U.S. citizen), he had been checking in with ICE after a simple paperwork error had stymied his green card application.

After living in the U.S. for more than two decades, Zaldivar Mendieta had joined the multitudes of people the government deports each year鈥攅ither after they鈥檝e been held in detention in cities across the country or apprehended at the border.

Some 262,591 to countries around the world during fiscal year 2019, an increase of 4% from the previous year, according to figures from ICE.

More than 90 percent of those deportees were from Mexico, Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala. And while the number of Mexicans deported declined nearly 10% between 2018 and 2019, the number of those returned to the three Central American countries rose during that same time鈥攂y as much as 44% to Honduras, for example鈥攁 reflection of the surge of asylum-seekers from those countries in recent years.

often are flown to U.S. border cities and are either walked or bused across the border. Those from Central America are flown directly to their home countries.

Zaldivar said that, after the coffee shop discussion, she became obsessed with creating guidelines to help people who are deported鈥攅specially those who had been outside their countries of origin for so long that they no longer had any current contacts there. 鈥淚 kept coming back to the idea, over and over. I couldn鈥檛 let it go,鈥� she says. American Friends worked with her and the other activists from the group to create and produce the guide.

鈥淐rossing South鈥� draws on American Friends鈥� decade-plus experience navigating the detention and deportation system, community-based programs in the four countries, and extensive research. It distributes the guide through targeted outreach鈥攅mail blasts, social media posts, through immigration attorneys and advocates, and at public events. Also, the organization is working on a number of fronts to get the information to people in ICE detention.

Crossing South is available online in both Spanish and English, and in a wallet-sized hard copy version people can easily carry with them. It explains what people can do if they have time to plan before they are removed, or what they can do if they are suddenly detained and then deported.

The guide offers advice about obtaining credentials in the consulates of the four countries, including getting passports and making arrangements for children who will remain the U.S. It also includes a list of nonprofit organizations working on the ground鈥攊n the case of Mexico, along the border鈥攖hat can assist with basic needs.

The guide comes in handy when people land on the other side of the border with no idea where to even find something to eat or a safe place to sleep that first night, says Kathy Bougher, an activist with Coloradans for Immigrant Rights, another American Friends-supported group.

Immigration officials, she says 鈥渨alk them up or bring them by bus to the border and take them to a Mexican office where they give them some orientation for, I don鈥檛 know, an hour or two, maybe a sandwich, a bottle of orange juice, and then good luck. 鈥� Sometimes it鈥檚 just adult men and women and sometimes it鈥檚 also children,鈥� Bougher says.

They all face the same challenge: 鈥淲here do they stay, where do they go when they walk out the door of that building?鈥�

Bougher, who has spent time in migrant shelters in Mexico and Central America, says the Mexican government sometimes helps deportees pay for bus tickets, or family members send them money for tickets back to their home cities. For Mexicans who speak only indigenous languages, the northern border, she says, 鈥渕ight as well be another country.鈥�

along the Mexican side of the border, and deportees often stand out and are vulnerable, Bougher says. Detention center guards confiscate of detainees, which makes them clearly identifiable at the border. And because they are coming from the U.S., there might be an assumption that they have family with money, she adds. 鈥淭hey are absolute targets,鈥� she says. They鈥檙e subject to robbery, to kidnappings, to extortion鈥︹��

The list of available shelters along the border comes in handy for those who arrive with no idea where else to go, but recent deportees may also find themselves competing for shelter space with U.S.-bound asylum-seekers stuck at the border under its .

Gabriela Flora, program director with American Friends Services Committee, says the hope is that the guide won鈥檛 be necessary in the future, 鈥渢hat we cut funds to ICE and CBP [Customs and Border Protection], end corporations profiting off of pain, end detention and deportations and create a path to citizenship.鈥�

鈥淏ut that vision immigrants and allies are working for is far from here, and there is a need to know how to be as safe and well-informed as possible when the difficult and awful act of deportation happens,鈥� Flora says.

For now, Zaldivar and her family are trying to determine what they鈥檒l do if her husband is not allowed to return to the U.S. Because he still has family in Mexico City, she says, it wasn鈥檛 necessary for him to use the guide. His immigration case is pending review by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 10th Circuit.

鈥淎s far as future planning goes, we are stuck between a rock and a hard place with taking the kids [to Mexico] or leaving them,鈥� she says. 鈥淭he government could never give us back what was taken from us.鈥�

Several international legal instruments, including the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), confirm the right of Indigenous peoples to maintain connections to their homelands and peoples across international borders. Some Indigenous groups such as the have pursued actions to address rights violations through the U.N. reporting system. International human rights law, however, is not now recognized as binding for decision-making in U.S. courts.

Throughout my decade-long field research on grassroots Indigenous border activism in the southern Arizona region, the usefulness of international Indigenous rights for ensuring rights at the local level was one area of debate among activists.

Given the sovereign status of U.S. tribal nations, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security has established some general policies and practices to facilitate border crossing for Indigenous peoples of the U.S.-Mexico border region. The only fully formalized policy for southern border crossing, however, is a mandate that tribes develop and make use of , tribal identification cards that include security technology to confirm the tribal enrollment and citizenship status of U.S. tribal members.

The absence of clear policies and procedures for such things as who are Mexican citizens has resulted in delays or denials of entry for Indigenous members into the United States for ceremonial and cultural events, detainments, and the mishandling or destruction of sacred items.

A number of grassroots Indigenous organizations such as the Indigenous Alliance Without Borders, O鈥檕dham Voice Against the Wall, and Indivisible Tohono are working in the U.S.-Mexico border region to raise consciousness about the negative impacts of current border enforcement policies on Indigenous peoples, and to work for new policies that recognize the rights of Indigenous peoples within their homelands. Since 1997, the Indigenous Alliance Without Borders has provided support to and advocated for the border rights of Indigenous groups throughout the border region.

The Indigenous Alliance has long advocated for the development of comprehensive legislation that would address Indigenous border rights at both the Canada-U.S. and U.S.-Mexico borders, and has envisioned summits that include both tribal government and grassroots community leaders. Recent in Tucson, Arizona, organized by the Pascua Yaqui Tribe, the Tohono O鈥檕dham Nation, and the National Congress of American Indians are building toward this vision. The Indigenous Alliance has also advocated for the adoption of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples by U.S. tribal governments on the U.S.-Mexico border to help build a common reference for Indigenous border rights.

While Indigenous leaders work to address issues they face with U.S.-Mexico border policy, Indigenous members must continue to grapple with the everyday impacts of increasing border enforcement, including the growing presence of Border Patrol and surveillance technology on reservation lands, as well as the disruption of their lands by border barrier construction.

鈥淭he effect of a wall is already in us. It already divides us鈥� . It鈥檚 a psychological wall,鈥� says O鈥檕dham activist Mike Wilson, who is also concerned about increased border barrier construction. That psychological wall has devastating impacts 鈥渢hat many will not realize until generations to come,鈥� he adds.

Given the U.S. government鈥檚 historical treatment of Indigenous peoples in the attempt to eradicate their rights and presence on U.S.-claimed lands, both continued Indigenous movement and widespread public support are needed to help rectify the physical, social, and psychological harms caused by the 鈥渋maginary line.鈥�

Unwilling to give up and accept the eviction, Jackson soon sought out support from other tenants like her, and within just a few weeks, she organized meetings in her garden to support fellow tenants facing eviction. She and others are banding together, using creative means to fight for their right to housing. 

First, a Housing Crisis; Then, the Pandemic

The pandemic exposed the long-standing failures of the housing market. After tens of millions lost their jobs and were unable to afford rent, the federal government  by adopting housing organizers鈥� demands for financial aid and increased  for tenants. Activists say that while these responses were inadequate in dealing with the scale of the problem, they demonstrated the power of collective action in bringing about meaningful change. 

Many pandemic-era protections, like the eviction moratorium, have since been struck down or have been allowed to expire, but community organizing in cities like L.A. has only intensified.

Today, Jackson is a member of the  (LATU); she displays a poster in her garden for the organization that reads, 鈥淭his tenant is safe and cannot be evicted.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淧eople like me were already fighting individually,鈥� says Jackson. 鈥淏ut now I fight with a union of people.鈥�

LATU employs tactics such as eviction blockades, mutual aid, and courtroom packing to fight evictions鈥攁ll part of a long local history of collective action to fight gentrification in the face of rising property values and luxury development. The organization has secured historic wins, such as pressuring the LA City Council to vote to from a developer who was tripling rents after the properties affordable housing covenant expired. It also helped elect longtime LATU organizer  to the position of city controller in the November midterm election.

The scale of the rental crisis and the resulting social costs are difficult to fathom. Even before the pandemic, one study found that had to pay over 30% of their income on rent, forcing them to cut back on other essentials such as food, clothing and transportation. Since then, nationwide, the average rent has increased . High rents are increasing  and are a .

Further, researchers have linked evictions to increased rates of , , and mortality. One  found there were 10,700 additional deaths nationwide after eviction moratoriums were lifted during the pandemic. 鈥淲别 are learning that eviction is a cause, not just a condition, of poverty,鈥� sociologist Michael Desmond  Harvard Magazine.

Deep-pocketed private equity firms are increasingly speculating on housing stock, which in turn has incentivized landlords to push out low-income tenants.  of households nationwide could face eviction as local, state, and federal protections implemented during the pandemic expire. 

And, despite statewide rent control protections,  California had a higher than national average rate of households facing eviction according to data. Low-income renters have few options if they are evicted. 

Additionally, renters like Jackson face  for receiving Section 8 subsidized housing vouchers. Nationwide,  voucher recipients is protected from landlords rejecting their housing applications based on their source of income. 

Tenants Refuse to Return to 鈥淣ormal鈥�

By summer 2022, L.A. County evictions had surpassed pre-pandemic levels, says Kyle Nelson, a postdoctoral fellow at the . In 2013, Nelson began compiling eviction statistics in LA after he discovered no local agency does so, as is common in other jurisdictions.

Marques Vestal, an assistant professor of urban planning and Critical Black Urbanism at UCLA, and a member of LATU, says the impact of the crisis depends on whether the public accepts 鈥済oing back to normal,鈥� or whether mass movements can successfully demand that housing should be a fundamental right. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 what鈥檚 going to give a future political movement of tenants that鈥檚 happening in the country right now longevity,鈥� Vestal says.

Meanwhile, Jackson aspires to one day be able to return to the neighborhood where she was born, which is only a dozen miles from where she currently lives, but where her family was priced out amid rapid gentrification. 

鈥泪迟 would be a beautiful experience and a joy to not only live in the Leimert/Crenshaw district, but to be able to afford and qualify to purchase a home, and raise my children and family in the neighborhood that nurtured me in my childhood,鈥� says Jackson.

Across town, other activists have a solution they think could make that possible one day.

Long-Term Solutions: Beyond Rent Control and Eviction Bans

Even as activists fight evictions and demand better housing conditions, they recognize that a long-term solution to evictions and insecure lodgings is to create housing stock that is owned by communities and not controlled for profit.

This is especially a challenge for people of color, who have historically been targeted by exploitative housing policies and systematically denied opportunities for homeownership and wealth creation tied to white-dominated real estate. Today, Black and Latino households have as little as  as their white counterparts. Unable to afford rising rents and housing prices, they are often priced out of the neighborhoods they have long called home. 

Crenshaw, considered an African American cultural mecca, is the site of a Black-led approach to resisting gentrification and displacement through collective ownership of land.

鈥淏lack is the only race that鈥檚 anticipated to see a decline in population in L.A. in every decade into the foreseeable future,鈥� says Damien Goodmon, an L.A.-based activist and board member with the group . He adds, 鈥淏lack is the group that鈥檚 most disproportionately represented in the unhoused population.鈥� L.A. County is home to over  homeless people, according to a recent survey. 

Downtown Crenshaw was inspired by the success of community land trusts, a model that keeps ownership of land and housing in the hands of the community, who can choose to keep it permanently affordable while providing tenants a pathway to wealth building. 

The biggest limitation to collective ownership is raising the funds needed to purchase land. When the historic , which sits on 40 acres of land at the intersection of Crenshaw Boulevard and Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, went up for sale, Downtown Crenshaw submitted the top bid, raising over $100 million. But in August 2021, the owner inexplicably , and Downtown Crenshaw鈥檚 attempts to have the decision overturned in court have so far fallen short.

Despite the setback, the group is continuing with its vision, and since May 2021 has purchased ten parcels of land, which will be developed into residential and commercial space that鈥檚 affordable for longtime residents and businesses.

鈥淥ur goal is to build what will be the largest community land trust in America,鈥� says Goodmon. He explains that in order to 鈥渟top the displacement crisis, we have to take as much land off of the speculative real estate market, so that people in Black communities can be free from displacement, [and] communities and commercial spaces can be free to grow and thrive.鈥�

鈥淲别 are so very intentional about saying this is not about closing the Black-white wealth gap by making some Black people rich; this is about lifting up an entire community,鈥� says Goodmon.

Paul Yelder, who was once the executive director of Boston鈥檚 storied Dudley Neighbors Incorporated (DNI), understands what Goodmon means. DNI was a community land trust established by the . Yelder, who currently calls the Crenshaw District of L.A. his home, says, 鈥淭he goal of this community land trust is really to acquire and preserve some of the affordability.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Yelder says Downtown Crenshaw is adopting innovative solutions to the challenge of collective ownership, including 鈥渢aking one single-family house and turning it into three and sometimes four units that can then spread that cost,鈥� Yelder says.

The organization is acquiring inspiration from how other countries have largely eliminated housing insecurity through rent control and publicly controlled housing, even when local governments refuse to do so, says Dwayne Wyatt, a retired L.A. city planner and Downtown Crenshaw board member. 

鈥淸Policymakers] refuse to look around the world and see how other countries have addressed this,鈥� he says. 鈥淵ou go to Scandinavian countries. They don鈥檛 have people living in the street. 鈥� They have housing policies that see housing as a human right, not just a function of the market.鈥�

This story is part of Building the Block, an original 猫咪社区! series supported by a grant from the , which encourages the development of burgeoning alternative economies and fresh social contracts in ways that can help artists and cultural communities achieve financial freedom. Reporting and production of this story was funded by this grant, but 猫咪社区! maintains full editorial control of the content published herein. Read our editorial independence policy.

It wasn鈥檛 until years later that I understood the manifold losses my mother sustained as a result of my father selling her 2.5 acres of land north of Miami. It was as an adult that I understood the grief she must have felt at losing financial security and the communal legacy she had hoped to bequeath to her children, whom she hoped would eventually co-steward this land. Her grief, amplified by post-traumatic stress with major depressive features, culminated in the lack of a will to live. 

Thankfully, when she dialed zero that day, the operator who answered was also a Black woman. She offered my mother, who was in a deep personal and economic crisis, exactly the sort of profound connection she needed. Their connection resonated with the communal environment of mutual aid and mutual rescue that has sustained Black women for centuries. 

Years later, I also understood that in having the land taken from her, my mother lost a healing space. She lost her fruit trees and the vegetable and herb gardens that grew on the land, all of which were critical to sustaining her mental and physical health. The National Institutes of Health (NIH) points to extensive empirical literature linking nature and health. An April 30, 2021,  by Marcia P. Jimenez, Nicole V. DeVille, Elise G. Elliott, Jessica E. Schiff, Grete E. Wilt, Jaime E. Hart, and Peter James in the NIH National Library of Medicine, titled 鈥淎ssociations Between Nature Exposure and Health: A Review of the Evidence,鈥� connects engagement with nature to 鈥渋mproved cognitive function, improved brain activity, mood and sleep, and the potentially long-term positive effects on depression, anxiety, and other chronic health issues.鈥�

The article also discusses protective factors essential to BIPOC community well-being and presents data supporting the assertion that land reparations, and the access it provides to wetlands and grasslands, 鈥減romotes a sense of escape from people鈥檚 everyday environments, facilitating relaxation and reductions in cortisol and stress levels.鈥� It discusses how exposure to wetlands in particular improves 鈥渆arly childhood development, shows preschoolers improvement in socio-emotional competencies, and a decrease in autism prevalence.鈥�

Engagement in what are often communal and collective activities, including horticulture, traditional medicine walks, forest bathing, gardening, and the keeping of herbariums, is a critical social determinant of health (SDOH). As defined by the , SDOH 鈥渁re the conditions in the environments where people are born, live, learn, work, play, worship, and age that affect a wide range of health, functioning, and quality-of-life outcomes and risks.鈥�

As , author of Collective Courage: A History of African American Cooperative Economic Thought and Practice, describes, communal environments also provide the scaffolding required to heal and repair grief. They provide a sense of belonging, mutual aid, and support as well as the affirmation of a mutual struggle. Most of all, such spaces can spur mobilizations for justice, equity, inclusion, and belonging鈥攁nd could even save lives like that of my mother鈥檚. 

The Toxicity of 鈥淩ugged Individualism鈥� 

Utilizing land as a mutual aid intervention, we can deploy healthy, communal, and reparative frameworks to bring about positive human functioning, and provide support to build thriving individuals, families, and communities. This means rejecting the century-old myth of and isolationist notions of divide and conquer.

We saw the deadly impact of toxic individualism during the COVID-19 pandemic. In an Oct. 30, 2020, column in the , titled 鈥淐olumn: U.S. individualism isn鈥檛 rugged, it鈥檚 toxic 鈥� and it鈥檚 killing us,鈥� Carolina A. Miranda described how 鈥渢he focus on individual rights over the greater good is one for which we are paying with our health and our lives.鈥� She pointed out the ways in which our sense of the collective failed when individuals refused to wear masks in public spaces to protect others. There were numerous during the pandemic of people becoming violent in grocery stores and on airplanes, all in the name of protecting so-called 鈥渋ndividual freedom.鈥� This notion of individualism is counter to the culturally specific communal practices characteristic of many BIPOC communities. 

But American individualism has not worked for BIPOC individuals and families, who have historically leaned on each other for support and survival. While this nation鈥檚 commitment to individualism has been credited with fueling some of its greatest historical accomplishments, creating rapid economic growth, driving innovation, and spawning entrepreneurs, it has not yielded economic security or generational health for BIPOC communities. 

Furthermore, living under an ideology of rugged individualism can dramatically compound the lasting effects of trauma. A March 11, 2019, by Agorastos Agorastos, Panagiota Pervanidou, George P. Chrousos, and Dewleen G. Baker, titled 鈥淒evelopmental Trajectories of Early Life Stress and Trauma: A Narrative Review on Neurobiological Aspects Beyond Stress System Dysregulation,鈥� points out that trauma and isolation can result in 鈥渄iminished cognitive functioning and maladaptive emotional behavior.鈥� It also concludes that trauma and isolation can lead to 鈥渇ailing health and permanent changes in neurobiological functioning.鈥�

As evidenced by my mother鈥檚 story, a variety of intersecting factors are persistently at play and function as critical risk factors for BIPOC individuals experiencing grief, isolation, and suicidality. Developing and understanding ways of expanding the emotional connection between individuals, their communities, and the natural environment can promote health for BIPOC communities. Moreover, as Lisa Corbett and Martin Milton show in a 2011 in the European Journal of Ecopsychology, titled 鈥淓copsychology: A perspective on trauma,鈥� strengthening emotional health and remedying alienation from land-based cultural and ancestral practices, including mutuality with nature, can go a long way toward decolonizing Black women鈥檚 health and making land reparations.

Collective Land Stewardship as a Healthy Solution 

Black land collectives, whether through deeded lands or land trusts, are a remedy for the collective grief from which Black people have struggled to recover. A Harper鈥檚 Magazine by Audrea Lim, titled 鈥淲别 Shall Not Be Moved,鈥� honors Black land collectives, like . Located on over 1,600 acres in , it is widely recognized as the original model for community land trusts in the U.S. Founding members include Charles and , former Georgia state director of rural development for the U.S. Department of Agriculture. The has provided the means for Black families to acquire 12.9 acres of land. Another such collective is , which I co-founded and lead as executive director. It is a Broolyn-based nonprofit dedicated to helping Black women and girls thrive after trauma through counseling, education, and health care access. 

In the summer of 2020, with the world in a health crisis, we purchased nearly 300 acres of land in Ava, New York, and launched a land-based healing entity called , which is a reconciliation center inviting individuals from all walks of life to recover from states of grief, restore health, and restore relationships critical to their lives and their well-being. Our mission is to steward the journeys where people can be seen, heard, and held by each other and by nature. The land provides healing spaces and offers educational workshops, events, exhibitions, and retreats, advancing equity, belonging, and inclusive change. 

However, we quickly faced , a common occurrence facing BIPOC collectives that acquire land. documented the overwhelming crowd that forced a Black Women鈥檚 Blueprint town hall meeting onto the streets, and the jeers we faced, in a news report titled 鈥淧roposed Healing Center in Ava Met With Backlash.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

in New Market, Tennessee, faced a similar backlash, documented in an article in entitled 鈥溾�榃hite Power鈥� Symbol Was Found at Site of Fire, Civil Rights Center Says.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Although the prohibits housing discrimination in the U.S., there is little to no evidence of meaningful racial diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI), or justice-based initiatives targeting municipalities, local planning, zoning, and permitting agencies, in most of the towns where BIPOC collectives seek and acquire land. A Human Rights Campaign points out that 鈥渄iscrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity is prohibited by the city, county, or state in areas of employment, housing, and public accommodations.鈥� Additionally, the New York State Division of Human Rights offers a 鈥�.鈥� While it offers some protection to those who file complaints, it doesn鈥檛 go nearly far enough to create a culture of DEI. There are no programs undoing racism or encouraging values anchored in BIPOC peoples鈥� right to enjoy a sense of belonging in any neighborhood or community where they choose to live, work, or conduct business. 

Through Black Women鈥檚 Blueprint, we aim to radicalize our sense of healing not as an individual process, but as a collective one, where working with each other, the land, and nature creates paths to peace and reparative justice. Our initiative, Restore Forward, weaves ancestral and traditional methods of healing: for the Earth itself as we restore the land, for each other as we restore broken relationships, and for ourselves as we rebalance connection, at a time when our world feels more fractured than ever.

Over the next few years, we hope that at least 800 individuals a year will engage with the land and our online programs, as Restore Forward marshals new paradigms for decolonizing health by increasing land and farm accessibility. We seek collaborators yearning to engage, fashion, and embody new, innovative communities responsive to the profound effects of injustice, violence, and exploitation on women and all people. From Land Back projects with Indigenous communities to giving Black farmers access to land, from building cooperatives in a solidarity economy to sustaining ecological systems, we are shifting our relationship with each other and with the Earth and the natural environment, utilizing land as part of our intervention to heal the type of intergenerational trauma my mother once faced.

I was incarcerated for more than eight years in Florida. I鈥檝e been free for 18 months and just recently got the bug to vote again. Problem was, I didn鈥檛 know if I was eligible to register. I wasn鈥檛 debriefed on the matter when I left prison, and I鈥檇 heard different things from different people. Some said: 鈥淔elons can鈥檛 vote in Florida. Ever.鈥� While others claimed: 鈥淵ou can vote as long as you鈥檙e done with your sentence.鈥澨�

I needed guidance. And clearly I wasn鈥檛 the only one.  

A new proposal by the Florida Division of Elections seeks to end confusion around restoration of voting rights. If passed, the update to its existing advisory opinion process would provide people with felony convictions the chance to request a formal opinion stating definitively whether their voting rights have been restored. In so doing, it will clarify a complicated state statute that governs the process of reinstating voting rights for formerly incarcerated people. 

鈥淲别 wanted to figure out a simple question: Whose job is it to determine voter eligibility?鈥� Desmond Meade, executive director of the Florida Rights Restoration Coalition, told Spectrum News 13 in August in support of the proposal. 

Confusion Over the Law

The state statute in question, SS 98.0751, dictates that for all crimes other than murder or sex offenses, restoration of voting rights is contingent upon sentence completion, including parole or probation and the satisfaction of all court-ordered fines and fees. People convicted of murder or sex offenses must seek additional permission in the form of clemency from a state-appointed board.

But this alone doesn鈥檛 definitively answer the question of eligibility. Many people are not even aware of all the fines they owe post-incarceration, let alone the offense-specific guidelines laid out in the statute.   

Meade said the proposed process, including a special form, would affirmatively address these issues. He added, 鈥淭he other thing, which I think is huge, is that it provides protection for people against鈥� being arrested for voter fraud. 

Forty-one formerly incarcerated people were arrested in 2022 and 2023 for voter fraud in Florida, according to Southern Poverty Law Center. At least some of them had attempted to vote based on honest misunderstandings of the state statute鈥攜et their prosecutions proceeded. 

In response, some critics charged that Gov. Ron DeSantis and state Republicans were deliberately suppressing the voting rights of felons. 

鈥淚nstead of fulfilling its role to enable Floridians to vote, the state has made it more difficult, which is anti-democratic,鈥� said Courtney O鈥橠onnell, a senior staff attorney for voting rights with the Southern Poverty Law Center, in an article posted on the group鈥檚 site.

Florida does indeed make it hard for felons to vote. A 2023 fact sheet by The Sentencing Project states that Florida disenfranchises nearly 1.5 million people with felony convictions, more than any other state in the nation.

A History of Controversy

The latest saga in the battle over felony disenfranchisement in Florida began heating up in 2018. 

That鈥檚 the year voters in the state approved Amendment 4, which automatically restored voting rights to anyone with felony convictions鈥攎inus those convicted of murder or sex offenses鈥攗pon release from prison. DeSantis opposed the measure. Not even a year later, thanks to legislative support by his fellow Republicans, DeSantis signed SS 98.0751 into law.   

Legal battles ensued. Opponents of the bill, including the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), said it effectively instituted a 鈥減oll tax,鈥� whereby only those who could pay could vote, echoing similar attempts from the Jim Crow era. 

DeSantis said the measure was a safeguard against giving 鈥渧iolent felons鈥� certain societal benefits 鈥渨ithout regard to the wishes of the victims.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; 

Ultimately, the fight reached the U.S. Supreme Court, which in 2020 decided against intervening in a lower-court ruling that upheld the new law. In a dissent joined by Justices Elena Kagan and Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Justice Sonia Sotomayor wrote that the law 鈥減revents thousands of otherwise eligible voters from participating in Florida鈥檚 primary election simply because they are poor.鈥�

Moving Forward

SS 98.0751 is the law of the land for the foreseeable future. In my case, once I did my homework, the registration process ultimately went smoothly. However, I credit this to my relative privilege in being resourceful enough to conduct such research and pay my fines, coupled with my not being convicted of murder or a sex crime.  Sadly, many others aren鈥檛 so lucky.   

The special opinion process proposed by the Florida Department of Elections is not expected to go into effect before the Oct. 7 deadline to register to vote in the fall election, according to CBS News Miami. 

For more information on voting in Florida, visit the website of the supervisor of elections in your county or. You can also review this听听from the ACLU of Florida.

When in April 2024, Barrymore referenced that nickname. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 a great segue to say that I keep thinking in my head that we all need a mom,鈥� Barrymore said. 鈥淚鈥檝e been thinking that we really all need a tremendous hug in the world right now. But in our country, we need you to be 鈥楳omala鈥� of the country.鈥�

I thought a lot about that moment while watching Harris debate former President Donald Trump in September. At the start of the debate, before shaking Harris鈥� hand, which continued throughout the night. Harris was poised, standing firmly on her policies, while Trump struggled to directly answer questions and made and poor Americans.

As Trump made silly faces and referred to Harris as 鈥渢his one鈥� instead of her name and title, I was reminded of the ways Black people, especially Black women, have long been called upon to be the adults in the room. Thanks to both and , Black people are required to be above reproach, emotionless, and with a heightened understanding of the feelings of white Americans. In many ways, Harris had to embody the role of 鈥淢omala鈥� during the debate to assuage the fears of fragile white Americans, and some Americans of color, who were looking for her to be well-behaved, respectable, and unrattled.

Despite Trump鈥檚 overt disrespect and disregard for Harris鈥� station, many voters in the United States were interested in how Harris handled his childishness, his antics, his attacks, and his reactions, rather than judging her debate performance based on her expertise and preparedness for the role.

As I write in , Black women who seek political office are often expected to be hypermasculine superheroes with the ability to save white Americans from problems they themselves have created. These expectations play into the stereotype of the unsexed, unattractive, obsequious mammy, whose only desire is to care for white families, nurse white children, and relieve white women of their household duties. When Barrymore asked Harris to mother the country, that is the stereotype she was referencing鈥攁nd that鈥檚 what white Americans hoped to see at the debate.

This isn鈥檛 the first time we鈥檝e witnessed a Black presidential candidate withhold their emotions during a debate while their white male opponent displayed uncontrollable bouts of anger. When then Senator Barack Obama debated the late Senator John McCain in 2008, I distinctly remember McCain referring to Obama as 鈥溾�� and refusing to make eye contact with his opponent.

It鈥檚 a level of disrespect seemingly only tolerable when it鈥檚 exhibited by white men. But these behaviors are deeply rooted in anti-Blackness and the belief that Black Americans do not deserve the same level of regard and honor white Americans receive. We call that white supremacy.

And yet, in the face of impossible expectations, Harris managed to be pensive, thoughtful, clever, funny, and above her opponent鈥檚 demeaning critiques of her as a person. Regardless of your opinions of Harris, there are many people who will find safety and solace in her embodying the role of the country鈥檚 mammy, and they will care more about her performance of this insidious stereotype than anything she said on that debate stage.

But if we ever want to move past a political imagination limited to gender binaries and racial hierarchies, we must hope for more from anyone who stands to represent us. As such, it鈥檚 likely that those of us who believe in the fullness of Blackness and Black life have largely been left under-satisfied by Harris鈥� approach to this campaign.

Being white America鈥檚 鈥淢omala鈥� may win Harris the presidential race. It might even win her reelection in 2028. But it won鈥檛 challenge the expectations of those who see Black women as caricatures and reflections of their darkest fantasies. Being white America鈥檚 鈥淢omala鈥� won鈥檛 get us any closer to freedom鈥攁nd it certainly won鈥檛 pave the way for the radical liberationist politics we need at this moment and moving forward.

Those watching Bezos might have realized just what it meant when the world鈥檚 richest man said that the public paid for the lavish goods he enjoys, especially seeing as  to the goods that the public enjoys. Maybe at a time when a raging pandemic has , people don鈥檛 want to hear how much they contributed to the wealth of a man whose net worth jumped by  over the past 13 months, while  Americans lost their jobs in the first three quarters of 2020. 

There is no denying the connections between wealth inequality, climate change, and racial inequality, and there鈥檚 no denying Amazon鈥檚 complicity in all three.

It could also be that at a time when the  are beginning to be felt, people don鈥檛 want to hear much from a man who has rained down  onto the Earth via his space joyride, and whose company has released as many greenhouse gases as a . Amazon in and of itself  through its championing of , , and 鈥攁ll while , ,  and .  There is no denying the connections between , , and there鈥檚 no denying Amazon鈥檚 complicity in all three.

Bezos seems to have realized that public opinion is souring. Not only has he announced a  contribution to fighting climate change, but he also took the time after his space flight to announce  of $100 million鈥攑ocket change for him鈥攖o various causes tied to an initiative he is calling the 鈥渃ourage and civility awards,鈥� a thinly veiled attempt at public relations. The reality is that Jeff Bezos and Amazon are so entangled in a system of perpetuating inequality that no individual contribution can unwind the systemic oppression that makes such gross displays of wealth inequality possible. 

I am not slighting Bezos for his contributions, but I was all too aware of the inequality he perpetuates for me to see his space flight and donations and react with anything other than disgust. Bezos鈥� ugly display embodied Scott-Heron鈥檚 words, 鈥淲as all that money I made las鈥� year  (for Whitey on the moon?) How come there ain’t no money here?  (Hm! Whitey’s on the moon).

The poem was a scathing critique of the  and earlier space race, an act of geopolitical showboating between the U.S. and USSR whose resources Scott-Heron felt would have been better invested in fighting poverty. 

I believe that Scott-Heron used the word 鈥淲hitey鈥� without racist intent. He was reflecting on the overlapping of racial identity and privilege in the U.S. In his eyes, the crowning achievement of the U.S. at that time solely benefited the White majority who stood to gain from the increasing prestige and privilege of landing a man on the moon. Scott-Heron, his sister, and the rest of Black America were not considered to have shared in any noticeable achievement as they continued to languish in racialized poverty. 

Maybe if we get our act together here on Earth, we won鈥檛 be in such a hurry to leave. 

Scott-Heron鈥檚 observations remain timely today, as do his solutions. As he urged his (presumably White) landlord to contact his fellow 鈥淲hiteys鈥� to pay rent on his behalf, so too do I urge the (mostly White) American political system to make Jeff Bezos  in taxes into the public treasury. Theof the self-made billionaire is eroded by the billions of dollars Bezos鈥� company receives in taxpayer subsidy, which only serve to  and should be revoked.

We cannot rely on Bezos鈥� self-serving charitable whims to fight climate change and racial inequality, nor can we allow him to amass so much wealth without taxation that he can squander it on more lavish displays of excess. 

Systemic racism and its myriad manifestations are a difficult beast to wrangle, and the idea of significantly tackling such an issue with charitable donations from billionaires like Bezos is folly.  is hot air, especially given its history of , , and , all of which contribute to a perception by former employees that the company is  to tackling its own problems, let alone those of the wider society. 

础尘补锄辞苍鈥檚&苍产蝉辫; at its majority Black fulfilment center in Bessemer, Alabama, is a perfect example of systemic racism. Its  on the threats that racial diversity poses to its model undermine any racial justice claims made by Bezos. If he really wanted to make a difference, he could start by , , and . 

Ultimately the work of  can never truly be accomplished by a company that . These are systemic problems, and they require systemic solutions. Bezos hopped off a rocket and made a fickle commitment to solve some nebulous issues, but to actually get shit done requires direct government intervention into how Amazon and other big businesses operate. 

Systemic racism can be addressed only by government action against the double disadvantage of, through the promotion of worker rights, anti-union busting legislation, and universal health care. Such solutions would remove the patronizing, dependent relationship that abusive bosses like Bezos have had over their employees by allowing them increased self-determination, by endowing them with more options, and by widening the social safety net. 

The dependency of so many climate justice efforts on the charity of individual donors could be reduced by reworking the tax code to tax Bezos and his ilk their fair share. The more than that goes unpaid each year because of tax evasion would be better served combating climate change, and there is no doubt that what would be left over would be more than enough to facilitate all the trips to space that the ultra-rich could ever desire. As for shifting the overall global economy away from the  that outsourcing and tax cuts have created, the  rate is a step in the right direction that should be accompanied by actions to  and a .

Forty-six years later, the hip-hop group A Tribe Called Quest returned to Scott-Heron鈥檚 subject matter, declaring that 鈥淭here ain鈥檛 a space program for niggas.鈥� There wasn鈥檛 one in 1969 or 2016, and it doesn鈥檛 seem like there will be one anytime soon. Maybe if we get our act together here on Earth, we won鈥檛 be in such a hurry to leave. 

During the closing, I listened through translation while Jim Antoine, former premier of the Northwest Territories, longtime cabinet minister and former chief of Liidlii Kue First Nation, spoke in support of the Wet鈥檚uwet鈥檈n hereditary chiefs and their clans at to the audience. His words were clear in their simplicity鈥攖his is our home and we need to protect it, not just now, but in the future.

I began the long journey back to my home鈥擭ishnaabe territory in central Ontario, Canada. My first layover was in Yellowknives Dene, Somba K鈥檈 or Yellowknife, NWT, and by the time I had reached Yellowknife, Global News was reporting that 鈥�61% of Canadians oppose Wet鈥檚uwet鈥檈n solidarity blockades, and 75% back : poll.鈥�

In some ways, 39% of Canadians supporting Indigenous dissent through solidarity blockades is significant, yet the single most profound way non-Indigenous peoples can help Indigenous peoples is by respecting our self-determination and our ability to protect our lands, waters, and peoples for the coming generations. The Wet鈥檚uwet鈥檈n hereditary chiefs have clearly stated that there is no access to their lands without their consent, and over the past two decades, they have done everything possible within the current structures to protect their lands. And when the Royal Canadian Mounted Police invaded their territory to enforce a court injunction and to make way for the construction of the pipeline, they asked us for our help.

Help to stop a 670-kilometer (416-mile) Coastal GasLink pipeline, infrastructure that is part of the LNG Canada Project, which will transport natural gas fracked from northeastern British Columbia to a terminal near Kitimat, BC, where it will be sent overseas. A project that will become BC鈥檚 largest point source emitter of greenhouse gases in its first phase, and according to Marc Lee, senior economist with the Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives, a 鈥�.鈥�

Canada has always ignored consent when it comes to resource extraction, and they have always undermined our self-determination and paternalistically decided what is best for our communities and our lands. on Indigenous efforts to protect our lands and our peoples with clear demarcations between moral and 鈥渓egitimate鈥� forms of defending our rights鈥攗sually negotiations between state-sanctioned Aboriginal leadership and the crown, along with symbolic acts of peaceful and nondisruptive demonstrations sanctioned by Canadian law, and tactics that disrupt the economic and political systems, such as blockades. It was predictable that by the time I landed in 础尘颈蝉办飞补肠卯飞芒蝉办补丑颈办补苍, or Edmonton, Alberta, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau was of rail blockades 鈥榰nacceptable.鈥� 鈥�

In other words, when protecting the land for generations to come, you must do so within the structures we鈥檝e created, and we鈥檝e created these structures to ensure the status quo will be maintained, and that you do not have the right to say no to the extraction of resources from your territory.

You can say no to a pipeline, but you must whisper.

The Wet鈥檚uwet鈥檈n hereditary chiefs can say no to a pipeline, but Canada is building it anyway, because in Canada, Indigenous consent simply does not matter.

The Wet鈥檚uwet鈥檈n hereditary chiefs and their clans have worked tirelessly since contact to protect their lands. They鈥檝e used the Canadian courts in the landmark Delgamuukw decision; they鈥檝e said no to pipelines since 2007; they鈥檝e educated the public on speaking tours, videos, a website, and camp tours; and they have built the alternative鈥攁 land-immersive camp with cabins, a pit house, bunkhouses, and a healing center at Unist鈥檕t鈥檈n. A tremendous expression of life-giving Wet鈥檚uwet鈥檈n law and land-based practices.

The practices of life-giving land protection of the Wet鈥檚uwet鈥檈n reminds me that blockades are like beaver dams. One can stand beside the pile of sticks blocking the flow of the river and complain about inconveniences, or one can sit beside the pond and witness the beavers鈥� life-giving brilliance鈥攄eep pools that don鈥檛 freeze for their fish relatives; making wetlands full of moose, deer, and elk food and cooling spots, places to hide calves, and muck to keep the flies away; open spaces in the canopy so sunlight increases, creating warm and shallow aquatic habitat around the edges of the pond for amphibians and insects; plunge pools on the downstream side of dams for juvenile fish and gravel for spawning; home and food for birds. Blockades are both a negation of destruction and an affirmation of life.

That鈥檚 why the words of Freda Huson, spokesperson of the Unist鈥檕t鈥檈n camp, speak to the hearts of Indigenous Peoples all across Mikinaakong, the place of the turtle, when she says, 鈥淥ur people鈥檚 belief is that we are part of the land. The land is not separate from us. The land sustains us. And if we don鈥檛 take care of her, she won鈥檛 be able to sustain us, and we as a generation of people will die.鈥�

That鈥檚 why queer, trans, and Two Spirit artists and young people are on the front lines leading solidarity occupations in Vancouver and Victoria. That鈥檚 why Mohawk land protectors at Tyendinaga are blocking the tracks. That鈥檚 why, a few short years ago, thousands organized and gathered at Standing Rock to block the Dakota Access Pipeline. This isn鈥檛 about pipelines, or jobs or inconvenience or the best way to get our message out. This is about land and life for generations to come. This is about the kind of worlds we collectively want to live in.

In Peterborough, Ontario, my non-Indigenous neighbors have organized themselves into to say no to BWXT鈥檚 license request to create uranium pellets for the nuclear industry in our neighborhood. The plant is a few blocks from my house, directly across the road from the Prince of Wales Public School, the school my grandmother from Alderville First Nation attended in the early 1930s, after her family moved to the city from the reserve. My neighbors are concerned about the long-term health and environmental impacts of rising beryllium and uranium in our gardens and backyards, along with the accumulated effects of the degradation of our environment, climate change, and an ever-increasing exposure to industrial contaminants.  Last week on the picket line I was thinking of what my land looked like before the plant, before the house was built, before Treaty 20 was ignored, before the violence of 300 years of colonialism had removed my ancestors from this spot. I have to imagine what my intact homeland might have looked like. The Wet鈥檚uwet鈥檈n do not have to imagine鈥攎uch of their lands are intact. The Dene along the Dehcho do not have to imagine, in part because they were part of a successful mobilization in the 1970s to stop the proposed McKenzie Valley Pipeline, and because of the hard work of the folks in the Dehcho K鈥檈hodi Stewardship and Guardian program.

We can have the same old arguments we鈥檝e been having for centuries about inconvenience, the extra-legal nature of Indigenous blockades, and we can pit jobs and the economy versus the environment. We can perform superficial dances of reconciliation and dialogue and negotiate for the cheap gifts of economic and political inclusion. Or we can imagine another world. We can remember the principled actions of Kanehsat脿:ke and Kahnawake during the summer of 1990 and the mobilization at Standing Rock and find ways to support families, clans, communities, and nations that stand up and say no, you do not have our consent to build this golf course, pipeline, mine, hydro dam, clear cut because we are busy building a different world, and we are so deeply in love with our land, our cultures, our languages, and our families. It is that that Carrier Wit鈥檃t multidisciplinary artist and curator Whess Harman described emanating throughout the Wet鈥檚uwet鈥檈n solidarity protest sites, even in the face of state violence.

Our current world is on fire, warming and melting at an unprecedented rate. The whole world should be standing behind the Wet鈥檚uwet鈥檈n hereditary chiefs and their clans and their vision for a different future.

This article was originally published by . It has be published here with permission.

Cultural queerphobia is nothing new. In many ways, this recent wave of legislation is an overt escalation of the long-standing and long-normalized homophobia and transphobia in U.S. culture, not unlike 鈥� of the 1950s.

Queer and trans people are deeply familiar with the myriad, relentless ways they experience daily discrimination, erasure, and misrepresentation interpersonally, institutionally, and through dominant beliefs and values. The cultural platforming of these values creates an environment for bigoted, discriminatory politics to be framed as legitimate, logical, and even 鈥渘ecessary.鈥� Cultural attitudes build the stage that anti-LGBTQ politicians love to preach from.听

However, there鈥檚 nothing inevitable or permanent about anti-LGBTQ sentiments or cultural beliefs, according to , a queer studies and education scholar and professor at California State University. 鈥淩estrictive, binary understandings of gender and heterosexuality as the 鈥榥orm鈥� are ideas that don鈥檛 start out 鈥榥aturally,鈥� but rather get reinforced through repetition, social stigma, or restrictive policies,鈥� says Mattheis. 鈥淲别 can just as 鈥榥aturally鈥� direct people to expand their perspectives rather than restrict them.鈥�

There are many ways cultural beliefs 鈥渉appen.鈥� The American educational system, and in particular K鈥�12 public schooling, is one of the most prominent places where young people learn what鈥檚 considered normal, desirable, and valuable鈥攁nd what isn鈥檛. In this sense, education is both a window and a mirror, reinforcing certain worldviews and creating space for alternative perspectives. 

Because students are a captive audience and spend a significant portion of their formative years in the classroom, schools are, logically, a key site to change鈥攐r codify鈥攃ultural attitudes. Modern , , and anti-LGBTQ activists have been working to ensure schools mirror the existing power structures and exclusionary attitudes that benefit them, at the expense of everyone else. As a result, much of the recent anti-LGBTQ legislation targets youth and public schools, including book censorship, , and other and administrators, , and exclusions . And this list doesn鈥檛 even touch on the predatory that disproportionately targets youth of color and youth with disabilities.

As devastating as it is for the LGBTQ community, this legislation pales in comparison to Project 2025鈥攁 sweeping initiative developed by former Trump officials and the Heritage Foundation, a shadowy, conservative, . Project 2025 is a for the next conservative president to overhaul the federal government and implement an authoritarian regime of widespread surveillance, mass censorship, and discrimination. Project 2025 would dismantle the Department of Education, eliminate Head Start and other programs designed for low-income youth, revoke federal protections for LGBTQ students, and threaten schools that protect trans kids or develop inclusive curriculum with lawsuits. Public education would .

In short, queerphobic attitudes and increasingly prevalent anti-LGBTQ policies form two sides of one toxic bridge, mutually reinforcing one another and making life hellish for queer and trans people of all ages. Project 2025 merely scaffolds itself onto existing queerphobia and takes anti-LGBTQ policies in education to new heights. 

Still, schools can be a window. For every horror story, there is a knowing English teacher who slips a queer kid a life-changing book. There are the no-nonsense coaches who ensure trans kids are welcome on and off the field. And there are the lessons, friendships, and classes that offer all students a chance to connect, collaborate, and think critically across differences. Schools are sites of incredible potential鈥攁nd spaces that can effectively intervene against homophobia and transphobia.

Sparse Support for Teachers鈥攁nd Students

Creating an environment where homophobia and transphobia are challenged鈥攁nd where LGBTQ youth feel seen, safe, and valued鈥攔equires understanding the challenges facing many students and educators on the ground.

Rebecca* is a third grade teacher in Florida鈥攇round zero for much of the country鈥檚 anti-LGBTQ legislation, given the state鈥檚 proudly regressive political leadership. (Editor鈥檚 note: Rebecca asked to use her first name only, out of concern about professional retaliation for speaking candidly. Read 猫咪社区!鈥檚 policy on veiled sources.) She says teachers in her district lack the support they need to navigate both age-appropriate conversations around identity and a provide culturally responsive, LGBTQ-affirming curriculum (which is ). 

At 8 and 9 years old, Rebecca says her students are already starting to use the word 鈥済ay鈥� as an insult and parrot reductive gender stereotypes. In her experience, students don鈥檛 always have the social-emotional skills to understand corrective discussions. Educators are often left to address issues of identity or name-calling ad hoc鈥攁nd Rebecca says many aren鈥檛 equipped or don鈥檛 feel comfortable with the responsibility.

鈥淪ome of my own teammates will get into [these situations] and they鈥檙e like, 鈥極h, well, 鈥済ay鈥� means happy, so consider it a compliment,鈥欌�� Rebecca says. Educators who know better, meanwhile, are caught in an impossible bind鈥攖rying to support students, teach kids and colleagues how to respond to these incidents, and not run afoul of state laws that in some cases prohibit the very mention of sexual orientation or gender identity.听

Though her school鈥檚 administration has been supportive of her personally, as a lesbian teacher, Rebecca says the school district does not invite discussions about LGBTQ issues, figures, or history in or outside of the classroom. Instead, LGBTQ topics are swept up under the umbrella of teaching 鈥渞espect鈥� and anti-bullying efforts. Rebecca sees her district as mostly reactive to bullying rather than proactive about inclusive curriculum, culturally responsive staff training, and social-emotional learning opportunities for students.听

In the absence of any meaningful presence of more inclusive, expansive cultural models, many students are absorbing restrictive, queerphobic norms by default.

Even in states with , there鈥檚 little direction on how to actually enact inclusion-focused policies. As a result, many of these responsibilities end up falling through the cracks or onto well-intentioned but overburdened teachers. 鈥淚n California, state education code describes multiple aspects of school life in which teachers are expected to actively support and include queer and trans youth,鈥� says Mattheis. 鈥淗owever, most teachers receive little to no introduction to state laws and policies as part of their preparation and are unfamiliar with these protections and requirements.鈥�

Taken together, these factors鈥攆rom top-down policies and lackluster curriculum to underresourced teachers and underprepared students鈥攃reate an environment where all kids can struggle to shine and grow.听

Shaking Up the Syllabus

Building an LGBTQ-affirming classroom starts early, according to Erica Castro, MSW, a facilitator and educator at , a Denver-based organization serving queer youth. A large part of Castro鈥檚 job is going into schools, summer camps, and nonprofits鈥攁nywhere kids are growing up鈥攁nd providing educator training and organizational audits.

鈥淧articularly in elementary, there is this stigma and idea that talking about gender and sexuality does not belong,鈥� says Castro. But Castro says that by the age of 2, kids are and differentiate between boys and girls鈥攎eaning the adages that kids are 鈥渢oo young鈥� or 鈥渃an鈥檛 understand鈥� age-appropriate conversations around gender and sexuality just don鈥檛 hold up.听

鈥淏eing able to get into the elementary schools and do these workshops has been, I think, transformative for the ways that teachers are able to build foundational, cultural, and policy-level structures [from the] first day of school,鈥� says Castro. 

In shaping workshops for all ages, Castro works directly with youth to identify what resources they want and the types of training their educators need鈥攊ncluding using and respecting pronouns, creating gender-support plans in the classroom, and connecting to free or low-cost therapy and mentorships for LGBTQ youth. Castro also partners with educators to diversify and update curriculum. (As a jumping-off point, Castro recommends .)

Aside from comprehensive, and above all, consistent education for students, educators, and their families, it鈥檚 also important to consider two more factors: the physical environment and policies at a school.

鈥淎m I seeing visual cues of queerness [or] that the school is openly accepting?鈥� asks Castro when making an assessment of a school environment.  鈥淎nd beyond it looking safe as a checkbox, what does it look like for our young people to actually feel safe?鈥�

The implementation of many of these resources occur at the intersection of physical space and policy. Gender-neutral bathrooms, for example, are 鈥攂ut the policy doesn鈥檛 necessarily guarantee the resource is in place. At one Denver high school, Castro says a group of queer students were forced to cross a busy road to access a bathroom at a local library. 鈥淸LGBTQ students] were just holding it all day, or they would just go home and stay home. There were attendance barriers that impacted their education tenfold.鈥� Access to sports, too, can be make-or-break for many queer and trans kids.听

To truly support their LGBTQ students, most schools need a major shake-up when it comes to the variety, consistency, and depth of resources they offer queer and trans youth, their families, and communities. The good news is that, by and large, these tools already exist. As their own program faces closure largely due to , Castro believes a school district鈥檚 budget and priorities must reflect .听

鈥淲hat made us want to become an educator in the first place is to protect all students,鈥� says Castro, who taught high school for five years themselves. 鈥淸LGBTQ youth] are experiencing so much at home, in addition to homophobia and transphobia, and it is our responsibility to be that safe place for them.鈥�

Beyond the Classroom

In an ideal world, every school administration and teacher nationwide would hitch their wagon to the potential and needs of LGBTQ students and families. But as Nereyda Luna, a community organizer and former case worker for the gender-expansive community in New York City, points out, trans youth can be bullied at the kitchen table just as easily as in the classroom. 

鈥淧eople often think that youth exist in this whimsical world. And no, I think that youth are very aware of what is happening around them,鈥� says Luna. 鈥淭hey know that 鈥業f I come out, if I present myself to the world for who I am, this is going to be hard.鈥欌��

Community spaces often provide much-needed educational opportunities for caregivers to disrupt a queerphobic culture. Outreach to cisgender and heterosexual parents鈥攑articularly those with misconceptions about LGBTQ people or those unaware of the impact of anti-LGBTQ legislation鈥攊s especially important, because these adults vote, raise queer and trans kids, and take their values to all areas of public and private life.

鈥淭he most effective way to help families and ensure people break through cultural norms is through personal connection and stories,鈥� says Rev. Ray McKinnon, in North Carolina. 鈥淭he most effective way to reach people is not with data; it鈥檚 not going to be some incredible argument. It is humanizing the person, it is taking these means and scare tactics and [putting] a face on it.鈥�

Through PFLAG, McKinnon and his colleagues offer peer-to-peer support and workshops for adults鈥攑rimarily the parents and grandparents of LGBTQ kids. Last year, PFLAG Charlotte offered 29 workshops to more than 1,200 total participants. More than 600 people鈥攔anging from their 20s to 70s鈥攗sed PFLAG Charlotte鈥檚 peer-support services. To better serve their community, McKinnon says they鈥檝e recently launched Apoyando con Amor, a Spanish-speaking peer-support group, and plans to start groups for Black and gender-expansive families as well. 鈥淲别 also firmly believe that it is not the responsibility of queer people to educate straight people on these things, and it especially isn鈥檛 the job of queer kids to do that,鈥� McKinnon adds.听

Though the organization is nonpartisan, PFLAG Charlotte also offers voter outreach and education on local legislation and policies that target LGBTQ people. 鈥淎dvocacy, allyship must always have an action,鈥� says McKinnon. 鈥淵ou are not just accumulating information when you come to the workshops … it鈥檚 for a purpose. It鈥檚 to give you tools so that you can become an accomplice who is walking lockstep with us.鈥�

Those accomplices鈥攊n schools, churches, community centers, and culture-setting institutions nationwide鈥攚ill be integral to cementing a culture shift that not only makes U.S. society safe for LGBTQ people, but welcoming and affirming. Building an LGBTQ-affirming culture requires a healthy dose of imagination, problem-solving, and critically, the willingness to become a life-long learner (and un-learner) to help map out a more just culture鈥攊n and out of the classroom.

As a Muslim woman and an immigrant from Pakistan, a human rights activist, and now the producer and host of a weekly podcast, , where I invite the guests to talk about anything from faith, love, and relationships to food and mental health, I have shared many interesting and exciting stories. It should go without saying that these stories are in no way limited to my race and identity. Yet, I often feel that I am invariably expected to relay painful and, at times, uncomfortable parts of my identity and experiences to be taken seriously in American society. 

My recent interview with , a writer and scholar focused on race, immigration, and LGBTQ issues, confirmed this observation as neither mistaken nor an individual experience. He summed up the dilemma perfectly, saying that for BIPOC people, 鈥渨hat gets you into college, what gets you that diversity fellowship, it鈥檚 this exercise in deploying the most traumatic experiences of your life.鈥� In other words, my worth is seen through the narrow lens of tragedy and rejection. 

This is a terrible status quo to live in. 

Society glamorizes minority suffering and scrutinizes our activism.

Don鈥檛 get me wrong; racial minorities do face constant racism and discrimination and are subjected to inequities that the dominant White population evades, but as a minority woman in America, I am frustrated to see how we are pigeonholed almost exclusively into constrained narratives of trauma and rejection, how minority anguish is commodified for consumption, and how trauma-centered stories burden minorities.

Through my work, I have consistently observed American society鈥檚 propensity to consume trauma that is not its own. It seems as though society glamorizes minority suffering and scrutinizes our activism. It is a binary plane beyond which minority identities are not allowed to operate. 

As a result, those of us from marginalized communities are conditioned to view our identities through the narrow lens of tragedy and rejection and through tokenized stories of immigrant activism. This can significantly affect our mental and physical health; it puts the onus of bringing about meaningful social and cultural change squarely on minorities. We become the go-to narrators, teachers, and guides for the White population. This can be mentally taxing as it overexposes and even restricts us to the darker and more tragic side of our existence. Moreover,  have shown that poor mental health can harm our physical well-being. 

The progress of minorities is measured by how well we share our trauma and work to overcome it. For instance, the story of a Muslim woman like me is centered on my oppression and lack of agency. American society sees Muslim women as docile, occupying secondary roles in our communities, and being valued through our relationships with male protagonists, who are almost exclusively White. 

For instance, in films like Hala and Iron Man 3, Muslim hijabi women characters are exclusively defined in relationship to their White saviors. Hollywood uses the White savior trope, especially in relation to Muslim women, to reinforce the stereotypical depiction of Muslim women as oppressed and Muslim men as oppressors, which requires outside intervention. In American pop culture, my identity as a Muslim woman rarely exists outside the confines of this classification. 

However, because my lived experience doesn鈥檛 reflect this stereotype, it feels as though my story is not worthy of normalization. To most non-Muslim Americans, I must be an outlier.

As a result, people from minority communities are often forced to relive agony to get noticed and become more visible in every sphere of our lives, whether writing a college application, applying for a grant, or simply telling a story. Many of us feel as though we are only worthy of attention if we present ourselves as a case study that appeals to White sensibility and even White saviorism. 

Are White folks in America more interested in BIPOC misery than glory because it allows them to act as the moral authority on various issues?

Mainstream media amplifies this phenomenon; our stories are essential or become part of the social and political discourse as long as they are built on our individual or collective suffering. I recently talked to someone about a season of Immigrantly focused on love and relationships. They said, 鈥淎merican society is not interested in knowing about a Muslim woman鈥檚 love life, because that doesn鈥檛 make for a sensational story.鈥� While it sounded crass at the time, it nevertheless rang true. 

Generally speaking, White characters are allowed to publicly experience stories of triumph and everyday mundane life. Contrary to how minority characters are framed in the mainstream media,White folks represent a broad spectrum of humanity. Their onscreen depiction lends itself to three-dimensionality. Many stories centered on White characters are slice-of-life examinations of their experiences. A great example is the Netflix series You, whose protagonist Joe Goldberg, played by Penn Badgley, is afforded more nuance than any character of color on the show, despite being a stalker and a murderer.

In my opinion, the reasoning behind stereotypically tragic narratives around minority stories upholds the notion that minorities鈥攅specially those of us from non-European countries鈥攁re helpless, lacking agency, unaware, and sometimes even docile and in need of saving. 

Further, such a narrative undermines the richness of our cultures. It reiterates the misconception that White folks are more in control of themselves, enlightened, able to act as saviors, and worthy of being at the top of the societal hierarchy. 

Finally, it also enables America to further its imperialist ideals by justifying wars in countries that are part of the Global South. White saviorism formed the basis of Western imperialism, from British colonialism to the U.S. invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan. White saviorism, among other things, manifests itself in U.S. foreign policy, which is centered on imposing 鈥渄emocratic values and systems鈥� in places that are seen as inferior in their cultural, socioeconomic, religious orientation, and political ideologies.

I cannot help but think that the human capacity to consume distant trauma is linked to one鈥檚 desire to achieve a higher moral ground by helping others to alleviate that trauma鈥攁nd American society is no exception.

How do we move beyond this vicious cycle of trauma regeneration?听

Thus, it raises an important question: Are White folks in America more interested in BIPOC misery than glory because it allows them to act as the moral authority on various issues? The answer is complicated. While I do not think White Americans are uniformly intent on glorifying racial trauma, I do believe it is essential for society as a whole to reflect inward on what drives our consumption of minority trauma and how that influences the type of stories that get told. 

It鈥檚 essential to identify the enablers of such stories and narratives. When the publishing industry, newsrooms, and mainstream media are dominated by Whites, the stories they choose to focus on will reflect how they have been socialized to think about minorities. This doesn鈥檛 necessarily mean they consider people of color a monolithic group of inferior individuals. Instead, the perspective is more unconscious yet equally insidious: BIPOC immigrants are valued through the narrow lens of trauma and, as a result, are often encouraged to relive their trauma for mass consumption. 

So, how do we move beyond this vicious cycle of trauma regeneration? 

To start with, we need to diversify decision-makers in newsrooms, publishing, writers rooms, podcasting, and other spaces of creative and artistic expression. But mere diversification isn鈥檛 enough. Putting more people of color into positions of power doesn鈥檛 necessarily mean the stories will move away from being trauma-centered. 

So long as minorities are rewarded for reliving our trauma, we have no choice but to keep leveraging it. To ensure real change, we must dismantle the 鈥淲hite saviorism鈥� concept and acknowledge and showcase the richness of experiences and knowledge in minority communities. We can start by normalizing systems of governance and cultural and social norms that exist outside the Western ideals of life. For example, it鈥檚 crucial to recenter narratives of who gets to be a protagonist in the Western psyche and move away from binaries of right and wrong as seen through the Western lens.

Ultimately, we must create spaces for and prioritize diverse stories of minorities. This will help audiences become acclimated to three-dimensional views of people and characters from minority groups. Maybe then we鈥檒l discover and genuinely appreciate the broad spectrum of minority stories of the American landscape.

Afghan women鈥檚 worst fears became their harsh reality. The streets of Kabul were devoid of women鈥檚 presence. 鈥淪eeking shelter in a corner of my house, it felt as though the earth was shifting beneath me,鈥� says Saidi. 鈥淎 sense of panic began to swell within me.鈥� For the women of Afghanistan, the Taliban鈥檚 resurgence signified the potential erasure of all their accomplishments. 

The 21-year-old Saidi, who was raised in Kabul, knew about the Taliban, but only from a distance. She was born just a few months after the on October 7, 2001, and ousted the previous Taliban regime. She had never seen Taliban fighters in her neighborhood. All she knew about the group was either from the news, or from stories her parents and others told her.

In Kabul, under the protection of the U.S.-backed Afghan government, Saidi found hope and opportunity as she pursued higher education during the war. She had a thirst for knowledge, and attended Kabul University, where she studied Islamic law and aspired to become a lawyer.

My pen will serve as my unyielding weapon.

After its recent return to power, that the ban on women鈥檚 education was essential to prevent gender mixing in universities, and asserted that certain subjects being taught, such as agriculture and engineering, were in violation of Islamic principles. The Taliban鈥檚 Minister of Higher Education, Neda Mohammad Nadeem, said repeatedly that Afghan women鈥檚 behavior was in breach of the country鈥檚 , and that they dressed like they were 鈥渁ttending a wedding function.鈥� According to Saidi, men and women had already been segregated within educational institutions before the Taliban implemented its ban.

The departure of U.S. troops from Afghanistan in 2021 marked the beginning of a new era in the country, turning Saidi鈥檚 world upside down. Taliban leaders swiftly regained control of the country, . As they restored the Islamic Emirate, the progress that had been made in women鈥檚 education and rights. 

Under the previous government, women made up about in Afghanistan. Approximately were part of Afghanistan鈥檚 military, police, and security forces. And there were between in the country, most of them in Kabul, comprising approximately 8% to10% of the judiciary as a whole. But now, the Taliban government does not have any female judges on its payroll, and with the exception of the health care industry, Afghan women are prohibited from working outside the house.

With the Taliban back in control, Saidi鈥檚 dreams of furthering her education and pursuing a career in Islamic law have been shattered. The once vibrant and bustling university campus she frequented is now a shadow of its former self, as women like her were forced to abandon their aspirations and retreat to the confines of their homes.

Yet retreating to the corner of her home did not signify the surrender of Saidi鈥檚 dreams. Instead she was determined to seek alternative ways to pursue her education and ambitions.

In the privacy of her home, Saidi found an online storytelling and writing course launched by , an and human rights advocate. As she delved into the world of narrative and storytelling, Saidi discovered a powerful medium through which she could give voice to the experiences of Afghan women living under Taliban rule.

With each lesson, she felt her skills as a storyteller growing, and she soon found herself weaving tales that captured the resilience, strength, and courage of women like herself who refused to give up on their dreams. These stories became tools in the arsenal of the students in the course, empowering them to challenge the Taliban鈥檚 oppressive regime through the power of narrative. 鈥淭hey may have closed the doors of the university to me, but I will fight them with the might of my words,鈥� says Saidi. 鈥淢y pen will serve as my unyielding weapon.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

She is not alone in her struggle; Saidi鈥檚 sentiments are who, like her, appear determined to resist the Taliban鈥檚 oppressive rule. They have transformed the hidden corners of their homes into personal sanctuaries, where against the Taliban鈥檚 restrictions.

Armed with their pens and the strength of their convictions, Afghan women have turned to writing, storytelling, and art as a means of resistance, standing together in solidarity and fostering a sense of empowerment that echoes across the nation. Addie Esposito, writing in the about Afghan women artists, concluded that 鈥渁rt and women remain the greatest perceived threats to Taliban control.鈥�

Although they have never met and live hundreds of miles apart鈥攚ith Soltani in Herat and Kimia in Kabul鈥攂oth artists share a common objective: to portray the pain of Afghan women through their art. Both are producing art that reflects not just the challenges women face in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, but also the courage and resilience they show in the face of these difficulties. For instance one of Soltani鈥檚 paintings depicts a woman who is fully covered, . Another piece while a Taliban fighter points a gun at her.

Artists like Soltani and Kimia are envisioning and illustrating their ideal future鈥攁 future where women are free. depicts a woman wearing an Afghan Gand dress, a beautifully handcrafted and embroidered red dress adorned with jewelry. The wind tousles the woman鈥檚 hair, and she is not wearing a traditional covering. portrays a young girl seated atop a stack of books, with a chain around her ankle. This image reflects the current situation in Afghanistan, where girls over the age of 12 are forbidden from attending school.

Kimia hopes her paintings are testimonies to the strength and resistance of her people, and that her art inspires widespread support for their plight.: 鈥淭he Taliban may impose restrictions on our public lives, but they can never extinguish our unwavering determination to learn and relentlessly pursue our dreams.鈥�

The that started shortly after the debate and continued through the weekend forced evacuations and closures of government buildings, hospitals, a university, and schools in Springfield. Although Trump鈥檚 words have imperiled Haitian immigrants, he has not withdrawn his claim; he has doubled down on it. On Sept. 12, while campaigning, he suggested Haitians had ruined 鈥渂eautiful Springfield鈥� and were not in the city legally, although Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine said . Trump also insinuated the immigrants are involved in sexual violence against 鈥測oung American girls,鈥� continuing his pattern of linking immigration to the  

The targeting of Haitians in the small-town Midwest has led to an outcry of support from the public, policymakers, and immigration advocates. The National Parents Union, a women-led organization made up of parent advocacy groups fighting for equity in education, criticized 鈥渢he reckless and irresponsible comments鈥� from Republican leaders and announced that it 鈥渟tand[s] with the families of Springfield鈥� in a statement on Sept. 13. 

But no one empathizes with Springfield鈥檚 Haitian community like Haitian Americans themselves. The 19th spoke with scholars and immigrant advocates, mostly women of Haitian heritage, about the repercussions of Trump鈥檚 words. They contend that his claim鈥攁nd the hate before and after it鈥攁re nothing new: Due to the unique ways race, religion, and resistance have intersected in Haiti鈥檚 history, immigrants from the Caribbean nation have experienced a specific brand of xenophobia in the United States, even as Black immigrants in this country lack visibility.

鈥淭his kind of narrative has been going on since at least the middle of the 19th century,鈥� said Danielle N. Boaz, professor of Africana Studies at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. 鈥淲别 can connect all of this back to the thing that Haitians did that was unforgivable to people of European heritage, which is they had this … rebellion that started in the 1790s and culminated in what historians have sometimes called the only successful slave rebellion in history, where they were able to defeat not only the French but other foreign powers.鈥�

The 1804 creation of Saint-Domingue, later Haiti, left slaveholding societies terrified that the human beings they held in bondage would also rebel. For securing their freedom, Haitians were demonized, with the often used to make wild claims against them, Boaz said.

鈥淪o, over the years, the narrative just kind of increases about how Haiti is this barbaric place,鈥� she said. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 run only by Black people.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Trump reinforced the barbarism messaging by implying that Haitians are 鈥渟avage criminal aliens.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Despite Springfield Police denying any 鈥渃redible reports or specific claims鈥� of Haitians abusing animals or committing other crimes, Trump鈥檚 allegations have reverberated nationally. Christopher Rufo, who has led the national push against in schools and is a trustee for the New College of Florida, where hundreds of books on gender and diversity were discarded last month, offered a $5,000 鈥渂ounty鈥� to anyone with evidence of . In Florida and New York鈥攖he states with the largest Haitian American communities鈥� condemned Trump鈥檚 remarks and of Ohio. 

The bomb and shooting threats targeting Haitians disproportionately place pressure on mothers, said Taisha Saintil, senior policy analyst for the UndocuBlack Network, which advocates for Black immigrants. Often children鈥檚 primary caregivers, women rearrange work schedules, stay home, or make childcare plans when schools close, losing household income in the process.

鈥淲omen are often the ones managing the day-to-day fears, picking up and dropping off children, and trying to shield them from the psychological trauma of these threats,鈥� Saintil said. 鈥淭his gender dynamic adds another layer to the stress, as women feel pressure to keep things normal for their families while silently shouldering the weight of their own fear and frustration.鈥�

Having immigrated to Florida from Haiti in 2006 at age 9, Saintil said that she feels for Springfield鈥檚 Haitian community. Before moving to diverse Fort Lauderdale, Florida, she briefly lived in a white community where she said her classmates taunted, spat on her, and called her a cat-eater. 

鈥淚 remember … the fear, waking up every single day knowing that I鈥檓 going to get bullied, nobody wanting to talk to me, sitting at the lunch table by myself,鈥� Saintil said. 鈥淲hen I compare it to what is happening now to the newly arrived kids, I think about just how … the bullying will mark them for the rest of their lives.鈥�

Lured by manufacturing jobs, an estimated 15,000 Haitian immigrants have settled in Springfield鈥攁 mostly white town of just under 60,000 people鈥�. Before then, Springfield experienced an economic downturn caused, in part, by population decline. Then, the immigrants arrived, .

Valerie Lacarte, a senior policy analyst with the Migration Policy Institute鈥檚 U.S. Immigration Policy Program, said that immigrants typically settle in areas because they know they can find reliable employment or their ethnic community already lives there. Springfield wasn鈥檛 previously home to a Haitian community, but state officials reportedly advertised the city鈥檚 livability and jobs, news that attracted migrants.

鈥淵ou have employers who are hiring these people, so from the job-market perspective, that鈥檚 a good thing. You have a match,鈥� Lacarte said. 

But this mutually beneficial development did not prevent tensions, which worsened last year after a Haitian immigrant crashed into a school bus, killing one child, Aiden Clark, and hurting nearly 30 others. Still, Nathan Clark, Aiden鈥檚 father, spoke out at a city commission meeting last week to denounce . Anti-immigrant residents, meanwhile, have complained that Springfield lacks the infrastructure for population growth.

鈥泪迟鈥檚 tempting to think the growth of immigrants, that鈥檚 what鈥檚 causing the problems,鈥� said Karthick Ramakrishnan, coauthor of Framing Immigrants: News Coverage, Public Opinion, and Policy and a University of California, Berkeley, researcher. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 the politicization of immigrants, and especially in places that have significant Republican voting populations, the scapegoating of immigrants tends to be higher. This is an issue we鈥檝e seen time and again in the American heartland, places that are depopulating, places that are short of workers, that actually benefit from immigrant workers, but you have people … tapping into these national dynamics, when it comes to race and xenophobia, to win elected office.鈥�

Officials must 鈥渂e intentional about social cohesion鈥� to avoid conflict between the longtime residents and the Haitian transplants, said Lacarte, the daughter of Haitian immigrants. It鈥檚 important to make sure that both the U.S.-born and foreign-born community members get the attention and resources needed to grow together as a diverse community.

Longtime residents may misunderstand why people who look and sound different from them are moving in, Lacarte said. They witness the demographic shift, but they don鈥檛 realize these changes can be helpful. Then, bad actors deepen anxieties by spreading disinformation about immigrants. 

鈥淚mmigrants have been not only filling these jobs and helping grow the economy. They have their own demand for goods and services,鈥� Lacarte said. 鈥淭hey send their kids to school. They even, in some cases, create businesses … and that grows the economy.鈥�

During the presidential debate, Trump did not portray foreign-born workers as a positive but as a threat to Americans, accusing . This framing overlooks that immigrants fill jobs the native-born population doesn鈥檛 pursue, Lacarte said, and that more workers are needed as birth rates decline and the white population ages. It also belies the fact that Black immigrants exist. 

About , the Pew Research Center reported in 2022. Africans have driven Black immigrant growth; their population increased by 246% between 2000 and 2019. In 2005, The New York Times reported that than at any time since the . Today, Africans make up 42% of the Black foreign-born population, while Caribbean immigrants make up 46%. Of the latter, most come from two countries: Jamaica and Haiti. 

After in Del Rio, Texas, went viral in 2021, Saintil said she received multiple messages disclosing, 鈥淚 did not know there were Black immigrants. Where did they come from?鈥� She assumed, due to her profession, that people knew the United States had Black immigrants.

鈥淢ost of my work now has been to raise visibility of Haitian and Black immigrants,鈥� Saintil said. 鈥淲别鈥檙e the most detained, the most placed in solitary confinement. Our bail bonds are higher. So, the same things that are happening to African Americans in the criminal justice system are happening to Black immigrants in the detention center. Our asylum claims are the most denied because immigration judges don鈥檛 trust our pain.鈥�

Long before the debate, Trump disparaged Black immigrants. In 2017, he reportedly said that   The following year, he labeled Haiti, African nations, and El Salvador 鈥�.鈥� In Springfield, local Republicans have echoed Trump鈥檚 remarks. In addition to the pet-eating allegations, they鈥檝e accused immigrants of being in gangs, spreading disease, and practicing 鈥渧oodoo鈥� rituals, claims police have denied.

As Haiti became the yardstick for measuring whether Black people could participate in society equally, attacks on its character escalated. By the 1880s, stories spread about Haitians engaging in cannibalism and human sacrifice, especially of white children, Boaz said. Told repeatedly, these stories inform the rumors about Haitians in Springfield today, and they may jeopardize women.

鈥淗istorically, women in marginalized communities, whether immigrants, ethnic minorities, or refugees, have been specifically targeted for intimidation,鈥� Saintil said. 鈥淭his may be because some view them as 鈥榚asier鈥� to attack or harass than men. … In this context, when Haitian women are being targeted for threats, harassment, or even racial slurs in public spaces, the consequences are far-reaching. This not only creates an atmosphere of terror for women but can also ripple through the entire family.鈥�

Haitian American anthropologist Gina Athena Ulysse, a professor of humanities at the University of California, Santa Cruz, said that she鈥檚 tired of defending her personhood and identity. Following the 2010 Haiti earthquake, Ulysse wrote a book called because she found the dehumanizing remarks about Haitians then disturbing. 

鈥淲别鈥檙e always having to refute as opposed to having an identity that is an affirmed one,鈥� Ulysse said. 鈥淭here is a profound disappointment that in 2024 that I am listening to someone who is running to be the president of the highest nation in the land say something this surreal, this absurd. But I鈥檓 also someone as a Black woman, as a social scientist, as someone who understands race and racial construction, [knows] what that is meant to do, and that is to paint Haitians as the ultimate 鈥榦thers,鈥� cannibalists, and otherwise, so that it can keep fueling this narrative that鈥檚 necessary to strip people of their humanity.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Ulysse said that the broader immigrant community faces xenophobia, too. One study concluded that the level of today rivals , a period that restricted Chinese immigration. Chinese immigrants have also been accused of consuming dogs and cats, insults revived during the onset of COVID-19, which Trump called the 鈥淐hina virus.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淗e鈥檚 gone from talking about Mexican immigrants as predominantly being criminals and rapists to then talking about immigrants as vectors of disease and now using similar kinds of dehumanizing language to talk about … not just what they eat, but the kind of the social threat they supposedly pose to American society,鈥� Ramakrishnan said. 鈥淚 think the kinds of emotions it鈥檚 supposed to evoke are emotions of disgust, of othering and reduced empathy, and also support for drastic measures like rounding up and deporting people who are not deemed to be American.鈥�

If Harris becomes president, she would not only be the first woman in the Oval Office but also the first person of South Asian and Caribbean heritage. Might that change perceptions and policies related to Caribbean immigrants? 

鈥淣o matter how well-meaning one person may be, they鈥檙e part of a social structure and a system that makes decisions,鈥� Ulysse said. 鈥淪he鈥檚 not going to make decisions by herself, so what difference does it make that she鈥檚 from the Caribbean? She鈥檚 got advisors. She鈥檚 got to think about Congress. She鈥檚 got to think about the Senate. She鈥檚 got to think about geopolitics and history.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

When Trump took aim at Haitian immigrants during the debate, Harris laughed in apparent disbelief but did not rebuke him. Ulysse finds it disturbing that many people laughed at Trump鈥檚 claims because, as absurd as they are, they鈥檙e endangering Haitians. 

On Friday, President Joe Biden called the attacks on Haitians 鈥�simply wrong,鈥� noting that White House Press Secretary Karine Jean-Pierre is 鈥渁 proud Haitian American.鈥�

Along with being terrified and traumatized, Saintil said the Haitian children and parents impacted by the threats and smears likely feel betrayed. 

鈥淵ou鈥檙e getting it from a country that you thought you could be safe in,鈥� she said. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e getting it in a country that you鈥檝e been hoping to be in because you thought your life would be better, but now you鈥檙e being treated worse than dirt. You鈥檙e being called a savage. … How do you go on from there?鈥�

This story was originally published by and is reprinted here under a Creative Commons license.

Humor in Native culture, according to Deloria, has never been simply about entertainment and fun, but about governance and organizational styles and getting things done鈥攂ut also, an irresistible response to absurd levels of tragedy. In his book, he recalled singing 鈥淢y Country 鈥橳is of Thee鈥� at a Native conference and the room breaking into laughter as they realized that their fathers most certainly did die at the hands of the Pilgrims鈥攁 hilariously dark twist on the lines 鈥渓and where my fathers died 鈥� land of the Pilgrims鈥� pride.鈥�

Well before the 鈥淲hite invasion,鈥� Native communities used teasing and ridicule as a form of functional rebuke when people seemed to go against the broad consensus of a tribe; comedy became an important quality for effective leaders. 

Comedy, not surprisingly given its structural functions in Native communities, is also found in Indigenous activism.

Comedy, not surprisingly given its structural functions in Native communities, is also found in Indigenous activism. In 1969, in one of the most successful and well-known contemporary Native-led uprisings, activists seized control of Alcatraz Island, occupying it for months and demanding rightful land be returned as the had promised. As attention grew and allies and Natives arrived on-site, the poet John Trudell (Santee-Dakota) 鈥渨rote a satirical manifesto that conveys the feelings of the occupation,鈥� as Kliph Nesteroff wrote in his book (Simon & Schuster, 2021). Trudell was rewarded for his efforts with an FBI file that said, in part, 鈥淗e is extremely eloquent鈥攖herefore extremely dangerous.鈥� Humor was embedded in the resistance itself. 

Cut to Native activism in the present day, where Crystal Echo Hawk, , , and a network of Indigenous artists are fighting cultural invisibility and structural oppression, and, in its place, asserting their identities. They are focused both on the power nucleus of Hollywood and on making and disseminating their own stories, using the participatory media tools of the digital age, striving to change the image and treatment of Native people by disrupting the narrative created by others. Comedy is meaningful here, too, says Echo Hawk: 鈥淭here are times in our communities when we really faced some incredibly difficult challenges, and there are moments where dark humor is alive and well because it鈥檚 sometimes just the way that we cope. It鈥檚 the way that we are expressing our resiliency.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

As the 1491s鈥� Ryan RedCorn says, 鈥淎lmost all of my actions are designed to work in service of social justice. They are often heavily disguised.鈥� Incognito activism is where comedy gets to shine. And so it was that a group of us鈥擭atives and allies, comedians and activists鈥攁rrived in Oklahoma in the summer of 2019 to see what we might create together. Our task: imagine and produce new comedy to agitate Native invisibility and push against long-standing doors of oppression.

: Creating Comedy for Native Activism

The drive from Tulsa to the Osage Nation reservation in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, is long, flat, and blanketed with tall grass. Highway signs fall behind as prairie land gives way to smaller winding rural roads, and if there are prominent street signs to mark the path, I have missed them because we are fully trusting our guide, Ryan RedCorn, comedian and son of the Osage Nation鈥檚 assistant chief, Raymond Red Corn. RedCorn knows every detail and turn of this place, his lifelong home. The night before, after dinner in old downtown Pawhuska, we looked up from the bottom steps of the old courthouse where most cases of hundreds of murdered Osage鈥攌illed by envious Whites for their oil claims in the 1920s鈥攔emained unresolved, covered up by the FBI in one of the most scandalous little-known stories of violence perpetrated on Native peoples.

Stuffed into two SUVs, we are a noisy and funny (literally) little caravan: nine joke-cracking comedians鈥攈alf of them Native, half non-Native鈥攁nd me, making our way through the plains of Oklahoma on a hot June afternoon. 

Our visit was the culminating event in a remarkable week spent co-creating comedy between Native and non-Native comedians, alongside Crystal Echo Hawk and an assembled group of Native leaders, activists, and experts. When Echo Hawk and our team discussed making comedy together as social justice strategy, she knew immediately that she wanted to host our session on-site in Oklahoma. The learning and the immersive experience, in her mind, would be totally different than in a writers鈥� room in Los Angeles or New York, where this kind of work usually germinates. She was right. I learned more about Native culture as an invited guest than I had in a lifetime of living in this country, and I know the other non-Natives in our group shared my perspective. 

As RedCorn reflected, 鈥泪迟鈥檚 important to understand the geographic context. I live in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, but usually the people writing about Native people or rural Americans don鈥檛 live here. It鈥檚 a double uphill battle for people trying to write these characters in these spaces. There are so many misrepresentations of people in these spaces. 鈥� These stories are totally cut off to [writers鈥� rooms] because they don鈥檛 know the rules of those worlds.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

We have gathered to co-create comedy together for the first time, our effort part of IllumiNative鈥檚 ongoing cultural activism and its first official foray into leveraging comedy. Our group is a real who鈥檚 who of hot Native comedy talent鈥擩oey Clift, Adrianne Chalepah, Bobby Wilson, Ryan RedCorn鈥攁nd some of the best non-Native comedy improvisers and sketch writers and performers in the country: Sebastian Conelli, Shannon O鈥橬eill, Johnny McNulty, Rachel Pegram. Bethany Hall, as always, is our comedy facilitator. 

We begin our week together with a full day of information gathering and presentations from Echo Hawk and other Native leaders who work in and for their communities; the is the heart of our session, and there is a huge amount of information to take in. As Adrianne Chalepah summarized the challenge, 鈥淲别 have to know what we鈥檙e talking about if we鈥檙e going to write jokes. We鈥檙e not just doing it for laughs, but community is on the line, and we have to find something relatable in all of that information.鈥�

Producing comedy for activism purposes is a tricky balance when it comes to Native invisibility issues, as Echo Hawk puts it, because our work has to resonate strongly with Native audiences (and they are well aware of their cultural invisibility, as Chalepah wryly pointed out) even while it reaches non-Native audiences. Non-Native people, after all, are the ones who hold and perpetuate destructive misinformation at worst, or, at best, simply don鈥檛 know anything at all about Native peoples, culture, and lived experiences; the comedy has to be funny to both an inside and an outside audience. And if we are following the open artistic process of comedy鈥攖hat is, not predeciding exactly what ideas should be developed, what facts to reinforce鈥攚e don鈥檛 know exactly where this will go. 

Following the serious information transfer, the first order of (comedy) business is an exercise in which every comedian in the room shares a story about how and where they grew up: Who were the people and characters in their lives? What is memorable? Where does their comedy derive from? It is alternatively hilarious and serious, but it definitely breaks the ice. Conelli has us on the floor laughing as he recounts stories about 鈥淯ncle Rocky鈥�: a ham-handed, gregarious Staten Island man who would sit in his work truck to eat massive sandwiches in between shifts. (Quips RedCorn later, 鈥淚 need to see better Staten Island representation in comedy!鈥�) But we have to address the truly meta idea in the room itself: Non-Native comedians don鈥檛 know much of anything about Native culture or lived experiences. We have to break the ice and allow people to share their stories and ask questions. 

An informal session鈥斺�渋s this racist or is this funny?鈥濃�攈as everyone cracking up. It is hard to imagine this level of levity and honesty happening in 鈥渟trategy鈥� rooms for activist work, but once the comedians are able to hear each other鈥檚 stories and questions, it is an open playing field. As Bobby Wilson pointed out later, the really funny ideas didn鈥檛 start to emerge until all of the comedy writers had created a really funny comfort zone together, once non-Native folks 鈥済ot past all the guilt of not knowing,鈥� as he put it. If the room had stayed 鈥渃areful鈥� as people tried not to offend one another, the funny would have been suppressed. Joey Clift said, 鈥淭he stories we told, the things we shared with each other, that鈥檚 where the light-bulb moments happened.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Was it hard to find the comedy amid traumatic factual information? Not really, particularly given the long-standing role of humor in Native communities; the writers arrived with plenty of it. As Chalepah put it, 鈥淲hen you are dealing with systems of oppression, the comedy writes itself. It鈥檚 easy to find the punchlines because we can see what鈥檚 wrong with that picture.鈥� The comedy balance was really important to find, though: 鈥淧eople who are never going to seek out Native American facts never will unless we do it like this,鈥� said Conelli. 鈥泪迟 was important to make the comedy really funny rather than to work on the social justice topics so heavily.鈥� By the end of the co-creation week, the comedians came up with easily 40 different ideas: TV shows, films, sketches, jokes, social media videos. On the final day, they pitched their final loglines, all centering Native joy and hilarity. Notably, none focused on the trauma or violence reflected in years and years of American culture鈥攂ut all were designed to blast a hole into the absurdity of distorted Native tropes and celebrate Native truth and stories. 

Excerpted from (NYU Press, 2023) by Caty Borum.

For nearly two centuries, working-class, pan-Asian immigrants were the majority of migrants coming to the Western Hemisphere: , , , and in California and the Southwest, or the indentured servants in British South American and Caribbean colonies. These were all poor, working-class immigrants from across the Asian continent. 

Working-class, pan-Asian communities have historically been integrated and in solidarity with Black and Brown communities. For example, in , , and the , South Asian migrant workers integrated into Puerto Rican, Dominican, Black, and Mexican families and communities for protection against white supremacist violence and economic exploitation.

In California in the 1970s, Chinese immigrant students and families fought alongside Latine families for language access in public schools, which resulted in a favorable . 

Japanese and Filipinx farmworkers fought side-by-side with Mexican farmworkers in the .

Southeast Asians and settled in largely Black, Puerto Rican, and Mexican communities in Massachusetts, New York, California, Wisconsin, Louisiana, and Minnesota, forming shared struggles around equitable education access. 

This is a very different reality than the that pan-Asian communities include mostly wealthy business owners, doctors, and engineers who are actively working to assimilate into whiteness. White Americans, particularly within academia and mass media, have perpetuated the model minority myth to weaken the organizing for racial and economic justice by Black and Brown communities and create further roadblocks for working-class Asian people to contribute to those struggles. 

The Current Political Moment

We are experiencing the in white supremacist, Zionist, and Christian nationalist forces in decades. These forces are joined by multiple Asian right-wing forces emerging internally from our own pan-Asian communities, such as the Chinese American Right and South Asian Hindutva (Hindu supremacists). More and more, for right-wing forces across the U.S. in a multitude of contentious political issues. Despite Asian communities鈥� long histories of working-class and multiracial solidarity, these Asian right-wing forces have a dominating influence on public narratives about pan-Asian communities. While Asian conservatism in the U.S. has long existed, groups like the and have become more effective in how they organize and mobilize Asian communities and more strategic in how they create powerful alliances with white supremacist, Christian nationalist, and Zionist agendas. 

There are many examples of these strategic allyships across the nation. White supremacist groups convinced Chinese American plaintiffs to join their Supreme Court case to . In California, Hindu supremacists have pushed for the , and throughout the state. Christian nationalists have recruited conservative Asian faith-based groups to . Wealthy Asian landlords have worked alongside corporate real estate lobbyists to . Most recently, Hindu nationalists both and . have made public their deep ideological and political alliances with Zionist forces in Israel.

The growth of these proto-fascist movements has serious consequences for all people in the U.S., regardless of race, ethnic background, and class, but the connecting line is clear: The most systems-marginalized, the most poor and working-class parts of all our communities are most negatively impacted while also being misinformed and recruited by right-wing formations.听

White supremacists, Christian nationalists, and Zionists are once again using pan-Asian communities as the driving wedge against social justice movements, making it more difficult to retain historical, hard-earned, progressive wins. This is once again creating division and hindering progressive organizing and multiracial solidarity. We are the co-directors of (GAR), a national network of 34 grassroots organizations rooted in working-class, pan-Asian immigrant and refugee communities. Our member organizers are directly dealing with the ramifications of the right-wing鈥檚 growing power. We know that if we want to win the material changes our communities need and deserve, we need to build a movement powerful enough to make justice inevitable.

To deepen our collective understanding about the growing contingents of right-wing forces within Asian and Asian American communities, GAR has facilitated to share their experiences. Through this, we uncovered the vast infrastructures of right-wing forces and seen how far their influences have reached within Asian communities. Many organizers raised concerns about the prevalence of right-wing ideas in our communities through in-language content, local ethnic media, and cultural and religious community spaces. These are the spaces that many people flock to in order to build relationships and have a strong sense of belonging.  

According to Pew Research Center, Asians are predicted to be the largest immigrant group in the U.S. by 2055, surpassing the size of the Latine population. Working-class, pan-Asian communities are rapidly growing in critical battleground states such as Michigan, Georgia, Texas, Virginia, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and North Carolina. Various right-wing forces have already begun organizing in working-class, pan-Asian communities, including Christian nationalists from Asian churches, temples, and mosques and the Republican Party in ethnic enclaves with the hopes of swaying elections.

There are few grassroots organizing groups made up of directly impacted people leading and directing the work of providing social services or engaging in advocacy and policy in pan-Asian communities. This void is currently being peddling a proto-fascist agenda. 

Organizing is the clearest and most consistent tool we have at our disposal to change this dynamic, that has had the least investment. The ecosystem for community organizing in working-class, pan-Asian communities has to grow and meet the needs of the demographic trends across the U.S. Otherwise, we are left responding to one crisis after another, and with weak infrastructure for leaderful and powerful movements. 

If we want to build a multiracial democracy, which is needed now more than ever, our movements must that addresses working-class, pan-Asian issues. In fight after fight, we are witnessing the use of pan-Asian communities to advance right-wing and proto-fascist agendas. Building shared working-class interests is how we can build unified fronts for a multiracial democracy. If we don鈥檛, progressive causes will continue to lose. 

As a network, GAR is committed to nationally uniting local organizations to grow our capacity to effectively organize working-class, pan-Asian communities. This includes for in-language political education to raise political consciousness; strong, local organizations committed to building working-class membership bases; and political and strategy alignment in working-class pan-Asian communities. 

Asian Americans have a history of working-class struggles, anti-war movements, solidarity, and powerful organizing. With Asian communities growing across the U.S., we must remember our history of organizing for working-class interests and solidarity, and return to the roots of our working-class, migrant, pan-Asian communities. We must take continued action in the current political moment we find ourselves in. 

Our ancestors grounded themselves in their working-class interests when they built meaningful relationships and mutual solidarity with Black and Brown working-class communities and won important racial, immigrant, education, and economic protections that we all continue to benefit from. Let鈥檚 remember and continue this legacy. 

Within a month, Dismer鈥檚 body began changing in painful and traumatic ways. Their chest grew larger, triggering gender dysphoria, and their preexisting health conditions quickly threatened both their health and the health of the pregnancy. 鈥泪迟 was miserable,鈥� they told , an abortion storytelling organization. 鈥淎fter a month of contemplation, I knew I needed an abortion.鈥�

It isn鈥檛 uncommon for nonbinary people to seek abortion care: A 2023 analysis by the Guttmacher Institute found that as many as do not identify as heterosexual women. But too often, the language used by abortion clinics, abortion funds, and abortion advocacy organizations don鈥檛 reflect that reality.

鈥淲别鈥檝e been the sole statewide abortion fund for 32 years, and we鈥檝e prided ourselves on supporting folks from all backgrounds,鈥� Sam Woodring, communications manager for the , said in an email. The fund, which used to be known as Women Have Options, intentionally in 2022 to be more inclusive of abortion seekers who don鈥檛 identify as cisgender women.

鈥淲hen we use gendered language, the implicit message is that folks not included are unworthy of that care [and] support,鈥� Woodring says. 鈥淭o need support getting an abortion, and the only option available to you is also deeply gender-exclusive can be yet another barrier to accessing the care they [trans and nonbinary folks] want, need, and deserve.鈥�

Moving Beyond the Battle of the Sexes

When freestanding and emerged in the 1970s, many deliberately branded as being women鈥檚-health focused. This was the age of second wave feminism, when activists tried to assert and at every level of government. In 1970, provided federal grants for contraception; Roe v. Wade established the constitutional right to an abortion in 1973. At the time, these were considered to be 鈥渨omen鈥檚 health鈥� services.

But 50 years later, our understanding of gender has moved beyond the binary of 鈥渕an鈥� and 鈥渨oman鈥濃�攁nd it鈥檚 well past time for abortion care organizations and clinics to reflect that.

The Abortion Fund of Ohio is one of many organizations and funds that have rebranded in an effort to become more gender inclusive. Previously known as the Gateway Women鈥檚 Access Fund, the Missouri Abortion Fund , well before Roe was overturned with the Supreme Court鈥檚 2022 ruling in Dobbs v. Jackson Women鈥檚 Health Organization. The Abortion Liberation Fund of Pennsylvania from the Women鈥檚 Medical Fund in 2021. , the independent abortion clinic where Dismer works, was known as Hope Clinic for Women until early 2023.

Unfortunately, this tidal wave of change has been criticized for 鈥�.鈥� Apparently, changing our language about abortion to be more inclusive and ensure access for everyone who wants, needs, and has an abortion is unfair and discriminatory to those who have fought 鈥�.鈥�

Rebranding an organization to be gender inclusive and using language like 鈥減regnant people鈥� does not mean that someone who identifies as a woman can no longer call themself a woman. Woodring of the Abortion Fund of Ohio sums it up well: 鈥淢aking the switch to gender-inclusive language hurts no one, because, as we like to remind folks, women are people too.鈥�

Rebranding to Reality

Trans and nonbinary people have always existed, and while the women鈥檚 liberation movement of the 1970s may not have had the language or understanding to contextualize abortion rights within a gender-inclusive framework, we do now. Refusing to do so, continuing to say 鈥渨omen鈥檚 reproductive rights,鈥� and specifically spelling out in the name of a clinic or fund that it serves 鈥渨omen鈥� are all ways that deny the very existence of trans, nonbinary, and gender-expansive people.

And, since research now shows that one in six people who have an abortion don鈥檛 identify as a heterosexual woman, it鈥檚 harmful to continue to insist that abortion or reproductive health care is a 鈥渨omen鈥檚 issue.鈥�

Some clinics, like Boulder Valley Health Center (BVHC), have been providing gender-affirming care and other health care services to people of all genders for years. BVHC, previously known as Boulder Valley Women鈥檚 Health, in 2023, the 50th anniversary of the Colorado-based clinic. The clinic鈥檚 choice reflected the expansive care it had long been providing.

鈥淲别鈥檝e always actually served anyone,鈥� director of development Jennifer Johnson told the . 鈥泪迟 doesn鈥檛 matter what people鈥檚 gender identity is; we鈥檙e here to serve the whole community … we really wanted to make sure that everyone in the community knows they鈥檙e welcome here for their health care, however they identify.鈥�

For other clinics, pivoting to gender-inclusive language reflects the stark reality that it鈥檚 illegal for some of them to provide abortion care at all.

Once Roe was overturned, abortion became illegal in the state of Alabama. Robin Marty, executive director of WAWC Healthcare (formerly West Alabama Women鈥檚 Center) in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, knew she needed to keep the clinic open to provide other types of reproductive and sexual health care.听

WAWC shut down for more than a week in the wake of the Dobbs decision. When it reopened on July 7, 2022, the clinic had revised its entire model. 鈥淲别 were then officially a nonprofit, sliding-scale health care center,鈥� Marty says. 鈥淲别 built our new services around all of that, and that included HIV testing and treatment and prevention, as well as doing gender-affirming health care.鈥�

In 2024, West Alabama Women鈥檚 Center became WAWC. The clinic waited to change its name because it was uncertain if it would be able to remain open at all. It took nearly two years for 鈥渦s to feel that we were actually going to be able to stay open permanently,鈥� Marty explained. 鈥淏efore that, it didn鈥檛 make any sense to try to put into place an entire branding change if we thought we were only going to be operating for another month or two.鈥�

Now, more than two years after Dobbs eradicated the constitutional right to an abortion, WAWC is still open and serving patients. WAWC doesn鈥檛 provide abortion care, but, true to its new gender-inclusive name, it does perform a wide range of reproductive and sexual health care options.

鈥淲别 provide gender-affirming care across the state,鈥� Marty said. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 not just those [in Tuscaloosa] who are coming to the clinic. We鈥檝e been able to do a telemed program … We鈥檙e actually able to provide medication to people regardless of where they are in the state.鈥�

It鈥檚 unclear whether WAWC will ever be able to provide abortion care again, but if it does, its gender-inclusive name will signal its willingness to accept abortion patients of all genders. Even if abortion remains illegal in Alabama, WAWC鈥檚 rebrand, as other clinic and fund rebrands, hold an important lesson for clinics and funds nationwide: Changing a name to be gender-inclusive isn鈥檛 a rhetorical exercise. 

Being gender-inclusive is about reflecting the many genders a clinic already serves. It鈥檚 about welcoming patients of all genders, no matter how they identify. It鈥檚 about signaling to the broader culture, to the entire country, that access to safe abortion care is for everyone.

Jan. 1 marked 10 years since the 22-year-old father was fatally shot by the Bay Area Regional Transit officer in the early morning hours of New Year鈥檚 Day.

In the decade since his tragic death, Grant鈥檚 family has helped to create a police citizen review board of BART, established a foundation, and launched a campaign to not only help bridge the gap between police and the community, but also to build a nationwide network of families affected by such violence.

鈥淭hat鈥檚 a club that nobody wants to be a part of,鈥� says Grant鈥檚 aunt, Beatrice X Johnson. 鈥淲别 can offer them love, support, and steps to getting justice, because we are the only ones that truly know what they鈥檙e going through.鈥�

The impact of Grant鈥檚 death ripped through the country. Millions would come to know his story, which was depicted in the 2013 critically acclaimed film听Fruitvale Station.

BART officers had responded to a call about a fight on the Fruitvale station platform about 2 a.m. Grant, who according to reports was not among those fighting, was detained with several others. 听captured of the incident. Already restrained, an unarmed Grant was fatally shot in the back by Officer Johannes Mehserle.

Grant became part of a grim list of unarmed Black men, women, and children, killed in the years before the world started saying their names: Travyon Martin … Michael Brown 鈥� Philando Castile 鈥� Tamir Rice 鈥� Aiyanna Stanley-Jones 鈥� Rekia Boyd 鈥� Sandra Bland.

The United States has 听than any other industrialized country. In 2018, , according to The Washington Post. Of those killed, 38 were unarmed.

Research has recently confirmed what survivors of police violence have known for a long time鈥攖he trauma from these type of killings reach far beyond those who personally knew the victim. Entire Black communities are affected.

Organizing

To help their community heal from Grant鈥檚 death, his mother, Wanda Johnson, and uncle Cephus X Johnson, known as Uncle Bobby, along with members of their community, campaigned for the creation of the BART Police Citizen Review Board, which was formed in 2009.

Among their responsibilities, members of the board review citizen allegations of on-duty police misconduct, and recommend and monitor changes to police policies. , dozens of recommendations from the review board were approved by the BART board in March 2018, such as allowing the independent police auditors to investigate any kind of misconduct allegations.

In 2010,听Uncle Bobby founded the Oscar Grant Foundation to help mend the distrust between residents in predominantly Black, high-crime communities and law enforcement. The foundation offers community support through grief sessions as well as youth services and activities such as scholarships, school supplies giveaways, tutoring, and programs, including three basketball teams named after Grant.

He and his wife, Beatrice, later established the Love Not Blood Campaign in 2014. And Wanda Johnson took over as CEO of the foundation.

The purpose of both organizations is to help others who鈥檝e been affected by gun violence, and to create an environment where that violence does not exist.

Love Not Blood works to build a network of families across the country whose loved ones have lost their lives to police or community violence. They offer emotional support through their family response team, which helps families with events, such as vigils or healing circles. They also help them with navigating the criminal justice system, attaining lawyers, attending trials, and creating a safe space for them to tell their stories.

The campaign also holds workshops at conferences and in schools to inspire youth activism.

鈥淲别 offer services to educate children so they can get activated right away,鈥� Beatrice says. 鈥淭his is their future. You don鈥檛 have to wait until you鈥檙e grown to start making changes.鈥�

Uncle Bobby听adds that they offer a unique perspective to families when a crisis occurs.

鈥淔amilies impacted will have a better chance of engaging families that are newly impacted,鈥� he explains. 鈥淲别 give them insight of this whole new trajectory that they鈥檝e been placed on with the murder of their loved one.鈥�

Healing Hurting Hearts

Dionne Smith-Downs, a mother of 14, was put on that new trajectory when she lost her son, James Rivera, to police violence in 2010. Rivera, 16, was shot multiple times by Stockton, California, police officers.

Uncle Bobby听reached out to Smith-Downs to let her know she wasn鈥檛 alone, and introduced her to Wanda Johnson, who convenes the monthly support sessions at the foundation for mothers whose children have died from gun violence.

The goal of the sessions is to introduce the mothers to the five stages of the grieving process, brainstorm solutions to policing, and talk about ways to improve the relationship between the community and police.

鈥淚 understand the loss. I can鈥檛 say I understand their full grieving process because everyone grieves different,鈥� Wanda says. 鈥淸But] I understand the impact of losing your son at the hands of those we hire to protect and serve [us].鈥�

Smith-Downs is one of 15 to 30 participants who attend the Healing Hurting Hearts monthly support sessions. She says coming together regularly with the mothers is empowering.

鈥淢y son was 16 years old when he was killed, and I had so many questions,鈥� she said. 鈥淣o one knows how you鈥檙e feeling, but these mothers do.鈥�

Building relationships

Donna Smith, Grant鈥檚 godmother and foundation volunteer, is proud of the relationship the foundation has forged with local law enforcement. Over the years, officers have participated in the foundation鈥檚 community events.

鈥淲hen we have the backpack giveaways or scholarship events, police officers and firefighters are all lined up on the walls and even out in the lobby. They鈥檙e saying, 鈥榃e鈥檙e here to support your community and we鈥檙e going to be consistent,鈥欌�� Smith says. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 overwhelming to see.鈥�

In addition to building relationships with officers and holding them accountable, the foundation has provided nearly $70,000 in scholarships to youth in the community.

Jafar Bey, a sophomore at University of California, Davis, was awarded a scholarship in 2017.

鈥淸I] can鈥檛 really describe how much it鈥檚 appreciated,鈥� says Bey, who comes from a large family.

With nine siblings, he says, money can be tight. Two are currently in college.

鈥淕etting the scholarship from the foundation allowed me to go to a prestigious university right away without waiting and having to go somewhere smaller,鈥� he said.

At UC Davis, Bey majors in political science and philosophy, and plans to become a lawyer so that he can help at-risk and disadvantaged youth, who he says often get overlooked.

鈥淭hey don鈥檛 get a chance to see their potential, but the Oscar Grant Foundation allows them to see themselves in a different light and lets them know there are opportunities out there for them to succeed.鈥�

Looking to the future

In March, the foundation will hold its Fourth Annual Gala to commemorate the 10th anniversary of Grant鈥檚 death. An unveiling of a mural at the Fruitvale station in Grant鈥檚 honor is scheduled. And the family is working toward installing a plaque on the platform as well.

The funds raised from the gala will go toward youth scholarships, travel, flights, and uniforms for the OG Ballers basketball team, Healing Hurting Hearts materials, a building fund for a tutoring center, and more.

鈥淸We want to] really pour love into the community and help with our collective healing,鈥� Wanda Johnson says. 鈥淲别 can鈥檛 do this work without the community鈥檚 support.鈥�

Every day for the past 22 years, I鈥檝e left my house and traveled the same route to work. It takes exactly six minutes from the time I leave until the moment I open the door of my SUV to walk inside my school. Every day I walk to the passenger side to get my purse, school bag, and thermos of iced tea to drink at work, and then look at the large cutout of an eagle over the gym on my way into school. 

I attended Live Oak schools from elementary through high school, and the eagle has always been our mascot. After I graduated college, I went back to work at the school I attended as a child, once more an eagle. I have been an eagle for 35 of the 45 years that I have been alive, in more ways than one.

A few years ago, I took an online test that compares personalities to animals, and I had to laugh when my results came back as an eagle. Eagle personalities were described as being goal-driven, bold, action-oriented, and not afraid of a challenge. Eagle personalities, much like the actual bird of prey, are daring, persistent, savage yet nurturing, resilient.

Upon reflection, I wouldn鈥檛 say that I am naturally a courageous person, but I will go toe to toe with someone, regardless of who they are or how dangerous, if they try to harm me or someone I love. Like an eagle, I can be ferocious when needed.

After July 2022, when both myself and my became targets in Louisiana, I decided to show just how ferocious I could be. I never thought that attending a public library board meeting to speak against censorship would make me a target, but I wasn鈥檛 going to take it lying down. I set forth to create a game plan to help my parish that included getting to know the players, gathering allies, and creating alliances, and the determination that while we might lose some skirmishes along the way, we would win the big game no matter what. I am playing chess to their checkers.

The pro-censors are loud and obnoxious, and they鈥檙e only growing bolder. They鈥檒l continue their rampage unless rational people speak out against them. This movement could have detrimental effects on our schools and libraries for decades to come if we don鈥檛 consistently confront them. 

People who believe in inclusivity, the freedom to read, and the public good need to be even louder and more active than the book banners. They post about saving children but provide no evidence that children are in danger. It鈥檚 not about kids for them. We all want to protect children. That has never been the difference between us and them. Their agenda is all about silencing voices, politics, and money. It鈥檚 very important in the quest for intellectual freedom that we get to know our foes.

I highly recommend that everyone take the following steps to stay informed within your community:

Attend school board, library board, and local governance meetings.

Take notes on which officials use words like 鈥渨oke鈥� and 鈥渋ndoctrination.鈥� If they use words like 鈥済ender ideology鈥� and 鈥渟exually explicit material,鈥� chances are they are pro-censorship. Hate and oppression is a running theme, and you will find that they all post the same ridiculous memes filled with lies and conspiracy theories.

Follow the social media accounts of elected officials and take screenshots to document any extremist views.

Share the knowledge with others in your community.

Use a website like to track legislation and your elected officials.

Stay in the know.

Use your state government鈥檚 website to look up politicians and their donors.

Follow the money and you will find the motives.

Vote in every local election.

Keeping tabs on the pro-censors in other areas allows you to prepare for their hateful antics. From following the push to censor materials in St. Tammany Parish, I took note of some issues they had with their library signs. The St. Tammany Library Alliance, a group of citizens devoted to protecting the library, posted signs around town that said 鈥淭rust Our Librarians.鈥� A group of local far-right ideologues then purchased nearly identical signs that said 鈥淣o One Trusts Our Librarians.鈥� I made a mental note to be sure that our future signs were harder to mock.

I also found out about an email that a woman named Connie sent the director of the St. Tammany Parish Public Library that said, among other things, 鈥淢y ultimate goal is to make sure that you are not there,鈥� and 鈥淲别 will see who ultimately prevails but remember I have God on my side, God always wins, and if you underestimate me you do so at your own peril.鈥� I checked in with our director to make sure she was OK, and she told me a man called the library to tell her she was a cunt. The types of people who call and email librarians with threats and inappropriate comments are vile. Be sure you counteract the hate by emailing positivity to your library staff to help counter the negativity they hear too often.

After the attacks on me, I was helped by continued messages of support from across my state and the country. People I had never met were sending me postcards, letters, and gifts to my school, our local library, and the local bookstore. Hundreds of supportive emails were sent my way, and it made me feel less alone. I looked for ways to pay those messages forward and started combing through social media posts in communities where I knew librarians and educators were also being attacked. 

I would see the same disgusting comments over and over, but occasionally I would see someone defend the librarian or educator. I would then private-message those people and share how supportive emails had helped me and ask them to consider sending one to their local librarian. Who knows if the librarian would see the social media post, but a personal email can make a real positive impact. It鈥檚 one small way I have tried to help others.

I then discovered that the school librarian Christopher Harris has made the process a little easier with his website . This amazing website allows you to sign up so that you can mail messages of support to librarians across the country. You can also send them names of librarians under attack so that they will receive letters, and you can even donate to this website to help support their work. A letter may seem like such a small thing, but it can mean the world to somebody who is being bombarded with hate.

A bigger step to support your library, and stand up for intellectual freedom, is to create a solid community alliance for your school and public libraries. I have found that the vast majority of people are against censorship, but sometimes they can easily fall for lies posted on social media. A solid alliance can dispel lies and promote the truth. Alliances also act as support for the librarians and a common place where like-minded individuals can gather to plan and show solidarity. Many people want to help, but they don鈥檛 know how.

Alliances can keep residents informed about public meetings, agenda items, and politicians, as well as promote positivity. The citizen alliances joined forces during the 2023 Louisiana legislative session, and we were able to send thousands of emails and letters to legislators about the four anti-library bills.

With an alliance in place, you can play offense rather than defense. When I was first targeted, I was blessed to have personal support from ; our community was fortunate to have their help in creating a citizen alliance for our parish鈥檚 entire public library system. EveryLibrary was key in helping our residents set up a game plan for success, and with their help we steadily held off the censors. Consider contacting EveryLibrary for assistance getting started on an alliance.

Alliances offer support to our librarians. Whether it鈥檚 an email, the sharing of a post, or attending a public meeting, we want them to know that there鈥檚 an entire army behind them in the community. 

If you are alone and don鈥檛 know where to start, create an alliance Facebook page and invite your friends and family who support libraries. Ask them to invite their library-supporting friends. At each public meeting, pass out flyers with the name of your Facebook page and a little bit about your alliance. It鈥檚 amazing how quickly it will grow. 

I am proud to have founded a grassroots alliance of residents from across our parish that has helped our public library system. We started out as a very small group but found dozens of people willing to help over time. You can put as much or as little as you want into an alliance, but make no mistake: Your community needs one.

While larger groups like the American Library Association, PEN America, and EveryLibrary can help with the big picture, campaigns, and resources, the real work is at the local level with grassroots efforts. It takes members of the community to stand up, speak out, and stick together as a cohesive unit. You are better together in numbers. 

Consider forming a statewide alliance, or team up with your state鈥檚 library or school library association. Lynette Mejia and Melanie Brevis had already formed a solid community alliance in neighboring Lafayette. They wanted to unify the many parish alliances under one banner, and we formed . All it takes is one person, or a small group, to get the ball rolling.

When, inevitably, you have people in your community who try to say that there are sexually explicit materials in your school or public library, first and foremost it鈥檚 important to remind them about collection development and reconsideration policies. After that, prove their lies wrong. 

The next time you hear someone say there are sexually explicit materials in children鈥檚 sections of your library (which is not true), here are some suggestions:

Ask this person to give you a title of an actual book.

Look on your library鈥檚 catalog to see if the book even exists and/or if it is even in the children鈥檚 section. You can usually see for yourself that their claim is false. Then YOU don鈥檛 have to perpetuate the rumor and can stop it in its tracks.

Check out the book and read it for yourself.

Remember that every book might not be your cup of tea, but that doesn鈥檛 mean the book is sexually explicit. If you object to a title, fill out a formal request for reconsideration if you feel that is necessary. Keep in mind that a book in the adult section must fail to be considered obscene and sexually explicit. Books are taken as a whole and based on literary merit鈥攏ot just one page out of context.

Ask yourself if they have a hidden motive.

Once you can prove to them that their claims are false and they continue to spread the lie, ask yourself why. You鈥檇 be amazed at how many people simply want to spread lies, even if they know they are lies. That鈥檚 called chasing clout. They want to feel important and/or were fed disinformation that they did not take the time to verify.

See if they or a family member is running for office.

Are they just jumping on the bandwagon of using the library as a punching bag to stir up drama so that they can say they will swoop in and save the day from that fake issue? This is called pandering for votes.

Ask your friendly neighborhood librarian or email the alliance, and we will help prove it for you!

Back in July 2022, I went to a public library board meeting thinking I would do my part to give one speech, sit down, and life would go on. Instead, I became a target. I could have chosen to ignore the online lies and hate being told about me, but why should I have stayed silent when I had done nothing wrong? In fact, they probably would have forgotten about me in a few weeks or months. Would I still be looking over my shoulder today had I chosen to do nothing?

Probably not. I chose to take a stand, and that decision changed the trajectory of my life. I chose to fight back. It was a hard decision that I did not take lightly. It has taken an emotional, physical, and mental toll on me and my family. I have zero regrets. This has become a purpose in my life鈥攖o stick up for librarians and libraries, speak out for historically marginalized students and authors, fight back against online bullying, and help others find their voices to do the same. However, I want others to understand that it is OK to walk away. There is no shame in taking care of yourself and your family first.

Regardless of my lawsuit, I will continue to speak out against censorship. Even if it takes years, we will win in the long run. I am an eagle through and through. An eagle will protect its territory by flying around it or by perching conspicuously near the top of a nearby tree. I will attend every local meeting with a watchful eye. I will continue to speak out. Like an eagle protecting her nest, I will help protect my community and myself from those who threaten us. I will circle above, going high instead of low, until the threat leaves the area.

This excerpt, adapted from by Amanda Jones (Bloomsbury Publishing, 2024), appears by permission of the publisher.

According to Euro-Med Monitor, those in the Gaza Strip have access to just for all needs, including drinking, cooking, and personal hygiene. The established international emergency water threshold 鈥攖en times what Gazans have now. At least 20 people have already , a number that will continue to rise as due to lack of clean water, leaving many unable to retain what few calories they ingest.

While the water crisis in Gaza is now catastrophic, the Palestinian struggle to access water long predates the current onslaught and is an issue in the West Bank, too. Before Israel鈥檚 October 2023 invasion, Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza had access to just 80 liters of water per person per day, while the World Health Organization estimates that individuals need as much to meet basic needs. 

Despite significant investment in water and wastewater infrastructure in Palestine from (USAID), continues to fall. 

The root cause of Palestine鈥檚 water crisis is not a lack of investment but the political reality that Israel, , manages water in a way that denies Palestinians fair access. call this 鈥渨ater apartheid.鈥� They say that recent Israeli tactics in Gaza, such as , are just the latest examples of

鈥淲ater apartheid describes a form of segregation that results in unequal access to water, where policies and practices ensure that water resources are disproportionately allocated to privileged groups while marginalized communities face scarcity and denial of access,鈥� explains Saker El Nour, a sociologist and co-founder of , a collective of researchers and activists that publishes a newsletter on water in Palestine.

While the specifics of these unfair water policies and practices look different from Gaza to the West Bank, the overall water crisis is by design. 鈥淲ater is weaponized as a tool of occupation and control,鈥� says El Nour.

In Gaza, as early as 2017, UNICEF estimated that from the enclave鈥檚 sole aquifer was unfit for consumption due to untreated wastewater and seawater pollution. Still, before Israel鈥檚 October 2023 invasion, the aquifer of Gaza鈥檚 water, with three desalination stations and three pipes from Israeli company Mekorot providing the remainder. 

One of the largest contributors to the aquifer鈥檚 degradation is overuse. The aquifer is not overused because Gazan families consume too much water. It is because the aquifer is not able to sustain the territory鈥檚 population, which has swelled through to make way for Zionist settlement. Today, of those living in Gaza are refugees or descendants of refugees who were expelled from their homes elsewhere in Palestine. 

While there were three operational desalination plants in Gaza before the current onslaught, these only of the enclave鈥檚 water supply, and . Those same restrictions have made it almost impossible for Gaza to scale up its wastewater infrastructure to prevent untreated waste from polluting the aquifer. 

Meanwhile, in the West Bank, an agreement made in the persists, although it was only . 鈥淭he agreement ended up being just a way to police water and Palestinian water professionals and water institutes,鈥� says Mariam Zaqout, a water and economics researcher at University College London.

Wielding this power, Israel uses the majority of the water pumped from the West Bank鈥檚 main groundwater basin and restricts . Israel uses all the water from the Jordan River, leaving none for Palestinian communities. It has also created a system of forced dependency where West Bank cities are left with no choice but to import water from Israel via its national network, which has been built out into the West Bank to support illegal settlements. Today, those Israeli settlers as West Bank Palestinians. 

鈥淭here has been a lot of infrastructure building by Israel mainly to support settlements in the West Bank, all connected to Israel鈥檚 national water network,鈥� explains Jan Selby, a professor of International Politics and Climate Change at the University of Leeds. 鈥淏ut Palestinian communities have been connected to it at the same time, partly to make them dependent.鈥�

While Ramallah, a city in the central West Bank tucked into the Khalil Mountains, gets more annual rainfall than even famously gray London, it imports its water from Israel because restrictions on developing its own infrastructure, drilling wells, force it to do so. 

鈥淭here is a segregationist thing of investing in water infrastructure for the settler population, allowing them to dig deeper wells to pull out more water, and constraining the Palestinian population, not letting them invest in improvements in their water infrastructure,鈥� explains Michael Mason, director of the Middle East Center at the London School of Economics.

Solutions to these issues will include new infrastructure and water management agreements, but those must be developed within a new political reality. Even in Gaza now, where UNICEF estimates requires repair, Zaqout says she believes solutions must go far beyond the standard post-conflict paradigm of rebuilding and rehabilitating. 

鈥淒evelopment aid is just a band-aid put on to make things look good, but it does not necessarily offer a sustainable solution,鈥� she says. 鈥淭he United Nations or USAID, for example, could spend a hundred million pounds to build a big water treatment plant, but then it gets bombed and that鈥檚 it鈥攏othing is protected.鈥�

What is needed instead, Zaqout says, is an end to Israel鈥檚 control over Palestinian resources and its attacks on infrastructure and autonomy for Palestinian decision-makers to 鈥渢hink about their water needs, design their own infrastructure, and manage and decide on how they want to allocate funds.鈥�

Mason says that the political pressure needed to push governments like those of the United States and the United Kingdom toward withholding support for Israel鈥檚 occupation could come from international courts and rights groups. Many of these are already spotlighting Israel鈥檚 weaponization of water. 

When South Africa gave opening arguments in its case at the International Court of Justice in January, accusing Israel of committing genocide in Gaza, it argued that genocidal acts included the deprivation of access to adequate food and water and the deprivation of access to adequate sanitation. United Nations agencies have also been highlighting the acute water crisis in Gaza, with Pedro Arrojo-Agudo, the UN Special Rapporteur on the human rights to safe drinking water and sanitation, arguing that 鈥� preventing the provision of safe drinking water [is a] brazen breach of international law.鈥�

At the grassroots level, Water Justice for Gaza is mobilizing popular support to help end water apartheid in Palestine and make connections to other struggles for water justice. Last December, to coincide with , it held a 鈥淒ay of Movement to End Water Apartheid.鈥� spoke and distributed information about Palestine鈥檚 water crisis, and online participants, including water protectors, farmworkers, researchers, and activists from around the world, shared their stories and support for the cause.

El Nour says the response 鈥渋ndicat[ed] a broad recognition of the interconnectedness of justice movements worldwide and the global resonance of the water crisis in Palestine.鈥�

Bringing about an end to this crisis in Palestine is ever more urgent as insufficient access to clean water threatens Palestinians nationwide and Gazans face an unprecedented humanitarian crisis. Whether in the courtroom, online, or out on the streets, many in the global Palestinian rights movement are speaking out about water apartheid as part of their demands for meaningful change.

鈥淭he water issues are a reflection of those broader issues and the other way around,鈥� says Selby. 鈥淚f you resolve or address or manage to negotiate some kind of resolution or settlement to the core political issues of the conflict, the water issues are relatively easy to address.鈥�

Read Part 1 of this story: Stolen Lands: A Black and Indigenous History of Land Exploitation

Today, Black and Indigenous communities are navigating these relationships to land while mapping and acting to build community economics that are decoupled from exploitative systems of production and trade. 

The Indigenous-Led Land Back Movement

Achieving justice includes restoring power through the reclamation of land and through reparations. For Indigenous people, the  movement embodies the push toward justice and healing. The movement works to reclaim more territories once occupied by their ancestors, to extend Indigenous care and governance to homelands that cannot be reclaimed, to push toward the dismantling of exploitative economic systems and policies that limit Indigenous peoples鈥� power, and to build economies and systems that are expressive of Indigenous values. 

A central tactic of the Land Back movement is to utilize land trusts to remove land from speculative markets and place it into collective care. Examples include the , the , the , and many others. 

Nations and organizations are also partnering with one another to purchase land that was lost and stolen, including the exemplary model of the . The Yurok Tribe has restored 2,424 acres of privately owned culturally and ecologically significant timberlands in Northern California, resulting from its partnership with investment firm New Forests. New Forests worked with the Trust for Public Land, which supported the Tribe in accessing funds from the California Natural Resources Agency. 

This wasn鈥檛 the first time the Tribe pursued a partnered land purchase. In 2006, it partnered with Western Rivers Conservancy to buy back 50,000 acres of ancestral lands from Green Diamond, a logging company, including the watershed of Blue Creek, a critical salmon refuge. In 2019 the Tribe began caring for these lands as a . 

According to Frankie Myers, Yurok Tribal vice chairman, 鈥淎s Yurok people who have been literally locked out of these lands鈥攕ome for up to a hundred years鈥攋ust the ability for our members to go out and to access these lands and to harvest and gather, interact with the forest; the shift in land management itself, to allow Indigenous people back onto their landscapes 鈥� I think that鈥檚 absolutely key.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Indigenous peoples are also working to extend their care and governance to traditional territories that are out of their legally recognized land tenure鈥攁 vital part of the Land Back movement. The  and the Indigenous Peoples Burning Network are notable leaders, working extensively with the state of California and the Forest Service to establish integrated management plan agreements. The  is another exemplary leader in re-establishing Indigenous care of lands, developing a groundbreaking 鈥溾�� and holding leadership within the .

Other Indigenous organizations and nations are utilizing contemporary legal entities to resist dispossession by collectivizing new regenerative businesses to ensure care of the land and people. One example is , a nonprofit organization based in the Great Lakes region. Akiing is transitioning its business operations to become a collaboration of cooperatives working in agriculture, renewable energy, and hemp production. It has also incorporated the Akiing Land Trust to protect lands for the future of the Anishinaabe people. 

Black-Led Movements to Reclaim Stolen Land

Black folks across the country are also continually working to gain access to land, albeit using different approaches to Indigenous communities. Their efforts include attaining farmland, fighting redlining and racist financing systems to achieve land and homeownership, and building political movements to push for the restoration of lands taken from Black families through historical violence and eminent domain. In September 2021, in response to a powerful organizing effort led by the Bruce family and , California Gov. Gavin Newsom signed a bill restoring beachfront land in Southern California, known as Bruce鈥檚 Beach, to a Black family driven out by white supremacist violence from their lands almost a century ago. 

After this win, Ward, with her colleague Ashanti Martin, went on to found a groundbreaking national organization, , working to reclaim Black folks鈥� land and help them obtain financial restitution for violations of their civil and human rights, lost wealth, and business. 

Organizations have been working to turn the tides of Black dispossession using a diversity of strategies. The  supports the retention of land within Black communities through planning, education, and networking. Meanwhile, the  offers investment into capitalizing Black-owned farms and food systems businesses. At a local level, in Michigan, the  works to rebuild intergenerational Black land ownership in the Detroit area through funding, networking, and capacity building. 

In a manner that echoes the Indigenous-led Land Back movement, Black community members and organizations have also been utilizing cooperative structures to advance land justice.  is a community-controlled land and financial cooperative supporting the development of Black family land commons through providing non-extractive financial resources, legal support, and advocacy, rooted in spiritual and community tradition. 

Another example is the , which creates community cooperative solutions to the catastrophic levels of displacement in the Bay Area of California by taking land out of the market and placing it into community land trusts, thereby ensuring the affordability of housing, cultural continuity, and common-good values in the East Bay.

There are also efforts to skill up and resource Black communities to access land and resources.  of the Twin Cities is a community organization whose strategic vision centers on a restorative, regenerative, and just economy that includes land access; strong, culturally grounded leadership; and a move away from individualistic capitalist processes. To support this, Nexus offers a North Star Black Cooperative Fellowship, as well as training and consulting. 

What sets Nexus apart from many other Black-led land-reclamation projects is its solidarity with Indigenous efforts. Nexus is in shared cohort community with , an organization designed to build power, advance Land Back, and decolonize wealth through moving land and wealth back into Indigenous communities. (Disclosure: I am a program officer with NDN Collective.) 

Both organizations are creating funds specifically designed to invest in building the economic power of individuals and seed intergenerational prosperity while redefining the concept of wealth to reflect the cultural and community values of those they serve. This work is supported by the Bush Foundation and, as such, is in service of communities in the tri-state region of Minnesota, North Dakota, and South Dakota. Nexus has designed a community-guided Black Community Trust Fund, while NDN Collective has developed the , to open in 2023.

Nexus and NDN Collective shared a  about their allyship in this work: 

鈥淲别 know Indigenous sovereignty and Black liberation are tied to one another. While our people have unique histories and current needs 鈥� neither of us will be free without the other 鈥� When we talk about alternatives to the current systems, we are talking about building community wealth and regenerative systems that aren鈥檛 extractive of people or the planet 鈥� Black and Indigenous solidarity means building something new, together with our people.鈥�

Building Collective Futures, Together

Coming together to build power is not easy. Historically, Indigenous and Black folks have been turned against one another by oppressors and colonizers. The U.S. government compensated Indigenous nations for capturing escaped enslaved people. The 鈥淔ive Civilized Tribes,鈥� the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole鈥攏ations who determined that their best chance of survival was to imitate their colonizers鈥攚ere known for their practice of  both before and after their removal from their lands during the Trail of Tears. 

Buffalo Soldiers鈥擝lack men who enlisted in the military in the late 1800s when white enlistment was low in an attempt to 鈥攅nded up being utilized to put down Indigenous resistance to colonization and oppression in the West. 

Black and Indigenous peoples both have historically adopted beliefs and constructions of white supremacy as a survival technique, resulting in the presence of anti-Blackness within Indigenous communities, and colonial narratives of Indigenous primitivity and land subjugation within Black communities. 

Yet Black and Indigenous people have also supported one another over time, through offering , sharing knowledge, and becoming family.  shares her powerful lineage of herbalism on Turtle Island, reaching back to ancestors in Virginia and South Carolina who learned their herbal knowledge in part from Indigenous people, saying, 鈥淥ur people share common threads of experience鈥攆rom land reverence and kinship, to violence, displacement, and genocide鈥攕o it makes sense that we would work in solidarity to free ourselves.鈥�

Building Power Through Solidarity

, a Black-owned farm in upstate New York, is an impactful story-creating, community-building advocacy and training center, creating a space of land connection and training for Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) in culture-based agroecology. The farm is committed to both Black land reconnection and Indigenous homeland governance, doing the work of learning and growing toward liberated futures together. Hundreds of BIPOC farmers have been educated in Soul Fire Farm鈥檚 farming and construction immersion schools, benefiting from its community-supported agriculture food shares and culture-building initiatives. A newer initiative, called the Braiding Seeds Fellowship, provides funding and mentorship to continue the Black鈥揑ndigenous agrarian tradition.

Leah Penniman, co-executive director at Soul Fire Farm, recognizes that Land Back is 鈥渟quarely an Indigenous movement,鈥� while also honoring that Black folks have rights to secure land tenure as well, and to create a place to build connection and hold ceremony for the sources of life and ancestors. The lack of stable family land in Black communities is illustrated by the fact that Soul Fire Farm has received many requests from Black families to spread the ashes of their ancestors on the land, a place they know they will be able to return to honor their ancestors. 

Soul Fire Farm organizers have worked with the Mohican Nation, whose land they live on in upstate New York, to establish cultural respect easements, enabling Mohicans to access their homeland occupied by Soul Fire Farm. They have learned, built devoted relationships, and stood alongside the Mohican in their organizing, protesting, and direct-action defense of their sacred  from pipeline development. The organization sees this kind of relational reciprocity as building power. 

Stephanie Morningstar of the  underscores the criticality of built relations, sharing, 鈥淩elationships are central to all aspects of land, kin, and community care. The core of our work 鈥� considers how we can be in reciprocal relationship with the land and each other in a restorative way that recognizes we not only desire to have a relationship with land, but we also have a responsibility to it, and that colonial relationships to land are the reason we鈥檙e currently experiencing systemic inequity in every sphere of our human and non-human experiences.鈥�

NEFOC has outlined a practical path forward to build relations between various BIPOC communities, establishing an Indigenous Community Consultation Policy when acquiring lands for the trust. This policy includes 鈥渟tages of consultation ranging from initial relationship building to formalizing protocols and partnerships (if desired) that resituate Indigenous land practices, rematriate land, [offer] exclusive ownership, shared ownership, holding rematriated land in trust as an act of solidarity, cultural or conservation easements and agreements, rights of first refusal, decision-making authority in land use decisions, and pathways to storymaking and knowledge transfer through oral history and languages on land through truth-telling projects, and consultation about project plans.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Their work also includes a grouping of four programs that, together, resource farmers with education, advocacy, and networking, and a policy initiative with a special lens on climate justice. The organization hosts a , sharing farm and land tenure projects across the nation in order to connect people looking to dismantle white supremacy through reparations. NEFOC is also creating fertile soil for the building of a co-powered future through convening what it calls 鈥淏raided B.L.I.S.S.鈥� (Black Liberation and Indigenous Sovereignty in Solidarity), a space to dig into the real conversations, truth telling, and healing necessary to build collective power. 

Dismantling Racial Capitalism and White Supremacy鈥擳ogether 

Healing journeys such as the one modeled by B.L.I.S.S. are not simple or easy given the fraught histories of Black and Indigenous communities. , an Afro-Indigenous organizer, activist, and thought leader, says, 鈥淚 fundamentally believe our arrival at Black liberation and Indigenous sovereignty will certainly require us to remember who we are outside of our oppressors鈥� institutions, ideologies, and imaginations 鈥� to remember that both of our peoples have always been the authors of our liberation and the architects of our deliverance.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Organizers within the Indigenous-led Land Back and the Black-led movements for reclamation and reparations see themselves in common cause, striking at the heart of the colonial-capitalist belief system and economic infrastructure. According to organizers deeply involved in the movements, their work is aimed at ending wealth extraction from the homelands of others and amassed capital at the expense of the people, ending white supremacy. It is also focused on the powerful work of all peoples, across cultures, to commit to this transformation through restorative investment in Indigenous and Black communities, and to engage in the active dismantling of systems of power that benefit the white and the wealthy. 

As Nkuli Shongwe of Nexus Community Partners describes, such work 鈥渄emands investment beyond organizations. It requires investment in cultural work and community leaders; in giving us the time and space needed to fail and try again, to engage in the conflict and tension. 鈥� [We need] the spaciousness to collectively imagine, practice, and reimagine what liberation looks like in the context of our world today.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Fundamentally, Black and Indigenous land, power, and liberation struggles, forged in the violent imposition of individualist capitalism, racial and economic hierarchy, and private property law, are a threat to the continuance of those systems. Black and Indigenous communities increasingly see that creating healing relationships with one another is at the heart of building true transformative power to achieve land justice, with seeds of healing being planted every day. This generational work appears to be well underway.

This story is part of Building the Block, an original 猫咪社区! series supported by a grant from the , which encourages the development of burgeoning alternative economies and fresh social contracts in ways that can help artists and cultural communities achieve financial freedom. Reporting and production of this story was funded by this grant, but 猫咪社区! maintains full editorial control of the content published herein. Read our editorial independence policy.

As the coronavirus spread in the spring of 2020, North America鈥檚 Indigenous Peoples carried a unique experience of stress and fear because of this blood memory. In the 18th century, as European settlers sought to colonize Indigenous lands, they weaponized germs, giving blankets infected with smallpox to tribal communities to slow down Native resistance and to decimate Native populations. In addition to smallpox, measles and influenza were also brought to North America during these early centuries of colonization. It is estimated that together these diseases killed 90% of Native Americans.

Colonial violence has led to other public health injustices and crises within Indigenous communities. In the 19th century, the federal government forced Native peoples onto reservations, disenfranchising Native populations and creating, to this day, vast injustices in access to public health services. During the 1970s, the Family Planning Services and Population Research Act led to the sterilization of Native women. Between 1970 and 1977, at least 25% of Native American women of childbearing age were sterilized.

These historical events matter in this moment because our communities remember. What鈥檚 more, our bodies and our spirits remember.

Yet despite this collective remembering, this trauma, and the anxieties that this deep-rooted grief brings up, Native peoples organized and came together in innovative and courageous ways in 2020. Once again, we demonstrated our ability to survive and thrive in the face of uncertainty and peril.

In the Navajo Nation, one of the largest tribes in the U.S., the COVID-19 infection rate reached the highest per capita in the U.S. during the summer of 2020. As the Navajo Nation responded to the exponential rates of COVID-19 cases and deaths, it had to grapple with health care gaps that have existed for decades, if not centuries. Even before cases reached the peak, there was a lack of doctors, hospital beds, respirators, and equipment across the Navajo Nation. To be sure, this problem isn鈥檛 new; the coronavirus just amplified the long and shameful history of underfunding health services in Indian Country.

While these communities struggled to respond with emergency health care, they also faced food and water shortages, highlighting yet another gap: infrastructure. In the Navajo Nation, it is estimated that one in three families haul water to their homes, and it can take multiple hours to drive to a water-filling station鈥攖hat is, if you have transportation. Of course, during a pandemic, access to water is essential for basic health and safety. However, strict but necessary stay-at-home orders disadvantaged Navajo families鈥� ability to survive as hauling water became limited. This is but a microcosm of what the pandemic has brought to our attention in the last year: Investment in basic infrastructure and health care has been too long neglected, leaving us unprepared for crises such as pandemics or impacts from climate change.

Yet Indigenous communities, like the Navajo, showed how community care and self-determination can provide security and solutions during times like this.

Across the Navajo Nation, mutual aid powered by community members and leaders provided Navajo and Hopi families across New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah with everything from food and water to firewood, protective personal equipment, and traditional medicine bags to support people spiritually. During the summer, I traveled from my home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, to Flagstaff, Arizona, to deliver supplies to a warehouse that served as a hub for receiving goods to be distributed to Navajo families. Inside the warehouse were all of the supplies one might need from the grocery store鈥攂oxes of baby food and diapers, women鈥檚 health care products, light bulbs and, yes, toilet paper. Goods were delivered to people in need so families could avoid travel and remain safe in their homes. On this same trip to Flagstaff, I learned that Navajo doctors were also providing mutual aid to one another and sending protective equipment to remote clinics in order to stay safe as they provided care. In 2020, so many of us saw the value and deep reciprocity that exists within mutual aid. This trip, for me, affirmed the power of mutual aid and community organizing and how this solution will be needed in the years and generations to come.

Throughout the COVID-19 pandemic, Navajo communities used social media systems to connect community members far and wide, enabling urban family members to fill out request forms so that supplies could reach their families living in rural areas. Many Navajo people do not have access to Wi-Fi or cellular networks, another infrastructure gap that needs to be addressed as we rebuild and recover from this pandemic.

Thanks to this community organizing, food and water were delivered safely throughout the 16 million acres of the Navajo Nation. Connecting people with mutual aid across vast distances is no small feat and requires cultural understanding to support a community this large.

It makes sense for the help to come from within, from people who speak the traditional Din茅 language, who know how to best reach people and collect data, and, of course, who understand the environment and landscape itself.

Indigenous values are woven throughout implementation of the community care we saw during the pandemic. Elders were and are being prioritized, culture and language are being integrated and honored, and, above all, the organizers and volunteers are practicing compassion and care for the whole, instead of focusing on individualism.

Perhaps this is one of the lessons or memories that has survived throughout time to serve us as Native People again and again: caring for the whole. Recall the first weeks of the pandemic, when we saw American society fall into toxic individualism as masses began to panic shop and hoard supplies, creating shortages of food and health care supplies across the country. But not in Indian Country. Instead, we looked around our communities and responded by identifying who in our community was most vulnerable. We thought about food security, ensuring that there was abundance for our people as we navigated shelter-in-place and lockdowns. But these questions are not new for us. Because of threats like climate change, environmental destruction, and displacement, we are often faced with questions about what will best serve our survival.

Are we overly dependent on food and materials coming from nonlocal sources? Do we have energy security in case the electrical grid is damaged by extreme weather or we cannot access fossil fuels? What are the most fundamental collective values we will draw upon in high-stress moments? How do we make decisions? And how do we not turn on each other? These questions and our responses to them will continue to help us thrive.

As some nations relied on mutual aid to navigate the storm of COVID-19, other nations relied on their sovereignty to protect their people.

The Lummi Nation, in the coastal Pacific Northwest, showed how self-determination benefits tribal communities. Over the past decade, the Lummi Nation has been developing its community health care system in an effort to fully practice self-determination. In 2017, the tribe adopted an Emergency Health Powers Code, which provided a framework for implementing rapid responses, and in 2018 the tribe received a grant from the Indian Health Service to support self-determination in health programs. Since 2010, the Lummi health services have raised substantial revenue by treating patients on Medicaid and Medicare as part of a third-party billing program created by President Obama. This added income has enabled more financial flexibility and health autonomy, allowing the tribe to work outside the bureaucracy of the severely underfunded Indian Health Service. Because the Lummi had the financial resources and infrastructure in place before the pandemic hit, they were able to respond quickly and effectively.

Lummi medical teams led the way in responding to COVID-19 by creating preventative measures in their community long before the federal government did. As the first U.S. case was confirmed in Seattle, just 115 miles south of the Lummi reservation, the Lummi people quickly responded. On March 3, 2020, the tribe鈥檚 leaders declared a State of Public Health Emergency, 10 days before the U.S. president declared a national state of emergency, and they turned a fitness center into a field hospital鈥攖he first in the nation鈥攖o be ready as cases emerged.

The Lummi Nation鈥檚 response stands as a model for other tribal communities鈥攁ll communities, in fact鈥攆or how self-determination can create meaningful infrastructure and better allocate resources.

Because the Lummi Nation is not solely reliant on federal programs for accessing emergency funds, leaders were able to act more quickly to keep their people safe. In April, many tribes worried about how they would receive funding from a stimulus bill that provided $8 billion to tribal governments. And by June 2020, as COVID-19 brutally swept through Indian Country, these stimulus dollars still hadn鈥檛 been distributed to tribes and their citizens. As it historically happens, federal and state bureaucracy created barriers and slowed the distribution of 鈥渆mergency鈥� funds while tribal members faced their normal food, water, and health care shortages. The Lummi, however, were not put into a holding pattern, nor was their pandemic response as a nation dependent on these funds, signaling the power in building self-governance and determination.

While these two examples illustrate the potential of nations and communities to respond to crisis, individuals have also shown what Indigenous people are capable of when we reclaim our Indigenous traditional ecological knowledge in the face of existential threats.

In northern Nevada, in Numu Territories, Autumn Harry put her passion and traditional knowledge of fishing to use during this time. 鈥淟iving in a rural community, it is difficult to access healthy, nutrient-dense foods. Due to the pandemic, our nearest grocery stores are still getting ransacked and items are being hoarded, forcing our rural communities to pick from the scraps. Although I can鈥檛 make monetary contributions to elders during this time, I can use my fishing skills to help put ancestral foods on the table,鈥� said Harry.

Throughout March and April, Harry fished for trout in the mornings. She would take her catch home and create sterilized and safe packages for elders, demonstrating that we as Indigenous people have knowledge useful not just in this COVID-19 crisis but also for generations to come.

As 2020 progressed, in addition to evolving and expanding responses to COVID-19, Native communities also took on the responsibilities to usher in a new normal. In May, uprisings swept through the nation in response to the murder of George Floyd by police in Minnesota. This moment was a catalyst, uniting movements and communities to dismantle white supremacy, another toxic sickness that was only illuminated more by the pandemic.

By summer 2020, Native communities across the country were organizing to get out the Native vote. In the Navajo Nation, horse rides were organized to encourage those living rurally to get to the polls by any means necessary, and hotlines were created to share voting information in Navajo, Hopi, and Apache languages.

Personally, I had the distinct honor of creating the Sko Vote Den podcast, which explored the realities of voting across Indian Country through interviews with organizers, movement leaders, journalists, and researchers. This project addressed the nuances and gray areas of the Native vote as we dove into topics like how one can stand in their sovereignty as well as participate in the U.S. democratic process. I learned so much about the gaps and infrastructure needs when it comes to the Native vote and data on what really matters for Native voters鈥攏ot to mention how voter suppression in Indian Country goes hand in hand with the social issues we face, like poverty, lack of access to technology or energy, language barriers, and so on.

Thanks to all the efforts to get out the vote in Indian Country, we voted in record-breaking numbers. In states like Arizona, Minnesota, and Wisconsin, the Native vote played a significant role in turning these once-red states blue, which, one could argue, made it possible for the Democrats to win the 2020 election. Let鈥檚 not forget, we did this during a deadly pandemic, despite our communities being hit worst by COVID-19, and despite a long history of both voter suppression and health care gaps. And we didn鈥檛 stop there. Just a month after the elections, our people advocated on social media and organized to pressure the Biden transition team to nominate the first-ever Native American to lead the Department of the Interior. Now, Rep. Deb Haaland is the first-ever Native American to hold this position or hold a seat in the President鈥檚 Cabinet.

My dear friend Julian Brave NoiseCat often writes about how Native peoples have already survived apocalypse: We survived germ warfare. At multiple moments in history, we鈥檝e survived the U.S. Army killing our food systems: the bison, the sheep. We鈥檝e survived being removed from everything we knew, displacement, boarding schools, and concentration camps that were meant to exterminate us. Native peoples are more than resilient: We have overcome some of the most tremendous oppressions. Many of us have healed or are healing, and, in doing so, we have cultivated creativity, fearlessness, and unwavering determination. No matter what the challenge is, what the crisis is, these will be the characteristics, the traits, the blood memories we will bring into our futures to build regenerative solutions for our communities.

This excerpt from , edited by Alastair Lee Bits贸铆 and Brooke Larsen (Torrey House Press, 2021) appears with permission of the publisher.

鈥淚 lay dog-eyed for 10 years saying, 鈥業鈥檓 not going to criticize the government at every chance that I get,鈥欌�� Dillon says. 鈥溾�業鈥檓 just going to try and work with them.鈥欌��

Dillon successfully led a decade-long negotiation with the Tasmanian state government, backed up by a six-year study on Aboriginal leadership in fisheries management led by Emma Lee, an associate professor at Swinburne University and a descendant of the Trawlwulwuy people, one of the oldest Tasmanian Aboriginal clans. The government ultimately granted a three-year lease for 40 quota units of abalone (9 tons a year) to the Land and Sea Aboriginal Corporation of Tasmania. The agreement is the first of its kind, giving commercial fishing rights to the Aboriginal community, who up until then only had rights to fishing for sustenance and practicing their customary traditions.

Lee says the Tasmanian fishery agreement is also helping to change the perception of Aboriginal communities from 鈥渇ish thieves鈥� to leaders in regional development. By being a part of the AUD $136 million fishery that has so long excluded them, Lee says, Aboriginal communities hope to establish fisheries food tourism in Tasmania; to use cultural fisheries to reduce juvenile justice interventions for Aboriginals; and to turn commercial fisheries into social impact ventures.

鈥淲hat 40 units gives us is the right to have a voice where we鈥檝e never had it before 鈥� to have our custodianship recognized and legitimized within the existing industry,鈥� Lee says. 鈥淚 can sit here and say this isn鈥檛 enough, but this time last year, we didn鈥檛 have any of this.鈥�

Aboriginal Leaders in Regional Development

This agreement is significant considering the history of Native Aboriginals and Torres Straits Islanders in Australia, particularly in Tasmania, where they were all wiped out by 1876 in a white colonial genocide. Aboriginal rights weren鈥檛 officially recognized until a 1967 referendum. The Native Title Act of 1993 (and an amendment in 1997) finally recognized Aboriginal communities as the traditional owners of the land and waters of what is now known as Australia. However, since the act has no legal force, First Nations people continue to be charged for alleged poaching and illegal hunting.

Tasmania isn鈥檛 the only state in Australia that has signed agreements with an Aboriginal corporation. In February 2021, South Australia entered into an Aboriginal Corporation, formalizing their rights for traditional fishing in the Yorke Peninsula. The deal followed a 2018 agreement to collaborate on the development of Guuranda (the Native name for Yorke Peninsula), starting with the shared management of Innes National Park.

Klynton Wanganeen, former CEO of the Narungga Nation Aboriginal Corporation, says the community is working to build relationships as they pursue their aspirations for commercial fishing.

鈥淲别 really can鈥檛 have a treaty unless our rights are recognized, and our rights has to be to access our resources,鈥� Wanganeen says.

The fishing agreements should provide much-needed relief and protection from prosecution for petty crimes, like poaching that Aboriginal youth are particularly vulnerable to, and for which they have been disproportionately incarcerated in .

The was raised from 10 to 14 in 2022, thanks to Dillon鈥檚 campaigning. He spent much of his own childhood hiding from the cops in thick bushes to evade capture while he and his family were fishing abalone and crayfish or hunting mutton birds and other game. Although never jailed, Dillon was arrested several times. In court, the fiery activist has claimed fishing as a right under the Native Title Act of 1993 and as a custom under common law. However, in Rodney Scott Dillon v. Clive Davis, the court refused to recognize general practices under common law, demanding concrete evidence against customary traditions or practices, so Dillon has had to pay up to AUD $80,000 in fines and legal representation.

Similarly, in August 2021, 64-year-old Keith Nye, a Yuin Nation elder, was found to have frozen abalone catch way above the personal consumption quota that he had allegedly sold to restaurants sans a commercial license. A judge in New South Wales recognized Nye鈥檚 cultural connection to fishing and didn鈥檛 sentence him to prison, but the Walbunja man still had to pay AUD $4,500 in fines and serve 200 hours of community service.

When asked about the 鈥渓ack of evidence regarding traditional laws and customs having a bearing on a right to take abalone鈥� cited in the Supreme Court order, Dillon says, 鈥淲别 fucking live here. We鈥檝e got middens. We鈥檝e got quarry sites and ochre sites鈥攖hat鈥檚 our evidence. That鈥檚 us.鈥�

The Rightful Place in an Industry

Now, with the right to harvest abalone commercially, Dillon says the Aboriginal community aims to create jobs for Indigenous divers and chefs. This won鈥檛 be easy. Due to overfishing, abalone production has dropped from 300 tons per year in 2006 to less than 150 in 2021, according to . COVID-19, too, has brought down prices in China, its primary export market. But with aquacultural production and strategic marketing of abalone as a Tasmanian delicacy, both output and .

鈥泪迟 took years of negotiating with the outgoing premier, who agreed that instead of exporting the abalone, we could draw tourists and visitors to Tasmania by serving it in local restaurants,鈥� Dillon says.

But six months after the Tasmanian fisheries agreement, and three weeks since the harvest season opened, the program has only been able to employ two Indigenous divers (instead of the four they had hoped for). The divers are only pulling in 400 kilograms of abalone a day, which isn鈥檛 enough to distribute to local markets, since most of the Aboriginals鈥� catch has been exported to China. Still, they are using the proceeds from the sale of this abalone to buy more quota units. Dillon, for his part, is also trying to negotiate units and licenses for other resources, like crayfish and scallops.

Lee, who spent decades researching land and sea management, says quotas and licenses have become even more difficult to buy since international consortiums and hedge fund companies now own the largest shares.

鈥淭he rules and regulations around abalone are geared towards exports,鈥� she says, 鈥渁nd I鈥檓 crazed by anxiety that international investors will overfish and kill off who we are in pursuit of profit.鈥�

Ironically, the negotiations on increasing Aboriginal quotas are often stonewalled by concerns of environmental sustainability. Leaders like Lee call them 鈥渂ullshit excuses,鈥� considering the impact that export-driven overfishing has had on warming the Southern Oceanic waters in the past 40 years versus the footprint left behind by the Aboriginals in 60,000 years.

A Future That Recognizes Sovereignty

Generations since colonial occupation, a document called the 鈥溾�� has renewed hope for consolidated Aboriginal rights in Australia. Drafted by First Nations community stakeholders and leaders after a series of dialogues in 2017, the statement pushes for a voice to parliament, treaty, and truth. With the support of the new Labor Party Prime Minister and the appointment of Linda Burney鈥攖he first-ever Native woman as the Indigenous affairs minister鈥擜boriginal leaders feel the time is ripe for Aboriginal councils and corporations.

First Nations leaders like Dillon are advocating for parliamentary representation and historical reparations while also bringing their communities into the fisheries.

鈥淏ecause we come from poverty, a lot of our people are welfare-dependent,鈥� Dillon says, as he scrolls through his phone, eating mutton bird meat he鈥檇 cooked the day before. He opens a message from his son, who wrote that hunting for their own food in the bushes had helped him feel closer to their ancestors and culture. For Dillon, this wild game was once all they could afford, yet they were criminalized and treated like savages for it.

鈥淏ut we don鈥檛 want to be,鈥� Dillon says. 鈥淲别 just want part of the resources that [are] ours and [to] sell it as Native food.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 2:03 p.m. PT on Nov. 3, 2022, to correct Lee鈥檚 quote to read 鈥渇ish thieves鈥� instead of 鈥渇ish people.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;Read our corrections policy here.

But for the past century, a series of dams have blocked the to their historical spawning grounds, with ripple effects to the entire ecosystem.

Normally, after salmon return to a river to spawn and die, their bodies provide key nutrients to other organisms in the river. This includes the trees that grow along the riverbanks whose roots help prevent erosion. Near Upper Klamath Lake, wetlands once served a vital role in filtering toxins from upper basin lakes and rivers, but they have been drained for agriculture.

An interdependent water-centered ecosystem has been replaced with warm stagnant waters and toxic algae blooms. Many of the fish populations are now dwindling, some of them approaching extinction. And tribal traditions can鈥檛 continue without these life-giving waters.

But thanks to the grassroots actions and intense lobbying of the lower basin tribes, especially the Yurok and Karuk, all of that is about to change.

In 2024, four of the five major dams on the Klamath River will be removed. This will be the largest dam removal process in U.S. history and will have far-reaching effects for the entire West Coast. Tribal efforts for removal began in 1903, when work on the first dam began. In recent decades, these efforts have received growing support from federal, nonprofit, and state agencies, including the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, where I work as a fisheries biologist and consulted on the impact of dam removal on endangered species. A collaborative network of these groups has been working hard to assemble an environmental framework that can support species once the dams are removed, and minimize any short-term consequences of the dams鈥� removal. The long-term benefits for the Klamath River鈥檚 fish and ecosystem will likely be huge.

鈥淲hen we remove these dams, we鈥檙e restoring the river and also ourselves, because we鈥檙e so interconnected with everything,鈥� says Barry McCovey Jr., a biologist and Yurok Tribal Member.

Cultural and Ecological Importance

The vital nature of salmon to the tribes has been known since well before the dams were built. The Hupa 鈥淟egend of Gard鈥� ensures that 鈥渢he red-fleshed salmon shall never fail in the river鈥� as long as the people practice the spirits鈥� teachings of love and people. 

In a Karuk creation legend, fishes were the first beings created 鈥渢hat have breath,鈥� followed by other animals, and then humans.

With salmon mostly absent from their diets today, the tribes struggle to keep those cultural practices and traditions alive, such as smoking fish and presenting salmon to elders.

鈥淪almon have always been a keystone species for us and for this ecosystem,鈥� Barry says. 鈥淏ut salmon are also important to people outside of the basin, and in the cities.鈥� With the promise of dam removal secured, the tribes are finally seeing a larger societal response toward protecting wild salmon. Barry knows people want to be able to buy wild salmon with the assurance that it鈥檚 sustainable.

鈥淥n the backs of the salmon鈥攁 kind of Trojan horse鈥攔ides the bigger idea of ecosystem restoration,鈥� Barry says. That鈥檚 critical to the tribes鈥� larger message. 鈥淚f we talked about how dam removal is going to help lamprey runs,鈥� he says, 鈥渨ell, we wouldn鈥檛 get the same response or support.鈥�

Historical Fishing Versus Current Fish Runs

In addition to blocking access to hundreds of miles of fishes鈥� upstream habitat, the impoundment of water by the dams increases water temperatures. During a hot summer, river temperatures can reach 22 degrees Celsius (70 degrees Fahrenheit), stressing a fish鈥檚 immune system, and making fish more susceptible to pathogens and parasites in the Klamath, notably and Ichthyophthirius multifiliis (known as 鈥渋ch鈥�), which can both be deadly.

The large reservoirs behind the dams also create conditions for a blue-green algae toxic to humans and dogs, known as , to thrive and deplete water oxygen levels. Kathy McCovey, a Karuk Tribal Member and cultural resource management specialist, says they have to put up signs warning people, especially dogs and kids, not to touch the water. That鈥檚 antithetical to the annual late-summer medicine and renewal ceremonies meant to bond the community together with water and each other. 鈥淚 bathe in the Klamath that time of year for ceremony, so do a lot of us, and we鈥檙e afraid to be going into the river,鈥� Kathy says.

Fish health and abundance, too, are closely tied to poor water quality in the Klamath River.

Barry has seen the Chinook salmon population, which was once the third-largest in the country, plummet dramatically. 鈥淔or most salmon runs on the Klamath, we鈥檙e in the 10% range of historical abundance. Some are even less. Some Chinook runs in recent years have dropped to as little as 2% to 3%.鈥�

The Southern Oregon and Northern California Coho salmon populations, too, have declined sharply since the mid-20th century. The Klamath River commercial coho fishery was closed in 1994 and has remained closed to California ocean fisheries. In 1997, this same population of coho was listed as threatened under the federal .

鈥淭he fish are not really limited by annual rainfall, they鈥檙e limited by not having consistent sources of cold water,鈥� says Toz Soto, fisheries biologist and Karuk Tribal Member. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a lot of cold water in the basin. 鈥� There are springs basically coming right out of the earth, but they flow into the reservoirs above the dams, so fish don鈥檛 have access to that cold water.鈥�

Green sturgeon, Pacific lamprey, and eulachon鈥攁 small, oily fish that can be dried or smoked鈥攁re also of great importance to the tribes, but their runs, too, have diminished in the past few decades. Lampreys use their sucker mouths to adhere to and climb rocks but are unable to navigate through a traditional fish ladder installed near many dams.

Climate change is layered on top of these already challenging conditions: In 2021, the Klamath saw massive juvenile fish die-offs as a result of extreme drought, warm water temperatures, and fish disease.

鈥淔ish runs aren鈥檛 big enough for our harvest to be at the level that we need,鈥� Barry says. Last year, the allocation of fall Chinook salmon for the Yurok Tribe was 6,500. But the Tribe needed 12,000 to meet the subsistence needs of its 7,000 members. Such low numbers mean the Yurok Tribe often leaves its unused. And that has huge ramifications for the lower Klamath Tribe鈥檚 ability to feed itself.

Food Insecurity

Many downriver tribes live far from stores that would provide regular access to healthy foods. For residents of the Yurok reservation, the closest city is Crescent City, which requires a nearly two-hour drive along winding remote roads in need of repair.

鈥淭he Karuk Tribe is located in the mid-Klamath, so it鈥檚 pretty remote,鈥� Soto says. It and the Hoopa tribal lands can only be accessed by Highway 96, which meanders along the river and is susceptible to landslides and flooding. It鈥檚 a lonely drive from where the highway starts near the border with Oregon to the eventual salty coast of Northern California. A drive at dusk reveals long hours of dark stretches without a single headlight or house light to be seen. 鈥淭here鈥檚 not really a lot of access to traditional foods, or even just groceries,鈥� Soto says.

was conducted in 2019 by University of California, Berkeley, researchers with tribal colleagues among the Hoopa, Yurok, Karuk, and Klamath. They found that food-insecurity rates among Native American communities in the Klamath River Basin were higher than in any other Native American communities studied to date: 92% of households were suffering from some level of food insecurity. More than half experienced very low food security.

According to the study, 鈥淭here is a strong demand for Native foods and fresh fruits and vegetables that is not being met.鈥� Some 70% of all households in the Klamath River Basin rarely or never have access to desired Native foods. Still, nearly 40% of households rely on fishing, hunting, and home-canned foods to minimize food insecurity.

Kathy McCovey knows this firsthand. She says during the pandemic, even basic staples like beans and rice were sold out. 鈥淚f there is a kink in the system for us here in rural area[s],鈥� she says, 鈥渢hat鈥檚 pretty dire circumstances.鈥�

As traditional foods, also known as 鈥�,鈥� have been removed from Native diets, the rates of diabetes and other diseases have risen, with about 83% of Klamath tribal households reporting at least one person in their household suffering from health issues, including high blood pressure, diabetes, and obesity.

Of dire need are foods sourced from what is traditional and accessible to the tribes: earth and river. have shown that restoring more natural flows to the river would provide many significant benefits, including the protection and restoration of anadromous fisheries and a connection to wetlands that are of vital importance to the tribes and their health.

A Future With First Foods

With the future promising a more natural river hydrology with seasonal ebbs and flows and cleaner water, tribal people can start looking forward to the return of ceremony and first foods on their tables again.

Justin Alvarez, a biologist working with the Hoopa, is optimistic that with the dams out, new populations of lamprey will make their way into areas even above Upper Klamath Lake. Kathy remembers large freshwater clams once taken from the river. With natural sediment deposits from a free-flowing river, the Yurok may have access again to healthy runs of eulachon, which they may be able to trade with other tribes farther upstream.

Other first foods will benefit from the return of annual spring floods, colder and faster-moving waters, and natural sediment dispersal. Newly expanded wetlands and woodlands could provide bulbs, like camas and wapato, which can be boiled and eaten like potatoes. Mushrooms like morels appear after the flooding of riverbanks, as do blackberries.

Eventually, as the river restores itself, newly expanded oak woodlands could return acorn mush to the plate and once again provide habitat for deer and elk, too.

鈥淩emoving dams is a huge step towards restoring balance to the Klamath River. And that鈥檚 who we are, as a people, as a culture,鈥� Barry McCovey says. 鈥淲别 are always striving towards a restorative and balanced ecosystem.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 12:46 p.m. PT on Feb. 28, 2023, to replace an image that was mislabeled as Toz Soto. Read our corrections policy here.

This suit represented a brazen attack by the state of Texas and evangelical foster parents (using fossil fuel industry lawyers) to put Native children and families in the crosshairs鈥攂ut also, potentially, Federal Indian Law and as we know it. That was no accident. All the well-earned joy we feel about this monumental legal win must be tempered by three key takeaways. 

The moment colonizers came to our shores, the genocide of Indigenous people began.

First, the decision simply preserves the status quo. Second, the status quo remains hugely problematic. Finally, this fight is a long way from over, and important work remains to be done. Even if we have avoided disaster for now, the current state of affairs leaves much to be desired. A little historical context can help explain why. 

The moment colonizers came to our shores, the genocide of Indigenous people began. Displaced from their homelands through forced removal, our Native ancestors were subsequently sequestered onto reservations, which were internment camps by a different name. Later, as a way of fully dismantling the cultures indigenous to these shores, federal and state governments began specifically targeting our children.

For about a century, beginning in the late 1800s, North American governments uprooted Native children from their homes and sent them to Indian boarding schools. As the recent discoveries of mass graves of Native children on these properties make all too clear, the conditions were brutal. You鈥檝e probably heard the , former superintendent of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Pennsylvania: 鈥淜ill the Indian in him, and save the man.鈥� The hard truth is that saving the man was always the lesser priority.

The weaponization of our children in order to stamp out our cultures鈥攂ecause, of course, a family or a nation without children has no future鈥攃ontinued after the boarding school era with the epidemic of of our young ones and their placement into non-Native foster care. I grew up on the Standing Rock Nation in the Dakotas, and too many of my relatives lived in fear that their children could simply vanish into a mysterious and faraway home. In South Dakota, , though we make up only 15% of the population. It鈥檚 been estimated that nationwide pre-ICWA, a quarter to more than a third of our children were from their homes.

That鈥檚 the backdrop that moved former South Dakota Sen. James Abourezk鈥攚ho until his earlier this year, chaired our advisory board鈥攖o author and sponsor ICWA. Passed by Congress and signed into law by President Jimmy Carter in 1978, ICWA keeps Native children in kinship care with Native families and is considered the in child welfare practice and policy by a sizable coalition of child advocacy organizations.

In Brackeen, the petitioners challenged the law in several connected ways. In simple terms, they claimed that Congress overstepped its authority (well-established through Federal Indian Law and prior precedent) in commandeering state courts and agencies by insisting they place Indigenous children in Native foster and adoptive care. They also argued that ICWA鈥檚 placement preferences for Native adoptive children, which gives tribes, as sovereign political entities, the right to seek Native homes for them, violates constitutional guarantees of equal protection. In other words, they claimed ICWA is racist against non-Native (mostly white) people.

Native organizations and advocates have spent years preparing for this moment.

Happily, the Court ruled that petitioners lacked proper standing to present their arguments. In a nutshell, the majority said that the petitioners failed both to demonstrate that the Court could remedy harm done to them (the Brackeens, for whom the suit is named, actually succeeded in adopting two Native children) and that they sued the wrong people. The suit鈥檚 defendants鈥攖he federal government鈥檚 Department of the Interior and its secretary, Deb Haaland鈥攄on鈥檛 administer child welfare; states do.

The Court, then, ultimately didn鈥檛 even consider questions of equal protection. Importantly, however, it did leave the door open for future challenges on those grounds. In his concurrence, associate justice Brett Kavanaugh essentially invited future petitioners with proper standing back to present arguments. 

That鈥檚 a red flag. If we needed further indication that the Court won鈥檛 be consistently favoring Native communities in its decisions, less than a week after the majority opinion in Brackeen dropped, it in a major water rights case.

As for the arguments regarding congressional authority and commandeering, the Court upheld long-standing precedent. It recognized that Congress possesses a 鈥渕uscular鈥� and broad range of power on behalf of the federal government, with whom tribes have a 鈥渢rust鈥� relationship as dependent sovereigns. Put a different way: under the law, 鈥淚ndian鈥� isn鈥檛 actually a racial classification. It鈥檚 political, because tribes have a nation-to-nation relationship with other governments, including the United States.

Given some of its prior decisions, it was far from certain the Court would respect precedent, treaty obligations or the foundations of Federal Indian Law. A different ruling on these issues might have precipitated a domino effect of further decisions undermining tribal sovereignty. It鈥檚 nearly certain that more attacks will come. A coalition of special interests has worked long and hard to attack ICWA鈥攁nd use any other means鈥攖o compromise the power of Native nations. And because they also have a reliable legal avenue through the courtroom of a far-right federal judge, Reed O鈥機onnor in Texas, they can get those cases into consideration by the high court. 

I鈥檓 so grateful to all who participated in the massive organizing to protect this law. Native organizations and advocates have spent years preparing for this moment. When it came, all hands were on deck to create effective media outreach, draft scores of briefs for the justices (including from Lakota Law), and provide top-notch legal representation.

Now we must stay proactive and vigilant in all quarters. The federal government, which provides foster care funding to states, can take an active role in demanding those states create more resources to help keep Native kids with Native families. States must abide by and enforce the law. We鈥檙e also asking lawmakers to create legislation to , further buttressing its enforcement and implementation. 

In the end, the Supreme Court鈥檚 decision demonstrates that Native nations can win鈥攅ven against the odds鈥攂y uniting in a collective effort with a cohesive strategy. 

However, the legacy of colonialism worked to nearly sever this symbiotic relationship by imposing barriers and invisibilizing Indigenous food systems. The Stevens Treaties of 1855, for example, led to Native nations ceding millions of acres of our ancestral homelands to the United States government in exchange for rights that would protect and continue our way of life for future generations. These obligations remain the law to this day. 

But these, like so many Native rights throughout history, have too often been undermined and broken. From land dispossession to environmental degradation, the obstacles Indigenous communities face in order to obtain access to traditional foods are numerous and deeply entrenched. 

But so are the victories. 

In the 1960s and early 鈥�70s, numerous tribes in the Pacific Northwest led a movement to uphold treaty rights and honor our sacred responsibility to protect vital salmon populations. My mother-in-law, Georgianna 鈥淧eachie鈥� Ungaro, spent her life as a ceremonial fisher for the Suquamish Tribe and was one of the many women who fought fearlessly during what came to be called the Fish Wars. She recalled the experience of fishing for Chinook salmon (or 鈥渒ing salmon鈥�) in Elliott Bay. 鈥淲hen you get out on the water, you can smell the salmon,鈥� she said. 鈥泪迟 is a spiritually uplifting moment. And, God, I just love it. The smell always reminds us to give thanks for the salmon, and for that, we always had a good season.鈥�

The Fish Wars represent a pivotal chapter in the history of Indigenous resistance, culminating in the 1974 Boldt decision that ruled in favor of Native rights.

This landmark case not only reaffirmed Indigenous fishing rights but also recognized tribes as equal partners in resource management. This was a watershed moment in the struggle for Indigenous sovereignty, heralding a new era of cooperation and empowerment.

The legacy of the Boldt decision extends far beyond legal victories, embodying the enduring spirit of Indigenous resilience and the interconnectedness of Indigenous rights and environmental justice. It also serves as a reminder of the ongoing struggle for food sovereignty a half-century later. 

Today, as Indigenous communities address the repercussions of historical trauma and systemic oppression, the fight for food access and restoration remains as urgent as ever. As we work hard to address the barriers obstructing our vital connection to our heritage, we are fueled by the significance of our culinary traditions, the echoes of past struggles to uphold our kinship, and the ongoing commitments to strengthen food sovereignty in our communities.

Celebrating Indigenous foodways is significant and offers profound learnings, but it also requires us to confront the barriers and threats that continue to impede us from doing the restoration work we require. Environmental degradation, loss of habitat, and the erosion of our food heritage pose daunting challenges to food access and Indigenous sovereignty. Moreover, the commodification and industrialization of food have further displaced traditional Indigenous foods, exacerbating health disparities.

To address these challenges, we must embrace a holistic approach to Indigenous food sovereignty, one that recognizes the interconnectedness of land, culture, and community. This entails reclaiming ancestral lands, revitalizing traditional food systems, and fostering partnerships with allies committed to honoring sovereignty, as well as environmental and social justice. By centering Indigenous voices and experiences, we can amplify the call for systemic change and build a more just and sustainable future that truly feeds us all.  

Chinook Salmon in Parchment

This cooking method locks in the salmon鈥檚 natural flavors and also pays homage to ancestral Coast Salish culinary techniques, which use various seaweeds and waxy leafed plants in place of the parchment. As Ungaro describes cooking salmon, 鈥淭heir beautiful meat is dripping with good fat, and that is their medicine.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

• Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F
• Season a 4-to-6-ounce salmon fillet with salt, pepper, and garlic powder听
• Lay the seasoned fish on a sheet of parchment paper large enough to fully envelop the salmon
• Add a tablespoon of water or vegetable broth to enhance moisture and flavor听
• Seal the parchment paper securely, perhaps with a silent acknowledgment of gratitude
• Place the wrapped fish on a baking sheet and put into the oven
• Bake for 15 minutes. Makes one serving.听

As scholars Sani Adamu Jauro and Ibrahim Yahaya explained in a  reviewing Indigenous African perspectives on land, recognition of kinship with land is accompanied by traditional care and governance designed to ensure the continuance of the life-giving power of the land; from harvesting restrictions and guidance, to ways of distributing what the land offers to community members. Kenneth Tafira, Indigenous scholar at the University of South Africa, shared greater detail of what this means in an  for The Conversation:

Land is understood as embracing the ecological, cultural, cosmological, social and the spiritual… (Indigenous) African land laws debunk the idea of ownership. Instead, land is a natural endowment that can neither be bought nor sold. African land tenure is not based on ownership but on use and access. Since Africans have common rights to land, communal rights override individual rights, which are subsumed to the overall communal good. Tenure rights are built through reciprocal obligations and mutuality. Land belongs to the living, the dead and the unborn, making it inalienable. 鈥� Depriving one of land means robbing them of their personhood, being and identity – in other words their full humanity.

These principles guide practical daily life and community governance in relation to land, and they are shared by Indigenous people worldwide. They frame the contemporary movements led by colonially impacted Indigenous nations to regain rights to land, broadly termed Land Back.

Colonization, through genocide, land theft, and the imposition of private property, has dispossessed Indigenous peoples of their homelands across the continents since the birth of colonialism. The origin of private property as we understand it today lies in ancient Europe, where the Roman Empire colonized Indigenous Europeans. The Roman Empire was a key originator of the notion of 鈥減rivate property,鈥� a 鈥渄ominion鈥� approach to ownership, as well as written laws, legal systems, and militias to enforce this way of believing. 

As Simon Fairlie explains in 鈥淎 Short History of Enclosure in Britain鈥� for The Land, in two primary waves, including in the 18th and 19th century eras of industrialization, European villagers were dispossessed of their land through the enclosure of the commons (common land with shared usage). This was done for the benefit of elites, forcing people into low-wage labor to survive.

This can be considered a significant marker of capitalism鈥檚 origins: a system that is reliant on maintaining a lesser dependent class of wage laborers to fuel the wealth-building expansionism of the upper classes. The enclosure of lands has been followed by the enclosure of trade, as increasingly larger economic entities have isolated markets for themselves, locking others out and into dependent worker relationships. 

Writing in The New Yorker, Eula Biss points out that a 1968 essay by Garrett Hardin titled 鈥淭he Tragedy of the Commons鈥� articulated the long-accepted idea that communities could not be trusted to share land and its resources. This system was exported to what would become the United States, where land was brutally taken from Indigenous peoples and racism strategically cultivated to undergird the institution of slavery. 

As has been written about widely, including in the 1999 anthology by M. Annette Jaimes, , both the violence against the Indigenous and the practice of slavery were justified by the use of Roman Empire鈥揵ased legal frameworks and the papal bulls issued by the Catholic church in the 1400s, known as the 鈥�.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

When the U.S. government was initially formed, only land-owning white men could vote or influence government, and as rights gradually expanded, this economic power continued to be guarded strategically for the benefit of white men for much of the nation鈥檚 history, excluding Black and Indigenous communities. While the histories of both peoples are profoundly different, they have experienced hundreds of years of systematic and strategic psychological degradation and ensured economic dependency, and have been subjugated as a relatively impoverished underclass. 

As historian Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz wrote in her 2014 text An Indigenous Peoples鈥� History of the United States, 

Investors, monarchies, and parliamentarians devised methods to control the processes of wealth accumulation and the power that came with it. 鈥� Subjugating entire societies and civilizations, enslaving whole countries, and slaughtering people village by village did not seem too high a price to pay, nor did it appear inhumane. The systems of colonization were modern and rational, but its ideological basis was madness.

Initially, Indigenous peoples in the Americas were confined to reservation lands, . Black folks, after the abolishment of slavery, were only able to  or otherwise face violence. 

Throughout history, when it was discovered that Indigenous or Black peoples had unexpected natural resources on their land, they were also dispossessed. While Indigenous communities were robbed of their lands by the , Vann R. Newkirk II, , pointed out how a million Black farmers had their lands stolen from them since the 1950s through white militant violence or eminent domain. 

Leah Penniman of Soul Fire Farm says, 鈥淭here is so much land-based trauma. For us, land was the scene of the crime, as 6 million people would flee the rural agrarian South, creating a refugee crisis, as landowners were lynched for audacity of owning land.鈥� She adds, 鈥淭here was so much trauma that people were raised thinking that the way to succeed was to get as far away from the land as possible.鈥�

Black people were also violently victimized when they managed to play by the capitalist rules of the white owning class and attain economic prosperity. The 1921 razing of the Greenwood District of Tulsa, Oklahoma, known as Black Wall Street, is one of the most prominent examples of this. According to a series by The Associated Press&苍产蝉辫;迟颈迟濒别诲&苍产蝉辫;鈥�,鈥� 鈥淩acial violence in America is a familiar story, but the importance of land as a motive for lynchings and white mob attacks on blacks has been widely overlooked, and the resulting land losses suffered by black families have gone largely unreported.鈥� The story concludes, 鈥淔or many decades, successful blacks lived with the gnawing fear that white neighbors could at any time do something violent and take everything from them.鈥�

And, in spite of this, Indigenous and Black peoples in the United States continue to exist, grow, heal, and thrive in incredibly powerful ways. As Stephanie Morningstar of the  says, 鈥淭he resilience of our communities has continued to persist in the minds and hearts of our activists and liberators, demanding a seat at the table, and for the tables to turn by any means necessary.鈥�

Relations to Land Today

While Indigenous peoples have experienced continuous atrocity and dispossession, many have been able to retain a connection to their original homelands and source of life, spirit, and culture. 

Even so, access to a liberated relationship to land鈥攆ree to practice stewardship and care, have physical access to traditional homelands, or even exercise full decision making in relation to on-reserve or reservation lands鈥攊s extremely limited. The contradictory nature of colonial law related to Indigenous people has resulted in the federal government having a trustee role over otherwise 鈥渟overeign鈥� Indigenous nations. This has resulted in exploitation and limited Indigenous governance that is often illegal according to international law or even by the standards set by U.S. courts. The Indian Land Tenure Foundation noted that the Department of the Interior , and stated that 鈥渢he federal government, acting as 鈥榯rustee,鈥� has allowed energy, mining and other extractive industries to exploit Indian nations.鈥�

Land theft itself occurred long after the initial reservation period. The federal General Allotment Act resulted in the dispossession of  and restricted Indigenous governance of the remaining lands. Today, Indigenous nations are working continuously to  and care of land and community. 

For Black folks removed from their ancestral homelands, maintaining and building connections to land has been incredibly difficult and fraught with violence. Black Americans have continuously had deep connections to land severed. Penniman explains that after the abolishment of slavery in 1865, Gen. Sherman met with Black clergyman Garrison Frazier, who shared that the deepest need that Black folks had was 鈥渉omes and the ground beneath them, to plant fruit trees; to be able to tell the children, 鈥榯hese are yours.鈥欌�� 

According to , Afro-Indigenous scholar and historian, this consistent unsteady relationship to place and land remains unresolved for those in search of home. He says, 鈥淭he ideas of place, home, and land are an unresolved trauma at the core of Black belonging.鈥� Even when Black families were able to hold on to their collective farmlands, the ongoing  has greatly undermined the strength of Black family farms and connection to generationally held land. This is transforming, however, through the power and work of people. As Leah Penniman shared, 鈥淟and was the scene of the crime, but land was not the criminal. Now, some are returning to the land, and their souls, heritage, and wisdom.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The structural transformations required to enact justice for Black and Indigenous peoples are connected and deep, touching the founding cosmology of settler-colonial society. This cosmology, founded on the exploitation of land and people, has proven harmful to all. As Wendell Berry wrote in his 1970 book The Hidden Wound, the 鈥減sychic wound of racism [created to maintain economic power] resulted inevitably in wounds in the land, and in the country itself.鈥� The next story in our series explores some of the work being done by Black and Indigenous people to heal these wounds, build power together, and enact the critical transformations it will take to achieve justice and a liberated future.

This story is part of Building the Block, an original 猫咪社区! series supported by a grant from the , which encourages the development of burgeoning alternative economies and fresh social contracts in ways that can help artists and cultural communities achieve financial freedom. Reporting and production of this story was funded by this grant, but 猫咪社区! maintains full editorial control of the content published herein. Read our editorial independence policy.

A decade later, Wilbur鈥檚 efforts are bearing fruit in the form of a new book, (Ten Speed Press). Over the course of her time meeting, talking with, and photographing Indigenous people around the continent, Wilbur鈥檚 goal changed. 

鈥淥ur identity cannot be defined by a number,鈥� Wilbur explains, adding that the count is now 574 federally recognized tribes鈥攂ut that number still excludes so many people, communities, and tribes that she encountered. 鈥淭he federal government cannot define who we are.鈥�

Wilbur took the time to let her subjects define themselves. She spent hours, days, weeks traveling to and conversing with people in order to really get to know them. If and when subjects agreed to be photographed, she let them choose the location and what they wore. That agency and self-determination is central to what she was trying to achieve with the project.

Initially, Wilbur had organized the book around major themes鈥�decolonization, rematriation, sovereignty, traditional lifeways, Two-Spirit identity and gender, and land as identity. She wrote a chapter for each, spelling out the concept and how it manifested in the stories of her subjects. After realizing that her text took up 40 pages, which meant she would have to cut 20 to 30 people from the book, she scrapped the whole manuscript, making a conscious decision to let her subjects speak for themselves.

Wilbur is forthcoming about how important context is to understanding these stories. One tribe may be referred to by multiple terms throughout the book, but she chose to prioritize her subjects鈥� self-identification over consistency. She also chose not to locate these Nations using designations such as state names from a typical U.S. map. Rather than explaining concepts that are fundamental to Indigenous life today or spelling out Indigenous ways of knowing, she implicitly invites the audience to do their own additional learning. 

鈥淭his work aims to counteract the relentlessly one-dimensional, archaic, insipid stereotypes of Native Americans circulating in mainstream media, textbooks, and the culture industry,鈥� Wilbur writes in her introduction to the book. She rejects what she calls 鈥渓urid and degrading illusions of Indigenous people as leathered and feathered sidekicks in the 鈥榗owboys and Indians鈥� sham.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Such representation not only 鈥渄enies illegal land grabs and dilutes the horrible reality of Native genocide,鈥� Wilbur writes, it also assaults and scandalizes the Native psyche. She points to the research of Tulalip psychologist Stephanie Fryberg, who found that . Fryberg also found that when white youth see these same images, their self-esteem rises. 

Wilbur experienced this disturbing reality firsthand in her own life. As she recounts in Project 562, she was teaching at the high school on the Tulalip Reservation, where she shared a TED Talk by a white photographer who engaged in what Wilbur called 鈥減overty porn鈥� on the Pine Ridge Reservation. Her students cried seeing the work. 

鈥淭he stereotypes are damaging our bodies and stealing our children鈥檚 minds,鈥� writes Wilbur. 鈥淭he majority of Native youth do not believe they will live beyond the age of 25.鈥� She came face to face with that reality when one of her students died by suicide the day after viewing the TED Talk. In her heartbreak, Wilbur sought out better visual representation of her people and their truth. Finding none, she set out to create it herself, with her grief and her camera in hand. 

How to Hold One Another

Wilbur says she learned a lot on the road. While she was at Standing Rock during the Dakota Access Pipeline protests, she says she was twice assaulted by police, and had her camera confiscated. 鈥淭hat impacted me,鈥� she says, describing how she saw supposed public servants protecting the interests of a private corporation over the constitutional rights of people engaging in prayer and peaceful protest. After that, she could no longer maintain the belief she used to have in institutions like law enforcement, because it 鈥渓iterally got beaten out of me.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

She learned other lessons through the conversations she had and the connections she formed. Wilbur says it鈥檚 one thing when you know your own people鈥檚 story鈥攈ow you were dispossessed of land, removed, and relocated. But as she traveled, she heard more and more of these stories and saw how closely they paralleled the experiences of her family and her tribes. It also became clear how closely linked this mistreatment was to the coping mechanisms that continue to cause so much harm to Indigenous communities. These interactions galvanized her anger over the sweeping impacts of settler colonialism and the U.S. government鈥檚 assimilation and termination policies.

鈥淭he manifestation of settler colonialism is trauma,鈥� she says. 鈥淭here was a lot of trauma-bonding for me with a lot of people and a lot of the places that I went to because I grew up on the Rez.鈥�

鈥淚f you grew up on the Rez, you know about death. If you grew up on the Rez, you know about poverty, you know about drug addiction and alcoholism. These things are very intimate to us,鈥� Wilbur says. 鈥淎nd we also, in the same breath, know about overcoming, and resiliency, and taking care of community in those times, and how to hold one another.鈥�

Part of her work was learning how to absorb people鈥檚 stories, feel them, and then let them move through her. 鈥淚 had to learn how to be like water,鈥� she says. Connecting with people over shared struggles can be healing, but she also didn鈥檛 want to retraumatize people in the process. 

Wilbur was blown away by how many communities identified themselves by the places they called home. 鈥淧eople have this intimate knowing, this long-standing relationship with the land, and that land has informed their society.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Wilbur found that she, too, draws much of her identity from the land, though she wouldn鈥檛 have said as much prior to doing this project. She says she did grow up fishing, on the water, in relationship with salmon. She did go to salmon ceremony every year. She does know how to can salmon and how to give it away. She does know her people鈥檚 creation stories and songs. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 realize I had all this cultural knowledge about my land-based identity because it was just normal to me,鈥� Wilbur recounts.

And despite every effort of the colonizers to deny that relationship between people and land, it persists. Despite hundreds of years of oppression, Wilbur celebrates the fact that Indigenous people continue to make babies, to make love, to laugh loud, and to support schools and social services that are underfunded by the state. Despite all that colonization tried to do, it didn鈥檛 win. She points to the fact that canoes can still be seen on the water in the Pacific Northwest. Longhouses are still in use. Salmon ceremonies are still held. People can still learn their native language if they want to. 

鈥淲别鈥檝e managed to become these powerful nations despite all of that, so I have incredible hope for the future.鈥�

Visions of Indigenous Futures

Wilbur aims to look both forward and backward, facing the future as much as the past. She dedicates her book to her daughter, Alma Bea, who was born in 2019, partway through the project:

Wilbur鈥檚 deep love and reverence for her people is clear throughout our conversation. And it comes through when her daughter, now a toddler, interrupts our interview for a wardrobe query. Wilbur is gracious, patient, and loving as she redirects her. 

Wilbur operates with an understanding that joy and justice are married, and she is upfront about the difficulties they bring. 鈥淭he work of social justice is hard. It鈥檚 long. It鈥檚 arduous. But we do it for joy and love,鈥� Wilbur says. 鈥淥nly love can fuel a project like this: a love for my people, a love for my family, and the love that I felt around me during the process.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

She says her project is part of the work of generations, documenting and sharing the accumulation of Indigenous knowledge and resilience over centuries. So while she鈥檚 fully aware that changing the mainstream consciousness can鈥檛 be accomplished with one social media post or one protest, she sees her work as an important contribution to shifting the narrative. 

Wilbur fully admits that the scope of the book is limited and incomplete. Of the 1,200 people she interviewed and photographed (enough content to fill 30 hard drives), she could only include a couple hundred in this volume. Even so, the book is already in its fourth printing. 

Wilbur says it鈥檚 humbling, and hopes that readers will receive Project 562 in the spirit in which it was made: 鈥渓ove for our people.鈥� That message is reinforced by the fact that the Swinomish and Tulalip tribes purchased hundreds of copies of the book to give away to elders and youth. Wilbur also did a book giveaway for the students at the high school where she once taught.

Wilbur sees her work as part of the collective effort to create a pathway for the next generation. She wants to uplift Indigenous stories, identities, scholarship, and knowledge, and shift mainstream misconceptions. Through this work, she hopes to empower readers, especially students like those in her class back on the reservation, to feel agency and possibility in their indigeneity. 

鈥泪迟 frees them from having to do narrative-correction work,鈥� Wilbur says. 鈥淭hey can focus on Indigenous futurism instead.鈥�

My guilt, on the other hand, was related to the fact that I had left my family behind, living under perpetual siege. Since then, some of them have died, including my father, who was denied access to proper medical care鈥攍ike countless other Gazans still living under Israeli occupation. In the ongoing war on the Gaza Strip, I have lost literally hundreds of members of my immediate and extended family, friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. My guilt, back then, was fully justified. It still is.

That July morning, when I handed my laissez-passer to the U.S. immigration officer at JFK, he looked perplexed. He adjusted his polarized sunglasses repeatedly as he flipped through the strange document. 鈥淲hat does it mean that your nationality is 鈥榰ndefined鈥�?鈥� he asked. I understood the question, but could neither find the words鈥攏or the courage鈥攖o answer. I saw my face reflected in his shiny lenses and felt embarrassed. I did not look like the brave Gazan taking on the world, as my father and neighbors back home expected me to be. 

鈥淎lways remember, you are from Gaza,鈥� my father had told me, as he stood in the predawn morning with my younger brothers and a small cluster of neighbors and friends who insisted on bidding me farewell before the taxi taking me to Israel鈥檚 Ben Gurion Airport arrived. My mother had died many years earlier, during the first intifada (uprising), but her kind eyes still stared at me gently, one last time, from a framed photo in the living room. 

The look on my face as I confronted my first American obstacle was hardly one of bravery. I cannot be sent back, I thought to myself, amid a rush of other thoughts I couldn鈥檛 articulate in that moment. I wanted to tell the officer that I am 鈥渦ndefined鈥� because Israel refuses to acknowledge my nationality, my roots, my history, and my present, let alone my humanity. I wanted to tell him this is the only term they could find to avoid simply acknowledging my identity as a Palestinian; that Israel鈥檚 dehumanization of me and my people does not begin or end with language; and that I am a refugee from a place called Gaza, whose people have been forced into an internal exile within Palestine itself, and that those Gazans, like me, are, in fact, considered lucky for having a document with a name and a face. 

Other officers joined the man in the mirrored glasses, some investigating the unusual paper, while others examined me鈥攁 strange, spectacled creature with blue jeans and navy blue T-shirt with an alligator logo. After much deliberation, they decided that I could proceed with my journey to Seattle. They did not manage to successfully decipher my nationality, but ultimately deferred to the valid visa I carried from the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv. 

Thirty years later, I have done much with my life. I have studied, raised a family, and, at least in my own estimation, contributed to U.S. society through my books, papers, articles, media engagements, and more. My children鈥攚ho now seem poised to achieve more than I ever have鈥攁re undertaking their own journeys to find ways to 鈥渕ake a difference,鈥� a calling repeated many times in my household. 

Yet I still feel 鈥渦ndefined,鈥� not only by Israeli standards, but also by the standards of the country that should have鈥攁t least in theory鈥攂ecome my own. 

Denial 

The story of the passport is, of course, a political one. We, Palestinians, obviously do exist. I am not Russian, Moroccan, Brazilian, or a member of the M膩ori people鈥攁lthough I feel a particular affinity with the latter group given our shared struggle against settler colonialism and cultural erasure. But I do not exist as a contrast to anyone else, including Israelis. Palestinians are as old as鈥攁nd even older than鈥攔ecorded time. 

鈥淧alestine was the name used most commonly, consistently and continuously for over 1,200 years,鈥� Palestinian author, historian, and academic Nur Masalha wrote in his seminal 2018 book, .

Yet in 1969, then Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir鈥攁n 鈥攊nsisted 鈥淭here were no such thing as Palestinians,鈥� in an interview in The Sunday Times of London. 鈥泪迟 was not as though there was a Palestinian people in Palestine considering itself as a Palestinian people and we came and threw them out and took their country away from them,鈥� Meir continued. 鈥淭hey did not exist.鈥�

That infamous interview coincided with the second anniversary of the 1967 war. In Israel and the West, it鈥檚 known as the ; for us Palestinians it is the (鈥渢he setback鈥�). The latter term must be distinguished from the (鈥渢he catastrophe鈥�), which was coined shortly after Zionist militias鈥攚hich would later coalesce into 鈥攇utted out a whole nation from its historic homeland to build a state on its ruins. Amid , more than 500 by these militias between December 1947 and July 1948. This is how most Palestinians became refugees, as nearly 80% of our people were forced out. 

We never found safety elsewhere. Those who were internally displaced in the West Bank and Gaza by the Nakba were then caged in by . Many Palestinians and Arabs had hoped that the 1967 war鈥攚hich involved Egypt, Syria, and Jordan against the U.S.-backed Israel鈥攚ould reunite refugees with their long-destroyed villages. Instead, the Naksa resulted in , added to the original . 

Since then, Palestinians have been caught in a seemingly endless circle of dispossession that, with time, extended beyond the boundaries of both historic and occupied Palestine. When in 1990, Palestinians, already refugees from earlier conflicts, were mostly pushed out of the country. Hundreds of thousands of from a place that they helped build. Following the discovery of oil sometime in the 1960s, Kuwait needed Palestinians as much as Palestinians needed Kuwait. However, Kuwaitis viewed Yasser Arafat鈥檚 political stance鈥攁lso adopted by his Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO)鈥攁s supportive of Iraqi President Saddam Hussein. As Iraq was forced out of Kuwait, so too were the Palestinians.

Palestinians, many of whom were Kuwaiti government workers and teachers at educational institutions, were collectively fired from their jobs and asked to leave the country. This sad scenario was repeated in Iraq, almost immediately following the U.S. invasion in March 2003. Then, too, Palestinians went on the run, thousands of them trapped in desert refugee camps on Iraq鈥檚 borders with Jordan and Syria. While some found refuge in Jordan, others , Australia, Canada, New Zealand, Scandinavia, and the U.S. 

The so-called Arab Spring鈥攚hich failed to bring freedom, democracy, or justice to Arab nations鈥攐nce again made Palestinians run for their lives. Some were fleeing war-torn Libya following another , while others fled from Lebanon, overburdened with economic hardship, foreign meddling, and the Syrian refugee crisis. But the largest number of new Palestinian refugees originated from Syria itself. 

Yet in Gaza, where we lived under Israeli , surrounded by military bases and opulent Israeli Jewish settlements鈥斺�攚e perceived Palestinian refugees in Iraq and Syria as the most privileged of all refugee communities. Palestinians living in Iraq were relatively economically prosperous, and those in Syria had access to quality education, which we lacked in the Gaza refugee camps. Access to health care facilities and other basic services were things that both groups had learned to take for granted. In Gaza, we did not. But all of us, regardless of location, were cursed with bizarre travel documents that served little purpose and generated confused looks from inquisitive immigration officers at various borders, whose typical verdict was 鈥淎ccess denied.鈥�

Palestinian refugees had鈥攊n fact, many still do鈥攖ravel documents issued by Egypt and known as , which severely restricted the movement of their holders, essentially requiring a visa to go anywhere, including Arab countries. Though, in 1995, the Palestinian Authority issued new travel documents to Palestinians in the occupied territories; Palestinian refugees in Lebanon, Egypt, and the rest of the Middle East continued to use the restrictive old wathiqa. Countries that allow Palestinians to visit or work differ from year to year, and from one political context to another, though those from Gaza (as well as Lebanon) remain the most rejected of all Palestinians. Those of us who lived under Israeli occupation had an additional and equally useless document, the laissez-passer (French for 鈥渓et them pass鈥�), which was issued by Israel to distinguish between occupied Palestinians and Israeli citizens, who had full travel rights. The Israeli document, however, never lived up to its name鈥攊t served to restrict our movement, rather than facilitate it.

These documents were meant to be used only outside the borders of occupied Palestine, or Palestinian refugee camps scattered all over the Middle Eastern Diaspora. In Palestine itself, the system is far more complex and dehumanizing. 

Kafkaesque Reality 

On Sept. 13, 1993, the unwise PLO leadership signed . The agreement granted the PLO鈥攏ot the Palestinian people鈥攔ecognition by Israel. In exchange, the Palestinian organization, which had ceased to meaningfully represent Palestinians, Israel鈥檚 right to exist. The latter move may seem innocuous, but it was not. Aside from the philosophical that states are political creations and have no inherent moral right to exist, Israel鈥檚 existence is taking place at the expense of the erasure of the Palestinian people鈥攐ur political rights, our culture, our language, and more.

That agreement essentially certified that Israel had the right to exist on top of the very Palestinian villages that were ethnically cleansed during the Nakba. It forfeited, with the stroke of a Norwegian pen and a U.S. stamp of approval, the rights of the Palestinian refugees to their original homeland. Palestinian proponents of the agreement at the time argued that fundamental issues such as refugees, water, borders, and the status of Jerusalem were . To date, no such discussions have occurred.

Instead, into three distinct territorial zones, each to be governed by different military ordinances. Israel never truly respected the zoning system it crafted to corral Palestinians behind , , fences, and bypass roads. Israel invades any region, in any zone, at any time, at will; it carries out , , , and the , mostly ancient olive groves. But for Palestinians, the zones still matter, as each zone includes , cutting off communities and families from one another, separating farmers from their land, students and teachers from their schools, and so on.  

Life in Gaza, at least prior to the ongoing war-turned-genocide and famine starting on Oct. 7, 2023, represented a different kind of struggle. It was, in the words of current British foreign secretary , who visited Gaza in 2010 in his capacity as prime minister, an 鈥渙pen-air prison.鈥� Gaza is constantly surveilled by Israeli guards, who keep an armed, watchful eye from land, air, and sea. 

This reality was not the only context behind the Oct. 7 attacks, but is certainly a main motivator behind the Palestinian resistance in the Gaza Strip. It turned out that humans have a certain tolerance level to oppression and an innate desire to be free. 

No Right to Human Rights 

Little has changed in Israel鈥檚 rhetoric around Palestinian existence in the 55 years since Golda Meir insisted there was no such thing as Palestine. On March 19, 2023, Israel鈥檚 far-right finance minister Bezalel Smotrich : 鈥淭here is no such thing as a Palestinian people.鈥� A day later, then U.S. national security spokesperson that 鈥渨e [in the U.S.] utterly object to this kind of language,鈥� saying it does little to 鈥渄e-escalate the tensions鈥� in the region. Like most U.S. officials, Kirby did not acknowledge Washington鈥檚 role in serving as the first line of defense against criticism or international sanctions against Israel, before or during the genocide. This diplomatic focus on language continues to obfuscate the brutal reality of an ongoing genocide鈥攑ainstakingly recorded by before the International Court of Justice at The Hague on Jan. 11, 2024.

But, in truth, we Palestinians also do not exist as far as U.S. foreign policy in the Middle East is concerned. When the Trump administration began implementing its 鈥�Deal of the Century,鈥� aimed at helping Israel 鈥渘ormalize鈥� its relations with Arab countries without resolving the question of the Israeli occupation of Palestine, it did so with no regard to Palestinians and their rights, which are in international law. After Palestinian leadership boycotted Jared Kushner鈥檚 2019 economic leadership conference in Bahrain, the son-in-law and senior adviser of former President Donald Trump 鈥渉ysterical and erratic.鈥� Trumpism remained committed to the same dehumanizing idea. Israel has to 鈥渇inish the problem鈥� in Gaza, on March 5, 2024, amid Israel鈥檚 genocidal war on the Strip.

鈥淭he right to have rights, or the right of every individual to belong to humanity, should be guaranteed by humanity itself. It is by no means certain whether this is possible,鈥� , a German American historian and philosopher, argued in 1949. She was responding to the adoption of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in 1948鈥攊ncidentally, but also tellingly, the very year my people鈥檚 existence was being systematically destroyed in one of the greatest violations of the collective human rights of a single group in modern history.听

Indeed, without political context and legal recognition, human rights on their own are of little value, a mere recurring subject of repeated press releases by the likes of and (HRW). Incidentally, both organizations, along with Israel鈥檚 own rights group, , have recognized Israel as a fully fledged apartheid state. In response to a 2021 report by HRW, President Joe Biden鈥檚 state department , 鈥泪迟 is not the view of this administration that Israel鈥檚 actions constitute apartheid.鈥� This attitude is typical. For successive U.S. administrations, Israel鈥檚 actions do not matter. All that matters is the language, and only if it deviates from the U.S.-championed political discourse. This remains unchanged even when well over 100,000 Palestinians have been killed or wounded in Gaza in a matter of months.听

If the Palestinian struggle can be summed up in one phrase it would be a struggle against erasure. When Israel passed its so-called Nation State Law, it aimed at that 鈥渢he Jewish people have an exclusive and inalienable right to all parts of the Land of Israel.鈥� This exclusivity immediately and irreversibly denies the rights of the native Palestinians to their own land, and thus the to millions of Palestinian refugees expelled during the Nakba and the Naksa.听

United Nations General Assembly Resolution 194 insists that 鈥渞efugees wishing to return to their homes and live at peace with their neighbours should be permitted to do so at the earliest practicable date.鈥� That was 76 years ago. The refugees, my family included, are still waiting for the 鈥渆arliest practicable date鈥� to actualize. For Israel, is tantamount to calling for the eradication of Israel altogether. 

The dehumanization of Palestinians has been taking place for many years and is a functional element of the settler-colonial structure. In 1983, former Israeli army Chief of Staff described Palestinians as 鈥渄rugged cockroaches in a bottle.鈥� In October 2023, Israel鈥檚 ambassador to Germany, , said they are 鈥渂loodthirsty animals,鈥� echoing the words of Israeli defense minister who, three days earlier, had called Palestinians 鈥渉uman animals.鈥� With time, however, this dehumanizing language serves other functions aside from racial discrimination. The genocidal language became a precursor for genocide.听

Even before the latest war on Gaza resulted in the horrifying massacres of tens of thousands of mostly women and children, and the subsequent human-made lethal famine, the language of genocide has long been legible writing on the wall. Israeli heritage minister Amichai Eliyahu in November 2023 that one of Israel鈥檚 options in the war against Gaza could be to drop a nuclear bomb, while Israel鈥檚 minister for the advancement of women, May Golan, in March 2024 that she is 鈥減ersonally proud of the ruins of Gaza.鈥� Euro-Med Monitor, a human rights group, even evidence that Israeli forces 鈥渂rought Israeli civilians to watch鈥� Palestinians being tortured.

The Israelis, for once, are no longer expending much energy or time fending off accusations of genocide, which was accurately described by anti-Zionist Israeli historian as 鈥渢he first-ever televised genocide in modern times.鈥� Indeed, the masks have finally fallen, and the world is able to see the true face of Israeli settler colonialism in its ugliest manifestations. 

Patrick Wolfe鈥檚 words continue to ring true. The late Australian scholar and historian that 鈥渟ettler colonizers come to stay: invasion is a structure not an event.鈥� Genocide is an of this domineering structure, as Wolfe explains that settler colonialism 鈥�…perpetuates the erasure and destruction of native people as a precondition for settler colonialism and expropriation of lands and resources.鈥�

Although this understanding is becoming clearer to many in Western academic institutions, thanks to the relentless efforts of , Indigenous, Palestinian, , and other intellectuals, it is hardly a subject of debate in the Global South. In my visits to South Africa, Kenya, Australia, New Zealand, Hawai鈥榠, and my numerous interactions with Southern intellectuals, the intersectionality between the Palestinian cause and other Native struggles is neither an academic theory nor a debate. It is the only possible salvation to many nations that continue to struggle under the oppressive weight of marginalization and racism, within national frameworks, or colonialism and neocolonialism within an unfair, Western-inclined global system. 

We Do Exist 

Unlike my early years as a student in the U.S. and a young academic in Western institutions, I am now far more invested in building connections with people who understand, and even share, my positionality: dispossessed, marginalized, and even outright oppressed. 

This process, however, started with my own family, with my daughters and my son. Raising Palestinian children in the U.S. was always difficult, especially for those who live in small, isolated communities. The Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, however, made it even more difficult. Fearing for my kids鈥� safety, I simply stopped speaking our native Arabic to them in public. Racism and reached unprecedented levels. Eventually, we left the U.S., spending years in Malaysia, where my son was born. It was a needed respite. My greatest fears were that my kids would grow up hating themselves, abandoning their identities simply to 鈥渇it in,鈥� or worse, seeing themselves as perpetual victims. 

So their bedtime stories consisted of tales about two brave Palestinian girls, and eventually a boy, who traveled to Palestine to help liberate the people. With each quest, they learned about a new city or refugee camp. They learned about places, historic figures, and food. And each time, they flew over the sea to break prison walls, remove fences and checkpoints, always donning their precious kuffiyas, Palestinian traditional scarves. These stories, which we called 鈥淭he Palestinian Warrior Girls Express,鈥� helped them see themselves as fighters for a just cause, a legacy that continues to live with them many years later; one of them is a political activist with a Ph.D. in Palestine Studies, and the other is a health worker and future doctor, advocating for equal access to health care among marginalized communities in Washington state. 

It took years for this to happen, a process that is shared by many Palestinian American families across the country, each developing their own tools to stay close to home. Wherever we are in the world, Palestine is now part of our existence. Our food, clothes, spirituality, values, and daily conversations are all deeply rooted in our culture. With time, we grew sensitive to any injustice taking place anywhere, putting Palestinian American activists, writers, lawyers, and the like often at the forefront of any just struggle in the U.S. 

My hope grows stronger as I witness my people鈥檚 steadfastness in the face of genocide. I know that we will not be wished away by some Israeli politician empowered with U.S.-provided weapons and emboldened by the world鈥檚 support or silence. 听

I have a passport now, a U.S. one, though such citizenship resolved very little of my quandary. Yes, papers had granted me, at least in principle, access and the right to have rights, but they did not, nor should they, grant me an identity. My identity is not a piece of paper with colored stamps, but is defined through my struggle as a member of a collective that is fighting and dying to preserve our sense of peoplehood, against a backdrop of untold, rooted, and continuing injustices. 

Moreover, I no longer possess the laissez-passer of old. It was replaced by an alternative Palestinian Authority passport, which is, sadly, equally useless. Still, the new piece of paper, at least, declares that my nationality is 鈥淧alestinian鈥� (although still a refugee). 

It took me years to satisfy all the bureaucratic procedures, complicated by the distance and the Israeli occupation administration, to obtain similar papers for my children, who are also now proud 鈥淧alestinian refugees鈥� from the Gaza Strip. It was important for me鈥攁nd now, for them as well鈥攖hat the bond between us and the homeland is never severed. 

A piece of paper may grant you access, but identity is something you must seek for yourself. And in the case of my people, it is something we have to fight, and often die, for. 

I believe that many of our recent efforts to abolish harmful systems of oppression are being done with consideration of the white gaze, through a lens of scarcity and lack. Our responses to oppression have been colonized. If we are to be successful at dismantling the systems of white supremacy, patriarchy, capitalism, and anthropocentrism that enforce domination and oppression over people and ecosystems, we have to start seeing our abundance. It鈥檚 imperative for us to move forward and live in right relationship with each other and the planet.

The late Grace Lee Boggs said, 鈥淭he time has come for a new dream, that鈥檚 what being a revolutionary is. I don鈥檛 know what the next American revolution is going to be like, but you might be able to imagine it, if your imagination were rich enough.鈥� How do we liberate ourselves from all supremacy culture to dream the new dream that Boggs speaks of? Dreams are an essential part of our human cognition, identity, and being. They allow us to bring our whole selves and our communities into imagining new worlds and realities. They conjure the unseen and unknown, while redesigning our notions of what is possible.

I often reflect on the dreams of my parents, who immigrated to the U.S. from India in 1973. Like many other immigrants from the Global Majority, they arrived here with very few possessions鈥�and a dream. One of economic and physical security for their newly arrived family, their family back home in India, and also their future generations. Their dream of familial economic and physical security is not exclusive; it鈥檚 a dream that all people have, but the oppressive structures that exist in this country and around the world actively prevent queer, trans, Black, Indigenous, and other people of color from realizing our dreams. 

When we remind ourselves that we are enough, we can decolonize our dreams to decolonize our responses to oppressive structures so that we can move through the portal toward liberation.

My parents raised me in the South Asian faith of Jainism, where the core tenets of Ahimsa and nonviolence hold that all life is sacred and interconnected as kin. I also grew up in a part of rural Indiana that was a Ku Klux Klan stronghold and where the KKK still held rallies during the time I was in school. Although the nearby farming families, most if not all of them White, held a close and intimate connection to the land, this intimacy wasn鈥檛 extended to me and my family. I faced the paradoxical reality that my identity and behaviors were all wrong and threatening outside of my home, while I was fully loved and accepted inside my home. Holding both of these realities confused and limited me. Why was I not enough?

To this day, I often experience moments of insecurity  and question the authenticity of my behavior鈥攊f my intelligence is enough, if my hustle is enough鈥攅ven around my friends of color. 

It鈥檚 then I鈥檓 reminded of adrienne maree brown鈥檚 words in her book, Pleasure Activism: 鈥淒o you understand that you, as you are, who you are, is enough?鈥�

Affirmations like this one, along with the foundation of security my parents laid help me to have my own dreams鈥攐f total liberation where the sacrality of all life-forms is honored. This is why I work for a Just Transition that builds economic and political power to move us from an extractive economy to a regenerative one. But I also believe that a Just Transition gets us to the first step and beginning of the work toward liberation and a society that is fully able to live up to the potential of what it is to be human. And it is also why I see the current dreams and imaginings of abolishing systems of persecution as reactive and conditioned to our current reality. Our dreams have been colonized. The focus on abolition, while necessary for the survival of our people, also limits us by centering the world that supremacy culture built. How can we do the vital work of abolition while also dreaming beyond the world they built to one that is for us and by us?

I acknowledge my own privilege in this sentiment and that I have had time, space, and support for healing for my own trauma. I acknowledge that I have the privilege of being asked what my dreams are and have been supported in pursuing those dreams. What about those who are in everyday trauma, who don鈥檛 get access or space for healing? Who gets to heal and to dream? How do we support others on their pathway of healing and knowing that they are enough? When we remind ourselves that we are enough, we can decolonize our dreams to decolonize our responses to oppressive structures so that we can move through the portal toward liberation.

We can liberate our dreams from reacting to our current reality into dreaming of entire new realities and ways of being that tap into the mosaic of our ancestral cultures and stories. Dreams of a new economics where the currency and capital are banked on interdependence and liberation; widespread ecological and community designs that are braided by Indigenous designers from across the continents; bioregional forms of governance that see the watershed as the geopolitical entity where we all come together, rural and urban, to be in true right relationship and belonging with each other and ecosystems; Black reparations and Native rematriation meld together to form new models of justice and stewardship, recognizing that land doesn鈥檛 have to be owned by humans to support habitats for our and other species. These are my dreams for my people and my kin鈥攖he vulnerable who are part of the seed bank of my soul, waiting for sunlight, nourishment, and hydration so that they can spring up and root down.       

Perhaps my parents would think that these dreams are not for us or that they are too much. Perhaps because of the collective trauma of people who have been marginalized by supremacy culture over the past decades and centuries, it is too difficult for many of us to dream beyond abolition or even our current day to day survival. Others who work for a Just Transition might say that these dreams might not be practical. But dreams aren鈥檛 practical, they are a vision of what is possible. 

We have to shed these oppressive structures that contain us so that we can dream of new realities where we can freely be who we already are鈥�enough.      

Boholle stayed on after the colonial exhibition was over. Despite rampant racism, he became a carpenter, married, and started a family. When the Nazis rose to power in the 1930s, Black people living in Germany, who were already seen as racially inferior, became the of prosecution. After Boholle died in the 1930s, his family was deported to concentration camps during WWII. His wife died there, but some of their children survived. Their descendants still live in Germany today. 

The struggle and perseverance of Boholle and several other immigrants who came to Berlin during and immediately after the colonial period is told in 鈥淒espite Everything: Migration to the Colonial Metropolis Berlin,鈥� a current exhibition in Berlin Kreuzberg, a multicultural neighborhood home to many immigrant communities.

German efforts to and atone for the crimes of the Holocaust are well known. The country鈥檚 history of colonialism, which preceded鈥攁nd, some historians even say, 鈥攖he Nazis, not so much. 鈥淭here has been very little done to critically deal with this past,鈥� says Anna Yeboah, project coordinator at Dekoloniale, a coalition of activists, historians, and educators in Berlin that co-produced the exhibition in collaboration with the FHXB Friedrichshain-Kreuzberg Museum.

In 1884, Germany initiated the infamous Berlin Conference, which European nations鈥� 鈥淪cramble for Africa.鈥� In the decades that followed, the country became the world鈥檚 colonial empire, occupying swathes of Africa, including parts of modern-day Rwanda, Namibia, Cameroon, Congo, and Tanzania, as well as areas in China and the Pacific, such as Samoa. During this time, Germany committed what historians now call the genocide of the 20th century in Namibia, nearly wiping out the Herero and Nama, two Indigenous peoples of Namibia, through starvation and forced labor in concentration camps. In Tanzania, at least 180,000 people died revolting against the German colonial rule during the . German colonizers also the skulls and bones of deceased Africans for pseudoscientific research aimed at proving the racial superiority of white Europeans.

鈥淭he goal of Dekoloniale is to find a way for a critical appraisal of German colonialism from a civil society perspective,鈥� Yeboah says.

With funding support from the Berlin State Department for Culture and Europe as well as the , Dekoloniale aims to confront German colonial history and its racist legacy by implementing a series of ambitious initiatives by 2024. These efforts include cultural programs, such as festivals and exhibitions like the one in Berlin Kreuzberg, guided tours that reveal the concealed remnants of colonialism in urban spaces, and an pinpointing locations of colonial legacy across Germany and the world.

The Work Started Earlier

Before coming together to form Dekoloniale in 2020, its member organizations鈥擝erlin Postkolonial, the Initiative of Black People in Germany (ISD), and Each One Teach One (EOTO)鈥攈ad already been devoted for years to addressing colonial injustices and racism in Germany. The activists were motivated by a shared frustration at the exclusion of colonial history from school curricula and public discourse. 

鈥淕erman colonialism was simply not a part of the curriculum in my education,鈥� says Yeboah, whose father is an immigrant from Ghana. Through her own research, Yeboah discovered that Friedrich Wilhelm I, the ruler of Brandenburg-Prussia, had colonized Ghana as early as the 17th century and traded enslaved Africans in the trans-Atlantic slave trade. 

Christian Kopp, organizer of Berlin Postkolonial and a trained historian, recalls his surprising discovery of Germany鈥檚 colonial past in Tanzania while attending an unrelated conference there. 鈥淎s a historian, you should be committed to telling the truth if you see that there are whole areas not covered, voices suppressed, and stories not told,鈥� Kopp says. 鈥淥therwise, you are writing the story of the victors.鈥�

Together with his Tanzanian colleagues in Germany, Kopp established Berlin Postkolonial in 2007. The group has offered postcolonial walking tours and staged protests against German museums to demand the restitution of cultural artifacts and amassed during the colonial era. They鈥檝e also campaigned to remove racist street names in the city.

The work of Kopp and other activist organizations are yielding results: The public discourse around colonialism is changing. In 2021, the German government officially its genocide in Namibia. In December last year, the country returned 22 , prized artifacts looted by British soldiers from the former Kingdom of Benin, today Nigeria, and sold across Western museums.

Today, Berlin Postkolonial runs up to 70 walking tours a year, bringing students, interested residents, and international visitors to locations that reveal the hidden history of colonialism, up from five tours at the start of its activism efforts. 鈥淲别 can hardly catch up,鈥� Kopp says.

The activists also credit the intensification of discussion in Germany to the Black Lives Matter movement. After George Floyd鈥檚 murder, demonstrations took place throughout Germany, with people taking to the streets of Berlin. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 not a small segment of citizens interested in change, but a majority seeing the disparities in society,鈥� Yeboah says.

As the public dialogue has escalated, so, too, has the backlash. Following years of pressure from activists like Berlin Postkolonial and ISD, district officials voted to change the name of a street that used a derogatory term for Black people, to the name of Anton Wilhelm Amo, Germany鈥檚 first Black scholar and philosopher. However, the process stalled after the district faced several lawsuits against the renaming.

Conservative outrage also took aim at the Dekoloniale activists, whose office is nearby on Wilhelmstrasse, the site of the Berlin Conference and the Reich鈥檚 Colonial Office. 鈥淲别 had people come into the office; we had racial slurs on our windows,鈥� Yeboah says. 

鈥淚 find it still surprising that people just get kind of militant by fighting against the changing of the street name,鈥� Kopp says. 鈥淭hey know it鈥檚 about a principle and it鈥檚 about who鈥檚 telling the history.鈥�

Give Voice to the Resistance

Last December, Berlin finally renamed two streets that commemorated former colonizers. L眉deritzstrasse, a street named after Adolf L眉deritz, once lauded as the founder of German South West Africa, was replaced by Nama resistance fighter Cornelius Fredericks. Nachtigalplatz, a square named after Gustav Nachtigal, a brutal colonizer in West and Central Africa, was renamed after Rudolf and Emily Douala Manga Bell, the King and Queen of Douala in Cameroon.

Jean-Pierre F茅lix-Eyoum, a great nephew of Rudolf Manga Bell who now lives in Germany, recalls taking a bus the day after the renaming ceremony, where he heard the announcement: 鈥淣ext Stop, Manga-Bell-Platz.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淚 almost cried with happiness,鈥� he says.

The retired teacher has also spent decades campaigning for the rehabilitation of his great uncle, who was educated in Germany and later executed for resisting German colonial rule in Cameroon. He credits the name change to the activists in Berlin. 鈥淭hey fought for it,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hey forced it through with their stubbornness.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Felix-Eyoum says he is on an unstoppable wave of success. Ulm, a city in southwestern Germany, also renamed a square after Manga Bell last year. Many other cities are considering the possibility of honoring the Cameroonian resistance leader.

Kopp estimates that more than 30 postcolonial and migrant organizations like Dekoloniale have emerged in recent years. In cities big and small, activists and concerned citizens are pushing governments and societies to interrogate a brutal past and to better represent their increasingly diverse urban communities.

For Dekoloniale activists, giving a voice to the resistance is crucial to bringing justice to the descendants of the formerly colonized and to empowering Germany鈥檚 Black community, which faces widespread . 鈥淩esistance is an aspect that has been made invisible for decades,鈥� Yeboah says. 鈥淭he white mainstream likes to portray people of African descent as the victims, as people who have no agenda of their own, and that is simply not true.鈥�

As more cities and countries in Europe confront their colonial past, Yeboah hopes politicians and institutions of power will acknowledge the work civil society organizations and marginalized communities have been doing for decades and support them to lead the change.

鈥淲别 know for a fact that these groups are in all of the towns and all of the cities in Europe,鈥� Yeboah says, 鈥渂ecause everywhere, you have descendants of colonized people, you have people who educated themselves on their own history.鈥�

Rikers, located on an island between the boroughs of Queens and the Bronx, is one of the largest jail complexes in the United States. It houses nearly people, the vast majority of whom are pretrial defendants who have not been convicted of a crime. 

Rikers is notorious for its dire conditions and high death rates. 鈥淎lmost everybody is worse off for spending any amount of time at Rikers,鈥� says Zachary Katznelson, policy director at the . 鈥泪迟鈥檚 an incubator of violence and misery.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Since the beginning of 2022, have died on Rikers. Correctional officers doled out head strikes since the beginning of last year, compared to at Los Angeles County jails during the same period, despite L.A.鈥檚 larger jail population and notoriety for use of excessive force.

鈥泪迟鈥檚 a dark and dank and dreary place,鈥� says Hope Sanders, who was sent to Rikers in the mid-鈥�90s at age 16. It was clear to her as soon as she arrived that 鈥淸Rikers] was unsafe for children鈥� like herself. 鈥淭he officers called us 鈥榓nimal-lescents,鈥欌�� she says. Sanders vividly remembers the stench of rotting garbage, as well as mice, roaches, and the 鈥渢errible鈥� air quality. 

Beyond the well-documented issues of violence and neglect, there is another hidden danger that looms at Rikers: The jail was built on a landfill, and its decomposing garbage emits gas. 鈥淲别 know that methane does very bad things to human beings, in addition to what it does for the climate,鈥� says Rebecca Bratspies, law professor at the City University of New York School of Law and director of the . 

But some advocates envision a different future for this island. In response to the shocking reports of violence and toxic conditions at the facility, justice-impacted individuals devised a plan to shut down the jail and repurpose the island. The plan aims to transform the facility into a hub for renewable energy鈥攁 source of hope amid the ongoing threats of violence and climate change. The proposed project seeks to benefit the people and communities that Rikers has historically harmed. 

A Toxic Foundation

In 1884, the year New York City bought Rikers Island, it occupied less than 88 acres. In the following decades, the city hauled in garbage and ash to expand the landmass, with the landfill labor performed almost entirely by incarcerated people. By 1932, when the jail opened, the island had more than quadrupled in size to 413 acres. 

The landfill is a weak foundation for the buildings on Rikers, contributing to crumbling infrastructure. Katznelson describes seeing blankets covering the floors to absorb the rainwater flooding one building during a recent visit. He says the buildings are 鈥渟o far gone鈥� that they are not fixable and even serve as a source of weapons at Rikers, posing yet another safety risk to those inside. 鈥淵ou can just break [a piece] off almost anywhere, and you can use it as a weapon. It鈥檚 just a living, dangerous thing,鈥� Katznelson says. 

Isolating toxic waste and polluting industries in minority and lower-income communities is a common practice in this country, and that inequity is exacerbated in prisons. As in the greater U.S. prison population, Black and Latinx individuals are disproportionately incarcerated at Rikers, which pulls of its population from these groups, who represent just of NYC鈥檚 general population.

of state and federal prisons in the U.S. are located within 3 miles of a federal site. Exposure to these hazardous waste sites poses a threat to incarcerated people鈥檚 health, but due to the terms of their incarceration, they have no way to escape this threat. 

When Darren Mack was incarcerated at Rikers in the 1990s, he was unaware of the toxic conditions that existed around him. 鈥泪迟 wasn鈥檛 until I actually went back to Rikers as a volunteer for a restorative justice pilot project for adolescents that, for the first time, I saw a sign that said 鈥楧on鈥檛 drink the water,鈥欌�� says Mack, co-founder and co-director of a grassroots decarceration organization called . Though visitors were advised to avoid drinking it, 鈥減eople who are detained there are forced to drink the water,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hat was a red flag.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Rikers was designed to be out of sight out and out of mind鈥攁 theme consistent throughout U.S. environmental sacrifice zones. A New Yorker myself, I did not know Rikers Island existed until I had to. When I was 11 years old, my older brother was arrested and sent to Rikers to await trial. Suddenly I saw the tremendous pain, suffering, and injustice Rikers inflicted. 

Like of the people at Rikers, my brother suffers from mental illness. He spent the majority of his 18-month term in solitary confinement, an inhumane and overutilized practice. At the time, I struggled to understand what my brother was going through. Now, having spent the past year researching and reporting on the issues at Rikers, I know the conditions are worse than I could have imagined.

In 2012, a group of cancer-diagnosed correctional officers filed against the city and the Department of Corrections (DOC), claiming their diseases were the result of their exposure to the toxic landfill while working at Rikers. The city denied the victims鈥� claims, and their cases were dismissed. 

In addition to methane in the air on Rikers itself, the island is less than a mile from Hunts Point, a predominantly Black and Latinx neighborhood in the Bronx that has been coined 鈥淎sthma Alley鈥� due to dangerously high levels of (fine particulate matter less than 2.5 microns in diameter). Rikers is also in LaGuardia Airport鈥檚 flight path, exposing those at Rikers to and significant noise pollution from the more than 1,000 flights that take off and land at the airport every day. 

A Cleaner, Fairer Future

After decades of anti-Rikers advocacy and awareness-building, a successful movement finally took hold. 鈥淔or the first time, in 2016 a grassroots campaign of survivors of Rikers like myself, family members, allies, and organizational partners built a broad-based movement that was so deep that it changed the hearts and minds of New Yorkers,鈥� Mack says. 

Sanders, after serving a 20-year sentence, went back to school to become a social worker and joined the , alongside Mack. 鈥淢y experiences [at Rikers] angered me, but also gave me a passion to move forward and do everything that I could to try to prevent [others from suffering the same fate],鈥� Sanders says. 

As a result of the campaign鈥攁nd a subsequent by the council-appointed Lippman Commission that concluded that the facility should be shut down鈥攁dvocates鈥� demands have become stated policy: The city has committed to closing Rikers by 2027.

The city鈥檚 involves a drastic reduction in the city jail population; a transition to a smaller, borough-based jail system; and an increase in hospital beds to treat the many people behind bars who are in need of treatment rather than incarceration. However, due to the recent rise in the city jail population, argue that a jail system half the size of the current one cannot keep New Yorkers safe, inevitably leading to overcrowding in jails and an increase in those they deem 鈥渧iolent criminals鈥� on city streets.

鈥淭he reason we鈥檙e closing Rikers鈥攖he reason we鈥檝e been making this argument for years鈥攊s that Rikers undermines safety every day that it鈥檚 open,鈥� Katznelson says. He says that violence is so embedded in its ethos and its infrastructure that the jail is beyond reform. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 bring a whole new culture and way of operating [into] the existing structure. You need a clean break from what you have.鈥�

The proposed borough-based jail system, Katznelson says, could streamline NYC鈥檚 notoriously slow and bogged-down judicial system, which would reduce the number of people in jail awaiting trial. 

The mandate to close Rikers has opened doors for imagining future uses of the island. Four hundred acres is a substantial landmass in New York, the most densely populated city in the U.S., with 26,403 people per square mile. 

Proposals have included using the land as an extension of or as the site of . But these proposals fail to get to the root of the environmental concerns on the island and would continue to expose its next residents to toxic conditions. Justice-impacted New Yorkers wanted to break the cycle of harm. 

Those who have spent time at Rikers 鈥渁lmost unanimously requested that the jail be closed and that the land be used for something positive. That would in many ways be the best memorial and honoring of the suffering that鈥檚 happened there,鈥� Katznelson says. From this aspiration, a visionary plan has emerged that seeks to simultaneously address two of the biggest, most difficult-to-solve disasters of our time: mass incarceration and the climate crisis. 

The plan for envisions replacing the facility with green infrastructure to help the city reach its goal of 100% clean electricity . This would allow the city to replace its antiquated wastewater treatment facilities with new, more efficient technology on the island. 鈥淣ew York is continually in violation of the Clean Water Act because we don鈥檛 have the capacity to adequately clean and treat the [waste]water we release,鈥� Bratspies says. Renewable Rikers would change that. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 like a win-win-win!鈥�

Solar panels and battery storage on the island would replace oil- and gas-fired peaker plants, which are activated during times of high energy demand. In New York City, are located predominantly in communities of color, 鈥渟pewing pollutants,鈥� says Bratspies. Shutting them down would significantly improve the air quality and health outcomes in these communities, she says. 

Sanders, who now lives in the Bronx, sees a peaker plant every day while walking in her neighborhood. If such facilities were shut down, Sanders envisions using the land for 鈥済reen parks where children could play, without having to worry about traffic or warehouses or peaker plants鈥攕omewhere where they can really just enjoy nature.鈥�

While Rikers鈥� isolation has worsened its conditions as a jail, as a renewable energy site this isolation works to its advantage. 鈥淥ne of the concerns you have with battery storage is potential for fires,鈥� Bratspies says. 鈥淎n island where nobody鈥檚 living is probably a really good place to have a lot of dense battery storage.鈥�

In keeping with its restorative justice philosophy, Renewable Rikers would offer a job training program for people whose lives have been upended by incarceration. Advocates believe the program will also aid larger decarceration goals: 鈥淚f you help people flourish, your needs for policing and incarceration plummet,鈥� Bratspies says. 

The City Signs On

Renewable Rikers has the potential to set a new standard. Though cities nationwide are seeking to close their jails and reduce jail populations, no others have developed a plan that also incorporates climate solutions. Renewable Rikers can serve as a model for how to simultaneously decarcerate and decarbonize. 

When the City Council and then鈥揗ayor de Blasio successfully passed the in 2021, the vision moved one step closer to becoming a reality鈥攁nd one step closer to offering justice for survivors like my brother, Mack, and Sanders.

The act mandates a study of the island鈥檚 capacity for renewable energy and the transfer of any unused land and buildings from the DOC to the Department of Citywide Administrative Services. But since Mayor Adams took office in 2022, he hasn鈥檛 initiated the land transfer or appointed commissioners to the Renewable Rikers advisory committee. 鈥淭he crisis has [been] exacerbated under his administration,鈥� Mack says. 鈥淗e鈥檚 on the wrong side of history.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Rather than outside 鈥渆xperts鈥� or academics imposing a solution to the problem, 鈥淸Renewable Rikers] was developed alongside, and in many ways by, people who are formerly incarcerated and people who live in environmental justice communities,鈥� Bratspies says. 鈥淭his is a very different way of thinking about policymaking.鈥�

Sanders, now a member of the Renewable Rikers advisory committee, offers insights and recommendations from her own and others鈥� experiences on the island. 鈥淲别 are asking those directly impacted, 鈥榃hat do they want it to look like?鈥欌�� she says. 

Despite facing resistance, activists and policymakers remain committed to the end of Rikers as we know it. City Council Member Carlina Rivera, who chairs the council鈥檚 Committee on Criminal Justice, is resolute on the council using its powers to ensure Mayor Adams adheres to the planned closure. 鈥淭his administration bears the burden of demonstrating that they鈥檝e marshaled every possible resource to keep the plan,鈥� Rivera says. 

At the end of October, the City Council to ensure that Rikers shuts down by the mandated August 2027 deadline. The Rikers Commission 2.0 plans to take a renewed look at the current conditions at Rikers and aims to find the quickest and safest path to closure. 

鈥泪迟鈥檚 the morally right thing to do to close Rikers Island,鈥� Mack says. 鈥淎nd we hope that we can move forward towards a city that removes a stain that has harmed generations of Black and Brown New Yorkers.鈥�

Through friends, Tilley learned of a program where users could get free new syringes鈥攏o questions asked. At Tapestry Needle Exchange, she also discovered a community of people eager to improve their lives and the lives of others addicted to drugs.

鈥淲别 started talking about the mistreatment we received in emergency rooms,鈥� Tilley remembers. 鈥淚 told them, 鈥榃e need to advocate for ourselves. They might not listen to just me, but if all of us share our experiences, maybe someone will listen to us.鈥欌��

Twenty years would go by before attempts to organize drug users would help to ignite a national movement. Last month, Tilley was among more than 50 active users from across the country who traveled to St. Louis for a first-of-its-kind meeting to lay the groundwork for a coordinated response to America鈥檚 war on drugs.

There were an estimated 68,600 fatal overdoses in 2018, 69% of them involving opioids such as oxycodone, heroin, and fentanyl.

---

The Urban Survivors Union had arranged to attach a side conference to the annual meeting of the non-profit Drug Policy Alliance so members could discuss crucial next steps for growing the movement.

Addressing the historic gathering of the USU on that first morning of the convention, Tilley, the group鈥檚 co-director declares: 鈥淭his is a labor of radical love. When I started doing drug-user organizing in 1998, there were just two of us in the room. And now, as a woman who injects drugs, I鈥檓 a little teary-eyed standing up here, looking out at a whole room full of people.鈥�

Robert Suarez, a veteran activist from New York City, then rallies the crowd. 鈥淣o longer are we going to wait for the slow ticktock of politics,鈥� he tells the group. 鈥淲别 are organizing, we are building power, and we are going to take it to them.鈥�

The union鈥檚 first chapter was formed in Seattle in 2009. Other locations followed, and over the past 18 months leading up to St. Louis, the organization established chapters in more than 30 cities across the U.S.

Members say this recent period of rapid growth reflects the new challenges users face. A reinvigorated drug war has the Trump administration instructing prosecutors to impose for drug crimes and against high-level traffickers.

Meanwhile, the opioid epidemic and the spread of fentanyl, a dangerous synthetic-opioid, has sent overdose deaths skyrocketing. There were an estimated in 2018, 69% of them involving opioids such as oxycodone, heroin, and fentanyl. That鈥檚 down slightly from in 2017, but far exceeds a rough annual average of 15,000 fatal overdoses each year through the 1990s.

Louise Vincent, the USU鈥檚 other co-director, describes the epidemic鈥檚 impact this way: 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 remove 72,000 people from a community without touching people and their families,鈥� she says. 鈥淧eople are feeling this shit hard core and feeling a damn need to do something about it.鈥�

Impact of the War on Drugs

No group is more affected and simultaneously more-often excluded from debates on drug policy than drug users themselves. The St. Louis convention was organized to change that.

鈥淲别鈥檙e doing this with a team-based system and sharing decision-making 鈥� working together to a build a national union that can get shit done,鈥� Vincent tells the group.

Most of those who came together in St. Louis are addicted to hard drugs such as heroin and cocaine. Many live in poverty. They鈥檙e stuck with criminal records and marginalized in countless ways that push them to the edges of society.

Everyone has a story about how the war on drugs has harmed them. Tilley, for example, was evicted from her apartment in Northampton after a friend suffered a nonfatal overdose there. More recently, her open identity as a drug user has prevented her from gaining meaningful employment.

Vincent says she lost her leg to stigma intrinsic to the drug war. She was hit by a car and her history as an intravenous-drug user led hospitals in her hometown of Greensboro, North Carolina, to treat her poorly. She was denied adequate pain medication and doctors failed to provide procedures that were required for her damaged leg鈥檚 long-term recovery. More than a year after the accident, an infection festered and her leg was amputated.

In addition to reducing overdose deaths, these sorts of incidents are what the USU is organizing to prevent. As with a labor union, the idea is to bring a strength-in-numbers approach to their cause. The group intends to function as an advocacy network, lobbying city, state, and federal governments to enact policies that will save drug users鈥� lives and alleviate the worst harms of America鈥檚 persecution of people who use drugs.

鈥淣ine-tenths of the pain I鈥檝e experienced in my life was caused by the drug war,鈥� Tilley says. 鈥淚 can look back at so many periods of my life and say, 鈥楳y habit was totally manageable. It was the drug war that made me miserable.鈥� It was a fear of arrest, fear of discrimination, fear of losing my job鈥攁 fear that had nothing to do with my job performance. That鈥檚 what has always haunted me.鈥�

Coming Together

There were many steps on the way to St. Louis. One of the largest was taken in New Orleans in October 2018. Drug users met there for the annual conference of the Harm Reduction Coalition (HRC), which advocates for policies such as needle exchange and supervised injection. The HRC has long welcomed drug users under its large umbrella. But in New Orleans, users broke away and marched in the streets on their own, signaling their autonomy and their power as a community with unique demands.

鈥泪迟鈥檚 time for us to stand together,鈥� shouted Shilo Jama of Seattle, who is one of the USU鈥檚 founders. He spoke through a bullhorn as their demonstration wound its way along Canal Street from the HRC conference headquarters. 鈥淲别 need to stand here and fight as one.鈥�

Tilley was among about 30 people who walked to a park on the banks of the Mississippi River, quietly calling out the names of friends and family members lost to an overdose or the war on drugs. She cried and buried her head in the shoulder of a friend. After several minutes, the group fell into silence.

Vincent spoke next. 鈥淭his was put together by people that use drugs, people that sell sex, people that they say can鈥檛 do these things,鈥� she said. 鈥淲别 have done them. And we will continue to do them. We will grow bigger and grow stronger. We will not stop until we are fucking free.鈥�

Thirteen months later in St. Louis, Jama reflects on that night. 鈥淭hat was a really big growing-up moment for us,鈥� he said. 鈥泪迟 was the first thing that we did as a national movement all by ourselves. And so it was incredibly powerful鈥�.If the drug-user movement was in its infancy, it became a teenager at that moment.鈥�

After New Orleans, the St. Louis convention was the next step 鈥� and a greater stride forward.

Pulling together a national event for active drug users didn鈥檛 come without challenges. It was understood that members would not stop using while in St. Louis. Moving into a legal gray area, organizers made loose arrangements for people to inject drugs in as safe a manner as possible. They encouraged everyone who was going to use drugs to never use alone and to always go slow in a new city with an unfamiliar supply of illicit narcotics.

Other arrangements had to be made for those who wanted to receive opioid-substitution medications such as methadone or buprenorphine. It turned out that the nearest clinic offering those services to out-of-town patients was a 45-minute drive from the conference site in St. Louis. Ensuring those who needed it received medically assisted treatment became one of the most challenging components of the entire affair.

Growing the Movement

At the union meeting, members had to work through a long list of decisions. But Vincent remarked that simply bringing everybody together was a victory in itself. 鈥淛ust sitting in a room with 60 drug users, that shit felt powerful,鈥� she says.

They agreed that going forward, they鈥檇 need to address three basic questions: What is the Urban Survivors Union鈥檚 mission? Who gets to be a member? And how should the national organization make decisions? Agreeing on answers is the USU鈥檚 next step. Today those conversations continue online.

In the meantime, the attendees in St. Louis have determined that the USU should maintain space for people who have entered recovery and no longer engage in regular drug use. In response to questions around how drug-users鈥� allies might interact with the organization, one idea was to create an advisory board composed of non-drug users, similar to how public-health authorities and research groups sometimes create advisory boards composed of drug users (flipping the common power structure on its head).

There were also vocal demands for the guaranteed representation of marginalized communities, including sex workers, people who identify as transgender, visible minorities, and homeless people, among others.

鈥淲别鈥檙e going to take two years to really make sure the structure works,鈥� Vincent had mentioned during an online meeting ahead of the St. Louis conference. 鈥淭his allows us some room. Then we鈥檙e going to have quarterly meetings where major decisions around change can happen.鈥�

Looking ahead, Tilley says, it is imperative for drug users to have a say on health care programs designed for those who use drugs. 鈥淭reatment on demand,鈥� she says. 鈥淲别 know that is the answer to ending overdoses. Access to Suboxone and methadone鈥擬AT [medically-assisted treatment].鈥�

Tilley says the USU also intends to provide input on criminal-justice initiatives that have arisen out of the opioid epidemic. A USU campaign called Reframe the Blame, which challenges favored by the Trump administration, is already underway.

She recalls that during the HIV/AIDS epidemic of the 1980s and 鈥�90s, public-health authorities were initially reluctant to involve LGBTQ community leaders in decision-making roles. When they finally did, Tilley says, the expertise of people affected quickly proved invaluable to turning the tide on the crisis.

鈥淒rug-user unions are going to play a major role in ending this overdose epidemic,鈥� Tilley says. 鈥淲别 have the knowledge and the tools to do that, we just don鈥檛 have the money and the resources. But with sustainable unions across the country, we cannot be ignored any longer.鈥�

In 2005, he lost his home to Hurricane Rita. He applied for federal assistance to rebuild his home but was rejected. Instead, he was compensated with a temporary trailer, which he then lost to Hurricane Ike in 2008. He has been moving between Texas and Lafayette, Louisiana, for work since then. 

are becoming more frequent and across the U.S. , and they鈥檙e displacing more and more people鈥攅specially BIPOC folks, who have been disproportionately affected by climate change across the globe. 

鈥淲别 have to acknowledge that disaster outcomes exacerbate sociopolitical inequalities,鈥� says Sara McTarnaghan, senior research associate at Metropolitan Housing and Communities Policy Center at the Urban Institute. , and the institutions set up to provide relief often aren鈥檛 accessible or relevant to their particular needs. 

In the aftermath of the 2020 Hurricanes Laura and Delta, for example, Allaire says the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) came and did an assessment but offered no direct relief. 鈥泪迟 was all community organizations,鈥� Allaire says.

In 2021, were internally displaced worldwide by the climate crisis, and there will be climate migrants by 2050. Yet institutionalized protections for climate-displaced people are not guaranteed. 

In the U.S., the national apparatuses for disaster and displacement management鈥攖he and the Department of Housing and Urban Development鈥攁re marred by and perpetually of determining the jurisdictions of state versus federal government. Globally, climate migrants can鈥檛 be and have no legal protections . 

Operating outside the limitations of these institutions, community organizers are tackling climate displacement from all angles鈥攁dvocating for climate-displaced people, providing them with resources, and making their communities more climate-resilient.

The Limits of Institutional Support

Right before Hurricane Ida struck his community in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana, in 2021, Justin Fitch of the United Houma Nation鈥攖he largest state-recognized tribe in Louisiana鈥攎ade the decision to stay in his home with his wife, and used the family鈥檚 funds to have their children stay in Texas, away from the storm. 

Fitch is an activist who works for the nonprofit Healthy Gulf and says that those hit hardest by climate disasters and who most need to leave are usually BIPOC like him. 鈥淧eople do not have an extra $4,000, $5,000 to leave,鈥� Fitch says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 the reason I didn鈥檛 leave.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Fitch says residents turned to groups like Gulf South Rising and The Gulf Coast Center for Law & Policy (now Taproot Earth) for help. Mutual aid can help mitigate some of the financial stress that affects homeowners dealing with buyouts, or help unhoused people who have lost access to shelters and resource centers impacted by climate events. Hotel assistance, for example, can provide a person with a few days of shelter, but it requires an application and is often . That makes this option out of reach for many.

To combat this exclusion, Roishetta Ozane has been helping temporarily shelter people in disaster-prone areas. Her organization, The Vessel Project of Louisiana, put an estimated 300 people in hotels across Louisiana, Texas, and Mississippi during the winter storm in 2021. 

鈥淚 started Vessel because I realized a lot of organizations had a lot of red tape,鈥� Ozane says. 

Instead, her organization meets folks where they鈥檙e at: no demands for documents or proof. It works to provide emergency shelter, food, oxygen tanks, and document recovery. It even helps folks apply for more traditional forms of aid. 

In her work, Ozane has assisted undocumented people, unhoused people, and other marginalized folks who are sidelined by restrictive assistance. Her no-questions-asked policy is key to establishing trust while providing support. 

The approach is based on her own experience: Faced with a series of climate events and the pandemic, Ozane struggled to support herself and her children after their home became unlivable in the aftermath of Hurricane Laura in 2020. She tried to obtain a mobile trailer from FEMA but didn鈥檛 receive it until a year later. So she knows how hard it can be and how individualized the struggles are. 

鈥淚 can鈥檛 tell you what鈥檚 an emergency to you,鈥� Ozane says. 

Around in Louisiana live in FEMA鈥檚 interim mobile shelters, many of whom have received temporary housing assistance since 2021. Some people are there because they have nowhere to go, others because they were renters before the storms, and still others are facing an unstable housing market that is environment. 

Others are awaiting assistance to rebuild or relocate. Those who choose to relocate may find themselves in an endless web of , lawyers, government officials, and protocols. FEMA runs buyout programs that allow residents in disaster-prone areas (particularly flooding) to sell their homes to the government and relocate to areas with lower risk. 

Buyouts can be risky, they require extensive paperwork, the requirements are inaccessible for many, and there鈥檚 no guarantee of success. The from the aftermath of the disaster to the completion of the buyout can be as long as five years. And oftentimes, people are pursuing buyouts for uninhabitable homes, which means this effort is on top of finding a place to live. 

Other residents are shut out of traditional systems altogether, including homeowners without insurance, homeowners with , renters, and undocumented folks. These populations don鈥檛 typically have access to a dignified move that utilizes traditional modes of assistance, though their immediate needs are still ever-present.

Thirteen months after Ida made landfall, Fitch says, 鈥淚 still have friends and family that are homeless, living in FEMA trailers.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Lacking a Legal Framework

While folks in climate-unstable areas are making decisions in reaction to climate change, 鈥渃limate change might not be how people conceive of their experience,鈥� says Ama Francis, climate displacement project strategist for the International Refugee Assistance Project, 鈥渆ven as they are experiencing climate change.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In many parts of the world, people still don鈥檛 as catalysts for their migration. Unfortunately, neither does the law. 

鈥淥ne of the constraints that I work with is that people need to fit into frameworks to access a legal benefit,鈥� Francis says. 鈥淲别 have asylum law, for example, and for that framework, you have to experience harm or persecution from a human.鈥�

Currently, there is that denotes climate change as . Not only does this make a pathway to asylum for climate migrants cumbersome, but it also creates difficulties for climate migrants trying to receive resettlement assistance. 

Part of systemic advocacy like Francis鈥� is to bring awareness to this fact. So, while the International Refugee Assistance Project champions the , new Department of Justice opinions, and other legal recompenses to help climate migrants, the organization is also working to document the experiences of those displaced by climate change and surrounding it. These stories can then inform policy recommendations. 

For this reason, equitable access to climate education is imperative to address climate displacement. It enables people to correlate their experiences in the larger context of the global issue. In the context of the U.S. South (and the Global South at large), is rampant, even as these communities are impacted by its effects. 

Resource extraction and manufacturing put food on the table. Talk of climate change signals a possible disruption to even basic needs being met, especially to those who don鈥檛 speak the 鈥渉ighfalutin language鈥� in which these issues are explained in policies. 

鈥淭hat鈥檚 the case in impoverished communities that have been exploited,鈥� Rev. Michael Malcom of explains. 鈥淭hey just want to get out of [poverty].鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Speaking to folks鈥� priorities is the best way to get people to engage with climate change as a concept. Local southern organizations, like the Partnership for Southern Equity, are running programs to combat the effects of the climate crisis on public health, focusing on communities that have been excluded from equitable access to health care. The People鈥檚 Justice Council promotes solar buybacks and weatherization programs, and the Athens Land Trust鈥檚 invasive-plant removal program has encouraged buy-in from communities. The programs are economically advantageous while making people environmentally conscious. 

Organizers are already seeing the benefits of climate education in their efforts to mobilize communities: The People鈥檚 Justice Council received an estimated 90,000 signatures on its 鈥淣o Dirty Deals鈥� collaborative petition to reject the contradictory climate actions in the that it says would disproportionately impact already marginalized communities.

Standing With Community

After Hurricane Ike destroyed John Allaire鈥檚 FEMA trailer in 2008, he was lucky enough to have the means to relocate temporarily. Since 2020, John has returned and is working toward building a home on his property in Cameron. Allaire talks of the good life he and his family have there, close to nature and his community of friends鈥�. 

Discussions on climate displacement often focus on the simple facts of who leaves or stays, and they exclude the real connections people have to their homes鈥攖heir ties to the land, their livelihoods, and their communities. The overarching goal of efforts to address climate displacement, therefore, should be to provide a range of possible solutions: solutions to curb climate change, solutions to help facilitate safe and dignified migration, and solutions to support those who stay in climate-unstable areas.

鈥淪ome people do need to move, and we want to facilitate and ensure that people do so with dignity,鈥� Francis says. 鈥淔or some people, the right to stay is important, and we need to support that as well.鈥�

Those chances diminished in early June, when a allowing border authorities to stop processing cases of asylum seekers once a certain threshold is met. For many migrants like Mari帽o, the Biden administration鈥檚 latest asylum restrictions are as unfamiliar as the Mexican border cities where they are forced to engage in an unpredictable waiting game.  

In Nogales, Sonora, a Mexican town that borders Arizona, migrants find support from nonprofits and various other advocates. While they wait for appointments in the U.S., migrants can access temporary shelter, meals, legal workshops, and opportunities to earn some money for living expenses.

鈥淭his is a big help,鈥� says Mari帽o, holding up the tote bag she decorated. 鈥淲ith my last earnings I was able to buy groceries for the week.鈥�

The assistance has been invaluable for Mari帽o and her children, Aaron and his 8-year-old sister, Lluviana. They often stop in for a family meal at the dining hall of the , a Jesuit immigrant rights advocacy group located just a few yards from a U.S. port of entry. In early 2020, the organization opened its migrant outreach center, which also includes classrooms and shelter space. 

This story is part of . Learn more about Progress 2025 and find more coverage here.

At least twice a week, Mari帽o attends workshops run by Kino volunteers in a small building across the street, where the group鈥檚 volunteers for years served meals to migrants expelled from the U.S. for crossing the border unlawfully. 

Mari帽o, 24, arrived in Nogales on June 6. Weeks later, she was still perturbed by what she says was a harrowing two-month journey north from Ecuador during which she and her children survived two kidnappings.

Lucrecia Almada Leyva, a Kino volunteer, says stories like Mari帽o鈥檚 are not unusual among the migrants at workshops where adults can sew, embroider, or bake goods to sell while their children play. 鈥淧eople share their experiences with one another,鈥� she says. 鈥泪迟 helps them to show solidarity and know that they鈥檙e not alone.鈥�

The gatherings serve not only to help migrants forge connections with each other, but also aid them financially, explains Angela Meixell, another volunteer. Supplies are donated and migrants keep the proceeds from finished products.

The workshops keep migrants busy, which Almada Leyva says can help them endure long waits for an appointment to apply for asylum. 鈥淪he鈥檚 been here nine months,鈥� says the volunteer, pointing to a woman focused on her sewing. 鈥淎nother lady who comes in has waited seven months.鈥�

All around are migrants sewing at tables, talking among themselves, or playing with their children. Some landed in Nogales after being displaced by drug-trafficking violence in certain Mexican states. Many are too afraid to share their reasons for migrating.

Workshop volunteers say they find it rewarding to lend a helping hand to asylum seekers who are far from their homeland and in need. 鈥淚 feel a great empathy for them because they leave their families behind,鈥� Almada Leyva says of the migrants she has met. 鈥淭hey leave many things behind and it is out of necessity.鈥�

When they arrive in Nogales, most migrants are unaware that in June the U.S. halted asylum processing at the border when arrests for illegal entries reach an average of 2,500 a day in a seven-day period. The rule is the latest in a series of restrictive policies that the Biden and Trump administrations have implemented in recent years to curb an unprecedented number of asylum seekers. In an election year, the border influx has become a political liability for Democrats. Meanwhile, Republicans have taken even harsher aim at immigrants, as outlined in the now-infamous plan by the Heritage Foundation.

Chelsea Sachau, an attorney with the in Arizona, explains that the new rule halts asylum until average daily arrests for illegal entries drop below 1,500 for seven consecutive days and stays at such levels for two weeks.

But, she says, asylum seekers generally don鈥檛 know that entering the U.S. between ports of entry could have long-lasting legal consequences鈥攕uch as being barred from the U.S. for a number of years鈥攑otentially hurting their immigration cases. When the rule is in effect, more people are 鈥渉ighly likely going to be disqualified outright for asylum just because of how they access territory and sought help,鈥� Sachau says. 

Sachau is managing attorney for the program鈥檚 , which provides pro bono legal services to migrants in Nogales. She and her colleagues hold workshops at the Kino outreach center two or three times a week to inform migrants of the deterrence policy before they cross the border, but many migrants learn of it only after they鈥檝e already been deported. They also hear from attorneys that the government wants migrants to apply for asylum through a special phone app, after which they must wait to be assigned an appointment to cross the border through an official entry point. 

鈥淢ost people are shocked by what the rules are or what the process is until it鈥檚 too late, when they鈥檙e already kind of ensnared in these really harmful processes that are very hard to navigate,鈥� Sachau says.

Attorney Francisco Loureiro, director of the San Juan Bosco migrant shelter in Nogales, says there鈥檚 been a noticeable increase in migrants removed from the U.S. since the asylum rules were tightened. Besides a bed to rest, migrants also get three meals a day at the shelter and legal counseling about Mexican laws. While many of those staying there now are Mexican citizens, migrants from various other countries continue to arrive, he says.

鈥淥n a daily basis we shelter men, women, and children accompanied by their parents, regardless of their nationality and legal status in Mexico,鈥� Loureiro says.

Volunteers also are on hand at the migrant shelter to provide medical assistance and even psychological care to those who need it. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 very difficult to see a huge number of children who have no place to stay, no place to eat, no food,鈥� Loureiro says. 鈥淭hey are sick children, dehydrated children, children with gastrointestinal problems. They need our continuing support.鈥�

The support Mari帽o has received in Nogales has helped her adapt to life in a new city. She left Venezuela in 2018 for Ecuador and then left Ecuador for the U.S. border in late March of 2024 to escape what she described as economic turmoil and rising crime. She currently rents a room in a house with five migrant families.

She has become familiar with the intricacies of asylum鈥攊ncluding the fact that applicants must prove they have a fear of persecution in their homeland鈥攂y attending legal workshops. She already knew about the phone app, which schedules appointments randomly, because her partner used it in the fall and he is now in Chicago. Mari帽o expected they鈥檇 be together by now, but her journey was fraught with setbacks, including two traumatic kidnapping experiences. 

When she first entered southern Mexico from neighboring Guatemala, her family and other arriving migrants from Central and South America were taken to a chicken coop and held there until they paid a nominal fee for their freedom.

After their release, Mari帽o and her children walked, accepted rides from good Samaritans, and rode buses to Mexico City, where she applied for an asylum appointment on her phone app daily. She secured an appointment after several days while in the border city of Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, she says. However, when she arrived there with her children and was about to take a cab, several men pushed them into a car and drove them to an abandoned house crowded with other kidnapped migrants.

It was a distressing time, recalls the young mother, who feared for the safety of her family since she had no money to pay ransom. She pleaded with her captors for their release and on the fifth day, Marino and her children were freed alongside another family without explanation. They headed to Nogales but had already lost the initial asylum appointment while in captivity.

鈥淚 believe this is a process of change that I have to live with,鈥� Marino says. 鈥泪迟 is a process that God chose for me and I just have to learn from it.鈥�

So the young mother waits patiently. She checks her phone app daily in hopes of snagging one more asylum appointment. And when another day goes by without one, she finds comfort in the support around her. 

The tiny Native American settlement is named after the sacred, 10,000-foot-high sandstone peak that dominates the craggy skyline. It has been inhabited for centuries. It is in one of the most remote parts of the Beehive State, and in turn, the entire continental United States.

鈥淓verything on Navajo Mountain is scattered and isolated,鈥� says Dalene Redhorse, who was born in the town of Mexican Waters, around 60 miles to the east. 鈥淭here are many off-roads with just one house. It鈥檚 not like a city here. Everything takes time.鈥�

Redhorse is one of two 鈥渁ddressing specialists鈥� at the nonprofit who, since 2019, have been going door-to-door visiting every home in the western half of Utah鈥檚 San Juan County, which includes Navajo Mountain. Her goal: to connect off-the-grid residents with essential services that they have often been denied.

Across Navajo Nation鈥攖he largest and Native American reservation in the country, spanning and three states鈥攆ormal street addresses are a rarity. Out of the more than 60,000 structures, fewer than 500 are on roads with names and house numbers, according to the .

The culture of the Navajo, who are also known as Din茅, , but modern American governments have imposed a systematized, Western concept of territory onto these communities. This has effectively erased their holistic relationship with ancestral lands and created staggering inequality. More than of the Din茅 live in poverty, are unemployed, 60% lack broadband, and 40% don鈥檛 have running water at home. Those structural issues played a role when Navajo Nation at one point reached (though it also achieved a far higher vaccination rate than the national average).

The Din茅 say they have suffered because fundamental services and amenities such as emergency healthcare, mail delivery, broadband internet, government-issued IDs, and the right to vote often require having a formally recognized address. 

鈥淚 had to describe landmarks to direct the ambulance,鈥� says Gordon Folgheraiter, 66, recalling an incident when his brother once cut his head after falling off a truck in Navajo Mountain. 鈥淚 said: 鈥楪o to the end of the highway, continue for two miles, pass a house on the left with a red roof, and then turn right,鈥欌�� adds Folgheraiter, who was then told by the dispatcher to stand outside wearing bright clothing to flag down the vehicle.

But steps have tentatively been made in the right direction. Last year Folgheraiter had a bright blue plaque mounted on his front door after Redhorse visited. All of the 800 or so residents of Navajo Mountain now have one.

Each sign is embossed with a plus code (e.g., ) in bold white lettering. This acts as a physical confirmation of the home鈥檚 location for deliverers, emergency services, and visitors. These fixed, simplified, 10-digit versions of traditional geocoordinates pinpoint a location to within three square meters. 

The open-source Plus Code tool, developed by , allows codes to be generated anywhere on the globe and instantly located on Google Maps. 鈥泪迟 helps everyone get on the same page,鈥� says Patricia Blackhorn, chapter president of . 鈥淧eople can just look it up.鈥�

The technology is simple, but the ability to easily communicate a location without a street address could have a transformative impact on the world鈥檚 most marginalized populations. Beyond the sparsely populated expanses of remote Utah, creating addresses for informal spaces could bring change to densely packed urban areas that also lack addresses, such as in Lagos, Delhi, and Rio de Janeiro. One billion people lived in informal settlements in 2018, , and by 2030 that number will triple.

The Rural Utah Project is focusing on Navajo Nation, where it worked to obtain buy-in from local officials. The project is also deploying plus codes in other San Juan County communities such as Bluff, Mexican Hat, and the White Mesa Ute Mountain Ute Reservation. Separately, plus code projects are at various stages of deployment by other organizations in dozens of other countries, including India, Egypt, and Brazil.

For Folgheraiter, it means he no longer has to drive 50 miles to the post office to pick up packages from certain delivery companies. In San Juan County, there are countless uses鈥攖o buy vehicles, to locate ceremonies in remote areas, and, as one young student needed: to prove her residency for in-state tuition rates. The uses plus codes for patient home visits, and during the pandemic they proved invaluable for delivering supplies to those in need.

In addition to the technology, another crucial ingredient has been painstaking human labor: Initially, Redhorse and her colleague spent months scouring satellite imagery on Google Maps, zooming in over the arid landscape to locate homes. They identified 5,600 potential structures across San Juan County, but when they went to confirm each one in person, which involved long days of driving (the county has fewer than two people per square mile on average), many turned out to be rocks or abandoned houses鈥攐nly half were occupied homes.

During her visits, Redhorse explains to residents how to use plus codes with emergency services, and also updates household voter registration and provides nonpartisan information about elections. The Rural Utah Project identified voting as a key target because flawed registration of rural, remote households has had a significant impact on democratic rights of the Din茅: Research by the nonprofit found 87.7% of Din茅 residents were registered by San Juan County at the wrong location and a quarter in the wrong . 

鈥淭hat was a massive problem for democracy,鈥� says TJ Ellerbeck, the organization鈥檚 executive director. 鈥淭here had never been a Navajo majority on the County Commission even though there is a majority Navajo population in the county.鈥�

Since plus codes were deployed in San Juan County, which now accepts them as a valid address for voter registration, democratic participation has reached historic highs. Analysis by the Rural Utah Project found turnout in majority Native precincts has rocketed from 52% in 2014 to 87.6% in 2020. Along the way, Willie Grayeyes and Kenneth Maryboy to form the first-ever Native American majority on the County Commission. Plus codes are considered a major factor in that rise, alongside the switch from mail-only voting and the , as well as a after a court ruled they were . 

While turnout dropped in 2022, a midterm election, it was still the highest-ever overall number of midterm Native votes cast in the county, only slightly behind the historic high of 2020鈥檚 presidential election.

Before plus codes, Grayeyes, who is a longtime resident of Navajo Mountain in Utah but was relying on an Arizona mailing address, was from the ballot after a complaint was filed against his residency eligibility. 鈥淚 threw my hat into the ring and then sparks started flying,鈥� says the 77-year-old, who helped establish the . 鈥淎ll this time, Native Americans have been disenfranchised and our lands have been taken,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut we won. We were rewarded for persisting.鈥�

Despite the benefits plus codes have brought, however, they have limits. While UPS and FedEx recognize them, the United States Postal Service (USPS) and Amazon don鈥檛. For Din茅 representatives, there鈥檚 exasperation at a system that continues to disenfranchise them. 鈥淭he norm does not factor in places such as Navajo Nation,鈥� says Leonard Gorman, executive director at . 鈥泪迟 impedes our people鈥檚 human rights.鈥�

A spokesperson for the USPS said plus codes are 鈥渘ot consistent with the sorting and delivery operations used by the Postal Service鈥� since the company is limited to 鈥渨hat is considered a traditional address format.鈥� Amazon said in an emailed statement that it uses the USPS 鈥渁s our source of truth for U.S. address information.鈥�

In addition, the broader issue of mapping Indigenous lands has led to skepticism due to the historic and ongoing . 鈥淪ome residents have been worried about being numbered, placed, exposed,鈥� says Redhorse. 鈥淓ven my grandfather used to say: 鈥楧on鈥檛 let the white man map your homes.鈥欌��

But plus codes are only given out to those who want one, adds Redhorse, and increasingly Din茅 are proactively reaching out to request them. 

Google developed the open-source software so anyone can generate a plus code for any location in the world. It鈥檚 free and instantaneous and no data is collected. The Rural Utah Project is using the tool (along with its ground-truthing teams) to confirm the location of homes and install the signs. 

Google says the company鈥檚 only involvement is to provide the signs for free. 鈥淲别 wouldn鈥檛 have designed Plus Codes if it wasn鈥檛 open source,鈥� says Doug Rinckes, its creator. 鈥淎n address is official, but nobody owns it. For me, an address is something that you are assigned, but not something you have to pay for.鈥�

The is taking a different, longer-term approach: naming the streets. A team of three is working with the reservation鈥檚 chapters to create road names, which must be translated from Navajo into English鈥擭aatsis鈥櫭∶ means Navajo Mountain, for example鈥攂efore they can produce street signs. About 20 of the 110 chapters of the territory have put up signs since 2010. 

鈥淧lus codes are only a supplement to what we鈥檙e doing,鈥� says M.C. Baldwin, who oversees the authority鈥檚 rural addressing activities. 鈥淭he part that鈥檚 missing is the physical address for the people that live out there. If we had a physical address for every house on Navajo Nation, it would be postal-compliant.鈥�

So while Baldwin鈥檚 efforts and plus codes are making a huge difference for some residents and their representation, these solutions only touch on a fraction of the stark challenges across Navajo Nation: limited cell signals and grid electricity, , and the threats of infrastructure development. But a new generation of Din茅 sees the technological advance as an opportunity to empower themselves and transform their homeland for the better. 

Shandiin Herrera, 26, lives in Monument Valley, a red-sand desert region along the Colorado Plateau marked by enormous sandstone buttes. After a lifetime without internet at home, she used her plus code last year to sign up for the satellite-powered internet provider, .

鈥淚 tried every other internet service, but none of it worked because I needed to enter an address,鈥� says Herrera. 鈥淏ut I just tried my plus code on Starlink and it zoomed straight into my address. I was so excited. I can even watch Netflix now.鈥�

A public policy graduate of Duke University and a fellow with , Herrera has also used the tool for the betterment of her community. When the pandemic hit, Herrera became the leader of the Utah Navajo Nation COVID-19 response. Her team delivered food, medicine, and PPE to more than 1,500 households.

鈥淭he biggest challenge was finding people鈥檚 homes,鈥� she says. 鈥淲别鈥檇 hear: 鈥楾ake the third dirt road, go past the brown house, and look for a place with a red car outside.鈥� For us, plus codes were easy. It was a luxury. But not everyone has one yet.鈥�

For now, though, Herrera feels that after years witnessing the maddening difficulty in tracking down homes on the reservation, and often having lost ambulances turn up at her house asking for directions, the way forward might finally have arrived. 

鈥淧eople always told me you need to get off the Rez to be successful,鈥� says Herrera, leaning against her wood-paneled home; a tiny speck on the sandy horizon. 鈥淏ut I鈥檝e always been proud of being Din茅. I believe we can rewrite our own future.鈥�

猫咪社区! Senior Editor Chris Winters spoke with Miller from his home in Arizona. This interview has been condensed and edited for publication.

Chris Winters: You鈥檝e written about borders before, and you鈥檝e got a lot of personal experience living on both sides of our southern border. But why did you choose this time around to write about not just 鈥渢he border,鈥� but about borders in general?

Todd Miller: The previous work that I had coming up to this book was looking at borders from different angles. My first book was called Border Patrol Nation, so I was looking at the post-9/11 expansion of the border apparatus. The second one was Storming the Wall, which looks at climate change and displacement and how borders are playing a part in that. And then I looked at also the internationalization of the U.S. border in the third book, called Empire of Borders. 鈥�

There鈥檚 a lot of in-depth reporting, and looking at all these different aspects, all these different angles, and really getting to know intimately what is exactly going on: unpacking this apparatus, looking at all the different components of it, looking at the strategies鈥攆or example, the strategy on the southern border. 鈥淧revention Through Deterrence鈥� is a strategy to inflict suffering on people. That鈥檚 what it is, it鈥檚 purposely blockading certain areas, so that people circumvent them and go through the Arizona desert where I live. And the idea is that the suffering or potential of death of going through those areas will deter people, that the word will get back. And that鈥檚 been the strategy for 25 years.

My argument is that border security is not about security at all.

And then watching 鈥� the $1.5 billion budget for border and immigration enforcement [in 1994] going to $25 billion today. 鈥� So I鈥檝e lived on both sides of the border, and just watching this thing just build up, build up, build up, build up with all kinds of technologies鈥攄rones, surveillance towers, motion sensors鈥攊t鈥檚 just a militarization of the border, really. And this is what just really led to this book: What is this thing that we鈥檙e told is sacrosanct? That we鈥檙e told that you can鈥檛 question?

Winters: In the book, you somewhat rhetorically ask the question, 鈥淲hat if we just showed up at the border and started taking it down?鈥� We like to talk about the clich茅 of a world without borders, but what could it mean in reality?

Miller: You can look at the U.S.-Mexico border, and then you can look at the border systems around the world, and there鈥檚 70 border walls in various countries. There are border patrols in a lot of different places. My argument is that border security is not about security at all. Or you have to ask the question, what does it secure? Whose security is it for? And then when you come down [to] that question, then it鈥檚 like, oh, the border is almost formed like a scaffolding to keep a status quo, to keep a business-as-usual world where, it may be overly simplified, but I鈥檒l say it: like the rich get richer, the poor get poorer.

When we look at the 21st century, you have problems of inequality that are just yawning gaps between, what, that have more wealth than 4.6 billion people, right? The fact that people are going to get be on the move more than ever before due to climate change, those are the some of the things we have to look at. So the global border system is designed to keep this kind of world in place. And [it鈥檚] a world also where, for example, U.S. companies can go to Mexico and get cheap labor, so there鈥檚 a whole labor component to it. And so my argument is this: This is a completely unsustainable world. But it鈥檚 getting more and more pressured by all these different changes and, for a world of justice, a world of equality, a world where we would respect all those values, the borders inhibit those forms of justice from happening. 鈥�

It鈥檚 time to look holistically at the border, to have an actual conversation about one of the things that鈥檚 problematic鈥� : You can鈥檛 question this thing. But it鈥檚 time to put it into a question: Is this the best way to go about things as we move into the 21st century, with its challenges, like climate change, where there will be tons of people on the move? Or is there a better way that we can organize the world? 鈥�

Winters: One of the issues that you also talk about in the book is the idea that there鈥檚 an underlying deterrence strategy that feeds into this notion of the border industrial complex. But the actual strategy underneath that, and the physical manifestation of that, which is the wall, tends to monopolize conversations about the border. It鈥檚 a question of either building the wall here or over there. How can we keep our focus on the broader issue?

Miller: When you think of the Biden presidency, that was a worry, obviously. With shifting from Trump to Biden, I was worried that the [attention] would go away from the border. And strangely, there has been a little bit of a focus on the border of late, especially with unaccompanied minors. And so there has been more reporting than actually I thought there would be. 鈥�

Biden comes out with some really nice-sounding executive orders, very much intent upon reversing some of the most egregious Trump policies, which everyone is probably happy with. And yet, at the same time, there鈥檚 almost no admission that there was anything going on before Trump, right? There鈥檚 no acknowledgment of this bigger issue, that bigger arc, what the border apparatus is, how many years that it鈥檚 been built up how it鈥檚 been built up in bipartisan fashion.

I like to look from the beginning of the Prevention Through Deterrence strategy on the U.S.-Mexico border in 1994, which is, of course, during the Clinton administration, and Operations Hold the Line, Gatekeeper, Safeguard, and others. And just looking at the budget then [in 鈥�94], which was $1.5 billion for border and immigration, 4,000 Border Patrol agents. And then you look at the end of the Clinton administration: $4.2 billion, about 8,000 Border Patrol agents. And then you look at the beginning [and] the end of the George W. Bush administration with 9/11 happening, [which led to the creation of] the Department of Homeland Security, and the Customs and Border Protection and ICE. And it goes from $5 billion to $15 billion. 鈥� All of a sudden, you just have the money faucet just opening up, a flood of money going into this thing. 鈥�

Winters: You mention the concept of 鈥渨all sickness鈥� in the book. What is that, exactly?

Miller: Well, wall sickness came from the Berlin Wall, and from I believe psychiatry and psychology, from looking at how people experience psychologically living so close to the wall. The conclusions that were drawn were that there was a sort of narrowness, that people [experienced] increased anxiety, that people would have a sort of 鈥渄is-ease鈥濃�攁nd they want to put the hyphen there鈥攂y being so close to a wall. 鈥�

They鈥檙e impediments that are put down, physical barriers, but they also have these profound psychological impacts on people in many different ways. And in the end, the conclusion is breaking down the walls is therapeutic. The prescription is to break down the wall to alleviate the wall sickness.

Winters: Do you see that wall sickness is a thing that鈥檚 not confined to the geographic area surrounding the wall?

Miller: Oh, yeah. You can definitely see that it鈥檚 spread throughout the United States, in certain degrees. I mean, [it鈥檚 been] particularly evident in the last four or five years, the kind of fervor. It鈥檚 almost a sickness and a religion at the same time. And I base this off Trump and Trump鈥檚 constituency, and the constantly mentioning of the wall and the fervor behind the wall.

I remember I was reporting on the Trump campaign in 2015, or 鈥�16, one of those years, and Mike Pence came to Tucson to do a talk and, and I went there and it was a full house. And I was in the back and no standing ovations the whole time. And then Pence mentioned, they鈥檙e going to build this great big wall on the border, and then just people just rose like, into this huge standing ovation. It was quite the scene, and to me, when I think of wall sickness and how it spreads, we鈥檙e well past the walls. When you鈥檙e near it, it鈥檚 almost like you鈥檙e against it, because it鈥檚 so confining.

Winters: Do you find, where you live, that geographic separation is part of it, in the sense that the communities that are down there on the border, are less enthusiastic about it than the people who are up in Phoenix or are further north?

Miller: Yeah, that鈥檚 truly the case. There鈥檚 a poll, a that came out a couple of years ago that the in-from-border counties that showed that people were against the wall and border counties, it was a pretty high percentage, too, I believe it was over 70% [opposed the wall]. I didn鈥檛 see a counter-poll in the interior. So yeah, there鈥檚 this tendency towards, the farther away you [are] from the border, if you鈥檙e of a certain mindset, the more you might say we want a wall.

With a more humane world, do you cease to need borders at all?

And in the borderlands here in Arizona, where you have some ranchers who were in media a lot 10-15 years ago for being fervently anti-immigrant, now they鈥檙e anti-Border Patrol. It鈥檚 shifted, mainly because the [migration] routes shift a lot and now the Border Patrol鈥檚 going into their land and cutting their fences. And the ranchers don鈥檛 like going through the Border Patrol checkpoints. Nobody likes it. It doesn鈥檛 matter who you are, what your political party, no one likes the checkpoints.

Winters: You chose to include your kids in the book, and anecdotes with them, whether it鈥檚 your 5-year-old son urinating on a piece of DHS concrete barrier on the beach in San Diego, or watching a Border Patrol vehicle squash an iguana in Puerto Rico. What might we as readers experience through that inclusion, of having them along for the ride?

Miller: There鈥檚 a number of reasons. One, just seeing the world through their eyes offers this really incredible perspective to me. But I think one of the main reasons is 鈥� I鈥檓 part of a world [that is] handing off the world to another generation. When I was writing about William and Sofia, I was also thinking about the generations beyond them, the generations and generations that will be inheriting this planet, and what is being left to them. And I mean that in the sense of the bad, of course, but also of the good. What are possibilities for them to do something different? 鈥� Just being able to open up the imagination to something new, especially, it almost grounds it for me when you start thinking of these future generations.

[When] I鈥檓 with William, he has had these incredible insights and moments around the border. Because I bring him down to the border all the time. And, and I quote him in the book, and he says, 鈥淲hy can鈥檛 we turn the border wall into bikes?鈥� And then he says, 鈥淲hy can鈥檛 we turn the border wall into houses for people?鈥� And then other [times he鈥檒l say] 鈥淲hy can鈥檛 we turn the border wall into rails for trains?鈥� And to me, those are some of the most profound insights. 鈥�

You know that quote about tearing down the wall in the book, like why can鈥檛 we just go tear down the wall? What鈥檚 interesting is when, in the last part of the book I do put the border in conversation with some of our some of our most well-known prison abolitionists, like Ruthie Wilson Gilmore. When she鈥檚 talking about prison abolition, she talks about abolition as 鈥減resence.鈥� So maybe it鈥檚 1% about destroying the prisons, this idea of destruction, but it鈥檚 99% about creating a new world 鈥� where prisons aren鈥檛 an answer, or a solution to a problem.

So, I really tried to put the border in conversation with that. How does the border apparatus become a solution to the problem? And are the right questions even being asked? And then when you start to ask the right questions, then the solution, from an abolitionist approach, is a more humane world. And then with a more humane world, do you cease to need borders at all?

I heard these myths at home, at family gatherings, and even in the mostly immigrant church I attended. The story of the immigrant who left everything to contribute to the U.S. was in our textbooks, songs, news reports, and even some of my favorite media. I saw this message in memoirs, poetry, and later, the nonprofit sector, organizing spaces, and even artwork about immigration.

I, in fact, created art about these immigrant talking points. For many years, I believed in this narrative. Surrounded by so many fellow first-generation immigrants, I thought it was a good thing to emphasize my contributions to the U.S. The stories of our parents鈥� and elders鈥� success, in spite of the odds stacked against them, made them all sound almost superhuman. I was proud that I鈥檇 someday have a chance to prove myself worthy of the American Dream鈥攚ithout questioning why I wasn鈥檛 able to have that dream in the country of my birth.

And then the narrative slowly changed.

It was common in my community to hear racial slurs about people not like us. Members of my community, including older relatives, constantly talked about how much stress they felt because of systemic or individual racism. However, that didn鈥檛 stop some of those same adults from making racist comments about people of other ethnicities. Though I was lucky to have caring teachers and classmates who talked about how these comments hurt them, I still heard racial slurs in Spanish in multiple settings.

WATCH: Toward a Multiracial Immigrants鈥� Rights Movement

When I was a kid, I didn鈥檛 recognize that these remarks and the reaction they elicited in my community weren鈥檛 just racist and inappropriate; they were hypocritical. I was undocumented until I received my green card at age 15. At around age 9, my mom and I began meeting more frequently with our lawyer, and I started noticing that people in my immigration hearings and meetings weren鈥檛 just Spanish speakers, light Brown, or Christian. And yet, immigration has been codified as a mestize Latinx issue at the expense of people of various creeds and countries trying to get our attention.

Thanks to my interactions with the U.S. immigration system, I was exposed to different stories, and thankfully, my experiences in college and beyond also helped me grow and understand that there鈥檚 no way the immigrants鈥� rights movement can continue to exist while mostly catering to Spanish speakers and non-Black/non-Indigenous Latinx folks.

These realizations came to me just as I began meeting friends from different countries. I attended college at the University of California, Irvine, where multiple friends and I shared meals, exchanged stories, and sometimes discussed our immigration status or that of undocumented loved ones. Nightly news stories about immigration contradicted what I learned about U.S. policies, such as , Japanese internment camps, the Trail of Tears, and the Three-Fifths Compromise. Anything that melted in our proverbial pot did so through violence. Ours isn鈥檛 a multicultural or multiracial country forged in peace.

According to the Pew Research Center, the biggest undocumented community in the U.S. Countries such as El Salvador, Honduras, Venezuela, , and multiple Soviet bloc countries now have large undocumented communities. The U.S.鈥揗exico border continues to receive a major influx of migrants from around the world, but today鈥檚 focus on the means routes have only gotten more dangerous.

While many immigrants continue to arrive from Latin America, Latinx isn鈥檛 a race. People from any ethnicity can be Latinx, and people whose ancestors migrated to the region may find it necessary to make their way to the U.S.

In order to successfully assimilate, some immigrants often side with whiteness. It can be argued that we鈥檙e conditioned to want this even before migrating, because many countries around the world also have systemic biases that uphold white characteristics as desirable. For people from Spanish-speaking Latin American countries, the lack of inclusion of non-mestizo peoples begins in our countries of origin.

The , known as a Mexican concept, applies to much of Latin America as well. The premise of mestizaje is that Latinx/Latin American peoples are a mixture of Spanish and Indigenous peoples, erasing the fact that mestizaje was created through violence.

鈥淚鈥檝e heard, you know, the whole spectrum of Latinxs say, 鈥榃e don鈥檛 have racism. We don鈥檛 talk about race in the same way as in the U.S.鈥� I experience the complete opposite of that color-blindness,鈥� , a Panamanian American multimedia creator, historian, and educator says. 鈥淲hen I鈥檓 in mostly Latino spaces, it鈥檚 a guarantee that it鈥檚 going to be racist, anti-Black, or anti-Indigenous.鈥�

Despite the presence of Black communities, Asian migration, and Indigenous peoples, there remains a false notion that all Latin Americans are Brown and speak only Spanish. Mestizaje and its many iterations also prevent many white Latinx folks from acknowledging their privilege in the U.S. or Latin America. 

鈥淚n the U.S. imagination, an immigrant is a Brown person that receives anti-immigrant vitriol. It鈥檚 also a face that can garner empathy,鈥� Harris says.  

In extreme circumstances, immigrants even join and take part in violent tactics. Research from senior fellow Ran Abramitzky even shows that some immigrants give their U.S.-born children 鈥渨hite-sounding鈥� names in an effort to secure a better future for said children.

Not doing the work as non-Black Latinx folks can have additional consequences when people of non-Black immigrant origins gain power. In 2022, former Los Angeles City Council President Nury Martinez was after a leaked tape revealed her racist remarks against multiple communities, including Asian, Black, and Indigenous communities. The scandal shed light on the need for more anti-racist and intersectional work among mestize Latinx communities.

But all is not lost: Immigrant communities are now waking up to the need . They鈥檝e received help from pop culture brands such as Refinery29, whose social media accounts often feature about how to discuss racial justice in Latinx communities.

Today, multiple community organizations, including , , and the , are working hard to include Indigenous peoples. Multiple immigrant rights organizations are also increasing legal assistance, destigmatizing the lack of legal status, and advocating for people who speak languages other than English or Spanish. 

While these groups have always been here, they have gained more visibility since the 2020 iterations of the #StopAsianHate and Black Lives Matter movements. Unfortunately, in the four years since these movements gained traction, we鈥檝e only seen greater need and fewer resources. Harris says that the , and other nonprofits such as the that offer vital services for Black immigrants, continue to be underfunded, though Black immigrants experience a disproportionate amount of violence .

Even when immigrants become naturalized citizens, the lack of language-inclusive services can make it harder for them to have access to reliable information in their native language. Asian Americans Advancing Justice is working on for Asian American, Asian Islander, and Pacific Islander (AAPI) voters, while the is using the legal system to help AAPI voters experiencing discrimination. There are also multiple local and regional organizations, such as the , defending AAPI interests across the country through an intersectional lens.

Lack of funding and support for models based on solidarity is still a problem. Burnout is common in social justice work, but the good news is that those of us who鈥檝e been educated on better ways to be allies can speak to our families and friends about why assimilationist rhetoric is harmful. After all, appealing to the desires of people in power didn鈥檛 help pass comprehensive immigration reform. 

Building a more inclusive immigrant rights movement, I鈥檝e learned, ultimately means abandoning all white-supremacist thinking in the U.S. and our countries of origin.     

Below us in Nogales, the agent abruptly halted his lecture and tore up the hill again, spitting gravel from his wheels. I was relieved, because you never know how such a scene might play out. Every day such displays of asymmetrical power take place, small acts of aggression that never make the news. Before long, the agent returned to his perch under the camera post, an elevated spot providing unobstructed views of the surrounding area. This whole scene would not have happened before 1994, when there was only a chain-link fence with big holes through which people would cross back and forth. According to longtime resident and musician Gustavo Lozano, back then the only worry was the occasional presence of a kid at the hole asking for pocket change. When Lozano occasionally got caught by the Border Patrol and thrown back into Mexico, there was no incarceration, no formal deportation on his record. He told me that he would often cross from Mexico into the United States to pay a bill at a department store for his mom, to play basketball with his cousins, to hang out with his family. As late as the 1980s, on holidays such as September 16鈥擬exican Independence Day鈥攐fficials opened the borders completely and a parade zigzagged back and forth as if the international boundary simply didn鈥檛 exist.

Ambos Nogales is one place that exists on both sides of the U.S.- Mexico border. Ambos means 鈥渂oth,鈥� and as the name suggests, communities on both sides of the border share deep familial, community, social, economic, and political ties. They also share common infrastructure. As Ieva Jusionyte writes in her book Threshold: Emergency Responders on the U.S.-Mexico Border, 鈥渆xtending from northern Sonora to southern Arizona, the railway, the highway, even the sewage pipeline facilitate dense ties between the two sides of the border. It becomes impossible to disentangle one town鈥檚 everyday logistics from the other鈥檚.鈥� The border cannot stop the roots of trees and the vast mycelium networks symbiotically entangled with them from reaching across to the other side.

At Ambos Nogales, the border is not designated by a mountain, lake, or river. This border first came into being as an imaginary line in the sand with the Gadsden Purchase in 1853, that is, if a transaction at gunpoint can be considered a 鈥減urchase.鈥� Officials from both countries put up the first permanent fence in 1918 after what was known as the Battle of Ambos Nogales. The battle resulted from spiking tensions after the implementation of passport requirements by the United States, which included limiting the number of times Mexican citizens could cross the border. Repeated shootings by U.S. Customs agents and military, including the killing of two Mexican citizens, precipitated the combat. In his book Violent Borders, geographer Reece Jones argues that borders are implicitly violent, often from their very inception.

It鈥檚 a worthwhile thought experiment to imagine the world without human-imposed borders for working-class people.

Nevertheless, despite these U.S. border wars with Mexico, there is a long history of cross-border cooperation and mutual aid among the people. For example, fire units on both sides have crossed back and forth for decades in mutual assistance. Louie Chaboya, who served as the director of emergency services in Arizona鈥檚 Santa Cruz County, where Nogales is located, noted to Jusionyte this underlying sense of connection uniting the communities on both sides of the divide. 鈥淚n Nogales,鈥� he said, referring to this cross-border cooperation, 鈥渨e are not associates. We are not business partners. We are not even friends. We are family.鈥�

In that spirit, anthropologist Josiah Heyman posed a broader question in his 1999 essay 鈥淎 Border that Divides, A Border that Joins.鈥� 鈥淲hat if we think of Mexico and the United States as one country, unified, rather than divided by the border?鈥� Heyman asks. 鈥淚ssues often framed as contrasting the United States with Mexico are better understood as the allied elites and finances of both countries (plus Canada) versus divided and somewhat anxious commoners of the entire continent.鈥�

It could also be understood in another way: For the cross-border networks of allied elites, borders are open, but for a purposely discombobulated working class on the Mexican side, borders are all but closed. The working class in the United States is told that the Mexican working class is dragging its wages down, while the allied elites move good jobs across the border without impediment.

It鈥檚 a worthwhile thought experiment to imagine the world without human-imposed borders for working-class people. The Earth has existed for 4.5 billion years, humans and ancestors of humans for 6 million years, and civilization as we know it for only 6,000 years. Perhaps the world鈥檚 astronauts sensed this as they contemplated the sweeping view of the planet and experienced a sense of interconnected global consciousness. There is a reason they cannot see the borders, mostly because human-drawn international political boundaries are artificial and new, and do not register as topography, unlike bodies of water, rivers, and mountain ranges. The border in Nogales, for example, was drawn in 1853 without any agreement from the original inhabitants of this land, the Tohono O鈥檕dham. Colonial European powers sliced up Africa during the 1883 Berlin Conference, effectively creating the borders of its modern nation-states, without consulting any African people. The Sykes-Picot agreement of 1916 divvied up the Middle East to the logic of the British and French, and not, say, the Palestinians. These artificial borders and their enforcement apparatuses are relatively new鈥攂order militarization, for example, has accelerated in the last 25 years鈥攁nd often imposed by faraway allied elites. In the grand scheme of things, borders now largely serve as a neocolonial scaffolding for a planet divided into exploiting and exploitable countries and peoples. They are untouchable. As an example, on one occasion Moroccan military and security personnel surrounded me and briefly confiscated my phone for simply taking pictures outside the border wall separating Morocco and the autonomous Spanish city of Ceuta. But even as they surrounded me鈥攖hey were paid by the European Union to provide 鈥渟ecurity鈥濃�擨 realized this was the universal conditioning around borders. You are on the 鈥渟acred ground鈥� of the nation-state, the border is its ultimate monument, humanity be damned.

So to continue the thought experiment, what if we were to allow ourselves to imagine a world without borders? What if we were to see borders not as shields, but as shackles keeping the planet in an unsustainable status quo of inequality, racial divide, and climate catastrophe?

Perhaps philosopher Michael Marder was contemplating these questions when he wrote an op-ed for The New York Times on March 3, 2020, titled 鈥淭he Coronavirus Is Us.鈥� In his op-ed, Marder describes his version of wall sickness: 鈥淲别ll before the current outbreak, a global tendency to build walls and seal off national borders鈥ad taken hold. The resurgent nationalism instigating this tendency nourishes itself on the fear of migrants and social contagion, while cherishing the impossible ideal of purity within the walled polity.鈥�

Concerned with how such tendencies would complicate solving the coronavirus crisis, Marder continues the metaphor to encompass the global lockdown in which people are further divided by class. 鈥淎s panic sets in,鈥� he wrote, 鈥渋n some quarters, personal border closure imitates the knee-jerk political gesture: Food and medical supplies are hoarded, while the wealthiest few prepare their luxury doomsday bunkers.鈥� Marder arrives at the border鈥檚 eternal paradox: 鈥淏orders are porous by definition; no matter how fortified, they are more like living membranes than inorganic walls. An individual or a state that effectively manages to cut itself off from the outside will be as good as dead.鈥�

In April 2020, political cartoonist Matt Wuerker published a cartoon of a stern general looking out from a missile-laden border barrier, as his minion spots a coronavirus floating over the wall with his binoculars. For better and worse, the virus reveals humanity鈥檚 interconnection, and the inability of borders to truly partition us, even when sealed as tightly as possible. In this sense, the coronavirus becomes not only a catastrophe but also a lyrical messenger.

For Marder, it delivers a prescient message for the post-pandemic future: The coronavirus speaks to the inability of walled countries to respond to global issues such as climate catastrophe鈥攖he pandemic being but one aspect of it鈥攁nd advocates for us to 鈥渓earn to live in a world that is interconnected.鈥� Contemplated as one might contemplate a poem, the pandemic could be seen as a deep call to action, part of the 鈥済reat turning,鈥� as deep ecology scholar Joanna Macy has written, from an industrial-growth society that relies on borders, to a more sustainable civilization for which borders are an impediment. 鈥淭he most remarkable feature of this historical moment on Earth,鈥� says Macy, 鈥渋s not that we are on the way to destroying the world鈥攚e鈥檝e actually been on the way for quite a while. It is that we are beginning to wake up from a millennia-long sleep, to a whole new relationship to our world, to ourselves, and each other.鈥�

In this sense, we can only hope that the director for the International Institute for Environment and Development, Andrew Norton, is right to state that the lessons drawn from COVID-19 could apply also to climate change. 鈥淪trengthening recognition of our interdependence鈥攖hat everyone鈥檚 health is everyone else鈥檚 business鈥攃ould strengthen the understanding that compassion and empathy are functional traits for humanity,鈥� he writes. 鈥淭he virus may lead to a deeper understanding of the ties that bind us all on a global scale.鈥� Coronavirus is thus an offering for us to reimagine borders, what they are, who they are for, who they are not for, and how humanity and the Earth will be better served without them.

This excerpt from Build Bridges, Not Walls: A Journey to a World Without Borders (City Lights Books, 2021) by Todd Miller appears with permission of the publisher.

Read an interview with Todd Miller about his book here.

Twelve years after the film鈥檚 release, when my husband and I were navigating the challenges of his green card application, many of my friends brought it up, joking that it was their only reference for legal immigration via marriage. 

The fact that this movie stands as one of America鈥檚 cultural touchstones for immigration is unquestionably problematic, largely because of the implication that 鈥済reen card鈥� and 鈥渕arriage鈥� are only paired in fraudulent relationships. The reality of marriage to an immigrant partner is far different from what films depict, and for some couples, nearly impossible. 

Our Immigration Love Story

My husband and I met on a dating app in 2019. I spent much of our early get-to-know-you months learning about the beauty and diversity of India, the country where he grew up. He was in his 20s when he moved to the U.S. for a master鈥檚 degree that eventually led him to the job and city where we met. He also shared his anxieties with me over the news of his H-1B application, the work-petitioned visa he needed to legally remain in the U.S. now that he was out of school.

We were thrilled and relieved when he was granted the visa a few months later, offering some security to our growing relationship. But the start of the COVID-19 pandemic quickly shattered our illusion of safety when all his department co-workers, except for him, were suddenly laid off. If he were to lose his job too, his H-1B would quickly become invalid, requiring him to return to India.

It was a sobering reminder that, while my partner was thankfully still employed, we were entirely dependent upon his employment status not only as a steady source of income, but also for his legal resident status in the country that we both called home. Insecurity, I was learning, is the norm for immigrants. Education, work experience, abiding by governing rules鈥攏one of these things offers true security. That鈥檚 where a green card comes in. 

Having a green card, or legal permanent resident (LPR) status, means that as long as one has not been convicted for specific criminal offenses, one can live in the U.S. indefinitely. It offers the most secure legal status, second only to citizenship. Immigrants can earn it in a variety of ways, many of which can take years. One of the quickest ways to obtain LPR is through a family or marriage sponsorship.

Thankfully for my partner and me, it didn鈥檛 take long to know that we wanted our relationship to last for life. After two years of dating, we got engaged and then married in 2021. The next step was submitting our LPR petition with the hope it would be accepted, despite rumors about pandemic federal staff shortages leading to green card delays. But we had no other options and had to work within an immigration system that processes and accepts about  as legal residents. 

The Application

From start to finish, our application process lasted about a year. It was a tedious, though mostly doable, process that involved answering hundreds of questions and tracking down family documents. The trickiest part was the fluctuating rigidity of the requirements. Sometimes there would be a request for a specific document, and sometimes it would feel completely arbitrary. Would photos of our wedding be convincing evidence that our marriage was real? How about our joint bank accounts or a copy of our co-signed lease? We had to guess, hope, and submit.

Some couples opt to hire immigration lawyers to help navigate the unpredictable nature of the process, which often results in thousands of dollars in legal fees. We chose to instead prepare the application ourselves, and then briefly consulted with a lawyer to review the documents to give us some added peace of mind.

Over $2,000 in fees later, our application was in the hands of the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS). It was now up to the government to assess if we were in a real relationship. Our life was on hold, with no predictable timeline, and no guarantee of the result. 

Another Immigration Journey

It was while we were waiting for a decision from the government that I met Lauren Krupp, an American citizen living in the U.S. and working as a newborn care specialist. Krupp diverted much of her salary to continue the process of petitioning for a green card for her husband, Doriel Acosta. It was through her that I learned the legal immigration process for marriage-based green cards could be even more difficult for some couples.

The two met when Krupp was visiting Cuba on a humanitarian trip in 2017. Two years later, they got married in Cuba, knowing they would continue their long-distance relationship as they worked to secure Acosta鈥檚 green card. Despite poor diplomatic relations between the U.S. and Cuba, they were hopeful. Neither could have predicted then that it would take them three and a half years of bureaucratic challenges and more than $20,000 to be together.

First, their application was submitted incorrectly by a third-party contractor, and was left unprocessed for nine months with no notifications. Krupp eventually contacted an immigration officer from her senator鈥檚 office who was able to verify that some documentation was missing. 

Shortly thereafter, the COVID-19 pandemic brought Cuban diplomatic processes to a standstill. Since the closure of the U.S. embassy in Cuba following  in 2017, Cubans have been forced to fly 1,000 miles to the . But Krupp says the Guyanese embassy was closed for almost nine months during the pandemic.

Finally, after pandemic restrictions were lifted in March 2022, Acosta and Krupp made it to Guyana for their immigration interview. Even after being told that his green card was approved, Acosta had to remain in Guyana for another 45 days while his visa was processed. In all, the couple paid $12,500 just for the travel and accommodation during his unexpectedly long stay in Guyana.

Finally, after all the expense, the waiting, the effort, and the distance, Acosta hugged his wife hello on U.S. soil this past May. It was the same month my husband and I went to our own immigration interview where he was granted his green card.

Krupp reflected on how she鈥檚 been feeling since being reunited with her husband. She says, 鈥淵ou find yourself feeling things that you don鈥檛 expect; sometimes a wave of grief for the time that was lost. Or sometimes feeling like you鈥檙e undeserving of it. 鈥� We only waited three and a half years. Some people wait 10, 15 years, or never are reunited at all.鈥� I鈥檓 left feeling much of the same.

Immigration Challenges

The one emotion that united all four of us鈥攁nd possibly all immigrants and the citizens who petition on their behalf鈥攊s an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. Despite Krupp and I being U.S. citizens, we had to place our trust in opaque, bureaucratic systems to judge our marriages and allow us to live with the person we love. Despite their eligibility, our partners had to trust they were being judged objectively and fairly. The positive outcomes we experienced are not guaranteed for all applicants. 

USCIS prioritizes family-petitioned green cards and has granted about  in recent years. Processing time averages between 10 and 17 months, although this was much longer at the start of the pandemic due to  and federal worker shortages. Immediate relatives, like spouses, have a faster processing time than other family members, like parents, children, or siblings. Overall, a family-petitioned green card has a higher chance of acceptance than any other type, .

This doesn鈥檛 even include the millions of other forms of emigration that are not as highly prioritized. The DACA program has become  for recipients, and the yearly figures of how many  changes based on the current presidential administration. These challenges lead to many undocumented people risking border crossings, family separation, and deportation rather than accepting the possibility of being forgotten or denied by the American immigration system. The  claims that 23% of all immigrants in the U.S., about 10.5 million people, are undocumented. 

It鈥檚 clear that compared to many, our immigration story was not only easy, but was also extremely privileged. We were left feeling gratitude for our security and deep frustration at how broken the system is for everyone. 

Support for Immigrants

There is plenty of work still to be done to support legal immigration. With so many shifting variables and unknowns, there is great need for more support and resources for couples petitioning for residency from all nations. But through our own immigration journey, and hearing Krupp and Acosta鈥檚 story, I learned about some of the existing efforts to help mixed-status couples emigrate through green card petitions.

One of the places where Krupp and Acosta found reassurance was through online communities. Krupp says, 鈥淲别 joined a support group on Facebook that was about Cuban family reunification. We got so much more helpful, actual information from that group than we ever did from anywhere else. 鈥� It was just other people going through the same process, telling us what they had learned and observed.鈥�

My husband and I also found the greatest support from friends who had gone through the application process. They shared tips and tricks, and even connected us with a lawyer who could review our application and answer our questions. Depending on one鈥檚 budget, there are many immigration lawyers and visa experts who can help couples navigate the process. Though from experience, we suggest choosing experts based on recommendations from people you trust. Naturally, lawyers cost money鈥攕omething that disadvantages lower-income applicants.

Elected representatives can also help鈥攊ndeed, most federal representatives and senators offer help with federal agencies via their websites. Krupp highlighted the help of an immigration officer at her state senator鈥檚 office who was able to inquire on their behalf. Using state and federal resources like a senator鈥檚 office is a great way for petitioners to advocate for themselves. 

Ultimately, what is needed is a change in the immigration processes so all people applying are treated humanely. For example, FWD.us, a , points out that green cards are sometimes wasted due to systematic 鈥渞oll over鈥� protocols. The organization is pushing Congress to reform the system so that an additional 220,000 green cards would become available, which in turn would help reduce the backlog of applicants.

In good news for Cuban petitioners, the  at the Havana embassy, raising the possibility that petitioners could soon process their visas in Cuba instead of traveling to Guyana. And, this year, USCIS  to increase the efficiency of immigration processing, reducing wait times for in-country couples to a maximum of six months. 

We all know rom-coms aren鈥檛 real life, especially the ones about green card marriages. But Krupp described her love story perfectly, saying, 鈥淛ust because you had the weird opportunity to fall in love with someone from another country, and you have this different path, in the end, you just want to be normal. The end goal is just normal things, like stability, comfort, and time together.鈥�

The prisoners’ demands were pretty simple: basic human rights, educational opportunities, and a reform of Alabama’s harsh sentencing guidelines and parole board.

The labor strikes are a turn from the most familiar type of political protest behind bars: the hunger strike. 

The strike in Alabama was just the latest in a series of strikes at U.S. prisons. On April 4, at least seven prisons in Texas staged a work strike after a prisoner sent out a call with the help of outside organizers. About a month earlier, prisoners in multiple states including both Texas and Alabama, as well as Virginia and Ohio, called for a national general strike among prisoners on Sept. 9, 2016, the 45th anniversary of the Attica Rebellion, where guards and inmates died during a prison revolt in upstate New York.

The labor strikes are a turn from the most familiar type of political protest behind bars: the hunger strike. While hunger strikes pull at the moral heartstrings of the public, work stoppages threaten the economic infrastructure of the prison system itself.

The strike in Alabama was organized by the Free Alabama Movement, a nonviolent grassroots organizing group created by prisoners that focuses on the human rights of Alabama’s imprisoned. Not only does Alabama have one of the highest incarceration rates in the United States, but it also has one of the most overcrowded prison systems. The system’s current population sits at about 80 percent over capacity. With nearly double the inmates that the prisons were designed to hold, the packed prisons produce violence, unsanitary conditions, and .

“We view prison labor as real slavery…[in] 1865 when the 13th Amendment was ratified…they started the first wave of mass incarcerating black people,” said Melvin Ray, co-founder of the Free Alabama Movement. In the years after slavery, a formal prison system formed in the South. Some plantations were bought by the state and . “They use [these prisons] as a tool of control. They target African-American communities. They target politically conscious people, politically conscious organizations. And they use these prisons as a form of social control in addition to a plantation [that’s] generating revenue.”

In 2014, when Ray, along with Robert Council, founded the Free Alabama Movement, they organized a work stoppage at the Holman and St. Clair prisons. The strike at Holman prison, where Council was incarcerated, lasted from Jan. 1 to 22. Immediately afterward, both men were thrown into solitary confinement. Ray stayed there for more than a year and was just recently released to general population. Council remains in solitary confinement to this day.

Prison officials list a number of justifications for Council’s segregation including that he allegedly administered the Free Alabama Movement Facebook group, and he was a leading and significant factor in the work strike.

From Robben Island to Guantanamo to San Quentin, the hunger strike and the penitentiary seem attached to each other. 

In the past, hunger strikes have targeted solitary confinement. The well-known hunger strike in 2013, where tens of thousands of prisoners across California refused to eat for 60 days, protested the state’s use of indefinite solitary confinement. It was coupled with other political organizing, including lawsuits and another smaller hunger strike in 2011. Two years after what was called the largest hunger strike in U.S. history, California agreed to limit its use of solitary confinement.

From Robben Island to Guantanamo to San Quentin, the hunger strike and the penitentiary seem attached to each other. Yet the organizers of the Free Alabama Movement have intentionally moved away from the practice.

In an titled “Let The Crops Rot in the Fields,” Ray and Council laid out a plan for tackling mass incarceration. The essay argues that the old ways of protesting in prisons—including hunger strikes and letter-writing campaigns—are not sufficient. Instead, organizers should attack the economic incentive of prisons. The answer, then, is to stop working—and remove the corporate profit from the prison industrial complex. The title was a reference to work strikes conducted by people who were enslaved in the South.

Members of the Incarcerated Workers Organizing Committee, the prison-organizing group of the Industrial Workers of the World labor union, started sending copies of “Let The Crops Rot in the Fields” to prisoners in other states. The labor union, apparently the only current union that welcomes prisoners, has about 800 members behind bars across the country. The essay has inspired prisoners in Virginia, Ohio, and Mississippi to organize to participate in the National Day of Strike in September 2016 and, for Texas, to have organized a work strike of their own in April.

Ray and Council haven’t always held these views. “Over the years we’ve tried a few other different things. We’ve tried letter-writing campaigns. We’ve tried marching, protesting, filing complaints in the court. We’ve tried basically all of the avenues that can be used that are made available to people who are incarcerated,” Council said.

In 2007, the entire population at Holman prison, including Council, . The prison was in a deplorable state—backed-up sewage issues, mold on the walls, collapsed and rusted pipes. The prisoners demanded that internal affairs and reporters be allowed inside the prison to document the conditions.

Ray and Council met in prison when they were both jailhouse lawyers, assisting other prisoners with filing lawsuits and complaints about the issues in the prison while also writing their own. As their incarceration continued and their lawsuits and grievances against the prisons went nowhere, Council, Ray, and other prisoners began to have a change of heart on how to bring about change. “We were begging [officials] to please follow the rules. Please have mercy on me. We’re asking some people to have mercy that just don’t have any mercy,” Council explained. “That revelation brought us to the fact that you can’t appeal to the moral [part] of a system that doesn’t have morals.”

Prisons would “grind to a halt” without the use of prison labor. 

The sentiment echoes the thoughts of the late Stokely Carmichael, a civil rights leader and organizer with the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, which led the civil rights movement among youth in the South. “In order for nonviolence to work, your opponents must have a conscience,” he famously said in 1967, two years after the assassination of Malcolm X and a year before Martin Luther King Jr. was killed. “The United States has none.”

Alex Friedmann, the managing editor of Prison Legal News, a publication of the Human Rights Defense Center, said, in an email, that prisons would “grind to a halt” without the use of prison labor. “The work strikes in the Alabama and Texas prison systems are a natural and predictable result of treating prisoners as slaves and benefiting—and often profiting—from their labor. If prison officials treat prisoners as slaves, then they should not be surprised when there are occasional slave revolts,” Friedmann said.

In prisons across the country, incarcerated people are paid as little as 15 to 45 cents an hour. Even worse, in Texas, the minimum wage for a prisoner starts at zero dollars. However, these wages aren’t always what employers are paying to hire prisoners. Employers in states like Alabama, Colorado, and South Carolina pay the federal hourly minimum wage for prisoner labor. However, the wage is paid to the state, and prisoners see only a fraction of that check. In Alabama, the Department of Corrections is to take up to 80 percent of a prisoner’s income, half of which can go to “offset the costs of the inmate’s incarceration.”

In prisons across the country, incarcerated people are paid as little as 15 to 45 cents an hour. 

Corrections departments across the country have laws stating they can take part or most of prisoners’ wages to pay for the upkeep of the prison or room and board. Incarcerating the highest rate of prisoners in the world comes at a cost, so states have increasingly used the prisoners’ own labor to lower prison costs. Prolonged work stoppages threaten to increase these costs and create a more expensive prison system—some states, like Alabama with its high budget deficit, simply can’t afford that.

Two weeks after May’s strike ended, the warden at Holman Correctional Facility, Carter Davenport, retired. Davenport had arrived at Holman in December 2015, and just three months later, a major prison uprising erupted where a prisoner stabbed him (he recovered). Before Holman, he was the warden at St. Clair Correctional Facility from 2010 to 2015. In 2012, he was suspended for two days in the face, according to an Alabama news site. Equal Justice Initiative, a nonprofit in Alabama, Davenport, as well as the Alabama Department of Corrections, in 2014 for facilitating a culture of violence at St. Clair (the lawsuit is ongoing). That same year, with violence at St. Clair increasing, the nonprofit called for Davenport to be replaced as warden.

Last year, Charlotte Morrison of the Equal Justice Initiative criticized Davenport’s leadership at St. Clair. “[Those] in charge of leading these facilities are creating abusive, dangerous environments,” Morrison said. “Warden Davenport, somebody who punched a handcuffed inmate in the face, that’s the kind of leadership he models. And what we see at the prison is control through intimidation and violence.” Prisoners at Holman had similar opinions about Davenport, so his retirement was a major victory for them.

The ADOC denies Davenport’s retirement resulted from the work strike or the March uprising; however, his removal was a goal for nonprofit advocates and prisoners alike.

Now, he’s gone.

The school district鈥檚 passage of the (GFR) didn鈥檛 come easy. Parents and teachers demanded a plan to eliminate officer positions in the schools at a board of education meeting in March 2020, but the fundamentals of the resolution date back to from 2019. At that March meeting, a divided board voted down the resolution. George Floyd鈥檚 murder in Minneapolis two months later prompted BOP to mobilize community partners during a week of action, lifting up the voices of Black and Brown youth across Oakland. As a result, the OUSD school board to eliminate police from all Oakland schools, becoming the first in the nation to do so.

Under the GFR, the school district eliminated police officers in Oakland schools, while committing a one-time fund of $1.9 million from the previous school police budget in critical resources. This was in addition to the more than $5 million over three years in funding for services from the Department of Violence Prevention鈥攊ncluding expanded counseling, violence-prevention services, and academic and mental health support鈥攖o help more Black and Brown students feel safe and thrive.听

The resolution was a critical win against systemic racism, over-policing, and the criminalization of Black and Brown youth at a time when people across the country were . In the years leading up to the resolution鈥檚 passage, Black students in Oakland public schools were 76% of those arrested by school police but only 26% of all local students.

Today, the new policy is starting to reverse this racist trend with a in suspensions for physical violence across Oakland鈥檚 public high schools and a substantial decline in police calls since in-person teaching resumed post pandemic. The 2021 OUSD board report compared police calls before and after the new policy and found that 鈥減olice calls to campus have dropped dramatically since the George Floyd Resolution, with 134 calls to campus between August 2021 and April 2022, compared with 1,814 during the same timeframe from 2019-20.鈥�

The report also found that 鈥渨ith no police presence on campuses teachers, admin, and students have been able to exercise healthy alternatives to de-escalate situations with the use of the police-free guidance, problem solve conflict, and start to build meaningful relationships with each other.鈥�

The GFR also led to School Safety Officers being renamed听 鈥淐ulture Keepers鈥� and 鈥淐ulture and Climate Ambassadors.鈥� As per the OUSD board report, 鈥� no longer carry handcuffs or wear police symbolism or logos and instead are tasked with 鈥減romoting school site safety through relationship building, de-escalation techniques, and the use of trauma-informed restorative practices.鈥澨�

However, while this is a victory, data from the California Department of Education, analyzed by Organizing Roots and DSC California shows that while suspension rates for all races are higher than pre-pandemic levels, Black, Native, and Pacific Islander students remain disproportionately impacted. The district clearly needs to do听more work to address the underlying biases and racism in our schools that are causing disproportionate disciplinary action.听听

Oakland set out to bring people together to imagine a better path to safety, security, and Black liberation. It chose a path that has started to reimagine the purpose of schools: supporting all students to learn, thrive, and be safe. The Oakland model provides lessons for school districts across the country to look for ways to advance racial equity and support all young people to succeed.听

In cities across the nation, including Chicago, Madison,听Los Angeles, Denver, and Phoenix, grassroots movements have been exploring or moving forward with similar plans to get police out of schools. This growing movement reflects an understanding that real safety鈥攆or students, teachers, and staff鈥攄oesn鈥檛 come from school police. It comes from having access to support services, trusted adults, and other resources that help all students.听

Research has proven what we know from lived experience鈥攖hat students of color when schools remove police. And police presence in schools has to actually protect students, teachers, and staff from shootings and other threats of external violence. In fact, having police in schools increases violence and crime by criminalizing school-aged children, forcing them out of the school system, and fueling the school-to-prison pipeline.听

The George Floyd Resolution is a manifestation of what the community has always known: We must invest in spaces of creativity, joy, and connection for young people. Our children thrive when we center violence prevention and mental health support, and work alongside the community to co-create learning environments that welcome the whole person.听听

Another important lesson from the fight to win real safety in Oakland schools is that community-led change delivers results. Oakland residents first came together to transform local systems that harm Black youth and families in 2011, soon after the killing of 20-year-old Raheim Brown by OUSD police. Dating back to the 1940s and 1950s, the migration of Southern Black families to Oakland spurred police and schools to join forces in targeting Black youth鈥擝rown鈥檚 killing mobilized the community to stand up and say 鈥淓nough.鈥� It was in the wake of that tragic event that BOP members created the B.O.S.S. Campaign (Bettering Our School System) to focus on the decriminalization of Black youth and removal of all policing in schools.

This history is critical because the George Floyd resolution did not come about because elected officials agreed to far-reaching reforms. It was the result of a movement led by those most impacted for justice based on years of organizing and community leadership. Parents, students, and community members worked together to develop a school safety plan that prioritized the needs of Black students and their families. They showed up at hearings and community events, wrote letters of support, and flooded their social media channels with information and calls to action.  

Our progress in Oakland has shown us what works to transform local systems that punish Black youth and communities of color: Put young people, parents, and community members at the center of the work. Be bold and keep fighting for transformational change and not just incremental, feel-good actions. And claim every single community win. That is what will continue to inspire those who will come after us. That is what will ignite everyday, regular people to realize that we ourselves have the power to shift, change, and transform.

There was a time when CRT referred only to a relatively obscure legal framework for analyzing structural and institutional racism, pioneered by scholars such as Derrick Bell, Kimberl茅 Crenshaw, and Richard Delgado. Then, in 2020, journalist Christopher Rufo  to include anything that disrupts whitewashed interpretations of American history and current events鈥攁nd to intentionally ignite partisan debate and mobilize conservative activism around education policy and curriculum content. 

When Conservatives fomented national furor over alleged widespread CRT indoctrination taking place in K-12 schools, many progressives dismissively insisted that the decades-old legal framework was taught only in higher education institutions鈥攃ompletely missing the opportunity to reclaim the narrative and publicly endorse more culturally responsive education at all levels.

鈥淲别 can鈥檛 just uplift and say, 鈥榃e need to be neutral, don鈥檛 teach CRT,鈥欌�� says Cierra Kaler-Jones, a social justice educator and director of storytelling at the Communities for Just Schools Fund. 鈥淎ctually, we should be moving in a more radical [direction], saying that there are ways to teach critical race theory in schools.鈥�

Contrary to popular progressive belief, some Black and Brown educators are explicitly and unapologetically using CRT in their classrooms to deepen students鈥� historical knowledge and help them build skills to make sense of the world around them.

High school history and social studies teacher Jania Hoover regularly fields questions about topical issues, like police brutality, in her classroom. Students are 鈥渟mart and mature enough to handle the truth,鈥� she wrote in an . 鈥淎 well-meaning parent should want their children to understand CRT, American exceptionalism, as well as other frameworks they can use to understand American society.鈥�

There are many ways to incorporate CRT into lessons. For example, in a recent lesson, Hoover not only covered the New Deal policies that successfully ended the Great Depression, but she also explained how they included racist lending practices to create segregated communities.

鈥淚 showed them maps that detailed areas where the FHA guaranteed loans in the city where we live,鈥� says Hoover, who teaches at a predominantly White private school in Texas. 鈥淚 then showed them current maps showing housing patterns based on race and income levels.鈥�

The lesson did not, as Conservatives might have you believe, make White students feel bad, make Black students feel powerless, and make them all hate America. 

鈥淏oth Black and White students were blown away at the very real implications of that information. The White students didn鈥檛 feel guilty, and the Black students didn鈥檛 feel helpless,鈥� says Hoover. 鈥淓veryone felt powerful, because they knew information that helped them understand patterns they see on a daily basis.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Teaching the most shameful aspects of our nation鈥檚 history through a critical race lens also opens opportunities to showcase Black and Brown resistance to the White supremacist structures and systems that the legal theory was originally established to critique. 

鈥泪迟鈥檚 important to focus on agency, resilience, and joy, and not just violence and oppression,鈥� says Hoover. She offers the following example: 鈥淲别 don鈥檛 do a good enough job of telling [students] the many ways enslaved people did resist. They worked slow, feigned sickness, they ran away for short times, they broke tools, they learned to read and write, grew vegetables to feed their families, maximized skills to generate income away from the enslavers. Slavery was much more complex than the abbreviated storyline included in many state standards.鈥�

Unfortunately, most teachers are not equipped with the lived experiences or nuanced resources they need to explore such complexities in history education. Common Core standards, adopted by most states after 2010, have been criticized for their  (and for ). Some school curricula even call for teaching enslavement through re-enactment, just one example of 鈥溾�� that traumatizes minority students, , who founded . 

Even in minority-majority New York City, more than 80% of schoolbooks used in English Language Arts were written by White authors, according to a study by the . And course materials intended to improve minority representation almost exclusively focus on the struggles, rather than the deep history and heritage of Black and Brown communities, says Natasha Capers, parent organizer and director of the NYC Coalition for Educational Justice. 

In 2019, the New York State Education Department adopted a Culturally Responsive-Sustaining Education Framework to improve equity in public education. 鈥淥ne of the key parts about [the framework] that has been informed from CRT is that we have to stop teaching history as if Black people only started to exist on the shores of South Carolina,鈥� Capers says. 鈥淲别 don鈥檛 allow Africans and Black folks to have a prequel. We only have slavery. We don鈥檛 let Asian Americans have a prequel. They only have internment camps. We don鈥檛 let Latinx people have a prequel [prior to] Columbus.鈥�

Counter-storytelling, a core component of CRT that centers the lived experiences through the lens of race, is a powerful tool that teachers can employ to layer that texture and complexity into conversations about Black history and culture.

鈥淲别鈥檝e done activities where they鈥檝e drawn pictures of themselves and said, 鈥楾his is what I say about me, and this is what society says about me,鈥� so that they can actively critique the structures and the systems around them, while also developing a solid sense of self,鈥� says Kaler-Jones. 鈥淲别鈥檝e also [used the lyrics from] India Arie鈥檚&苍产蝉辫;I Am Not My Hair and Solange鈥檚&苍产蝉辫;Don鈥檛 Touch My Hair … as a framework for writing our own counter-narrative song lyrics.鈥�

Black and Brown teachers like Kaler-Jones have the advantage when it comes to adapting critical race theory into such rich classroom experiences due to their lived experiences with race. According to , 80% of public school teachers and 85% of private school teachers are White, and most learned 鈥渁 very liberal, neutral way of talking about race鈥� in their teacher prep programs, says Kaler-Jones. 

鈥淭here is 鈥� deep internal work that needs to be done in order to even be able to show up to have critical conversations about racism and oppression,鈥� she continues. 

Trailblazing educators, like Kaler-Jones and Hoover, are normalizing the inclusion of CRT, the framework, and its key concepts in history and social studies classes. Some schools, like the Berkeley Carroll School in Brooklyn, already offer workshops and electives on  for high school students. 

Approaches like these dovetail with a robust鈥攁nd largely overlooked鈥攖radition of Black pedagogy that predates CRT and anti-racism scholarship, according to Harvard professor Jarvis R. Givens in .

鈥淏lack educators have always known that their students are living in an anti-Black world and, therefore, decided that their teaching must be set against the very order of that world,鈥� wrote Givens, whose book Fugitive Pedagogy: Carter G. Woodson and the Art of Black Teaching was published last year.

鈥淭hey took a holistic approach to teaching鈥攈onoring Black life, with all its beauty and contradiction,鈥� he explained, adding, 鈥淚n my classrooms growing up, we had to study and enact anti-racism, certainly. But we also had to know that our worth and our offering to the world, and to ourselves, was much more than that.鈥�

But educators who want to draw on CRT and Black pedagogy in their practice continue to face numerous obstacles, in addition to the overwhelming Whiteness of teachers and curricula. To date, 36 states have passed or are considering legislation banning CRT from classrooms, reports . The notoriously vague language of enacted bills has created a chilling effect on teachers, who are unsure what they can say about race and what will get them fired. According to , many Black teachers are leaving the profession entirely. 

Still, there is reason for cautious optimism about the future of CRT in classrooms. The American Civil Liberties Union has brought legal challenges against 鈥檚&苍产蝉辫;and 鈥檚 Conservative-led anti-CRT bills and, more recently, against a Missouri school district鈥檚 ban on books reflecting POC and LGBTQ+ perspectives. 

Teachers like Kaler-Jones and Hoover are demonstrating the benefits that CRT-infused lessons bring to students and paving the way for other educators to adopt similar strategies in their classrooms. 

Also, 鈥淭here are many reputable and useful organizations and groups dedicated to creating resources to help teachers teach about these topics,鈥� says Hoover, citing the  and 

Many teachers are also publicly committing to , bans be damned. Perhaps even more encouraging is how educators and young people themselves are creating Instagram and  to provide extracurricular education on CRT concepts, like intersectionality, systemic racism, and privilege. 

鈥淢y dream is for history classes where no one feels left out or undermined,鈥� says Hoover. 鈥淓very student feels seen and valuable in the world.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

How Teachers Navigate Texas Laws 

The laws banning or curtailing history education vary by state. Texas and Florida, two Republican-dominated states, have been early proponents of these policies. For some of these legislators, Black and diverse history appears to not be a valuable part of the U.S. educational curriculum. In early 2023, Gov. Ron DeSantis of Florida  the College Board鈥檚 new AP African American history class, claiming it 鈥渓acks educational value.鈥� Gov. Greg Abbott of Texas, who seems to agree with DeSantis, signed Senate Bill 3, a law that would prohibit the teaching of current events without 鈥渄eference to both sides,鈥� into .

Jesse Arrieta, a high school history teacher at the Young Women鈥檚 STEAM Research and Preparatory Academy in El Paso, Texas, says she struggles when teaching about race. 鈥淪ome of my colleagues were nervous at the beginning of last school year due to declarations by Greg Abbott that [he] would crack down on teachers in this anti-CRT moment.鈥� But, she adds, 鈥渕y goal as a  has always been to disrupt the 鈥榞rand narrative,鈥� to be inclusive, and to help students understand that their history, whoever they are, is part of U.S. history.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Anti-CRT laws have only increased Arrieta鈥檚 resolve to teach what鈥檚 being denied to students. She says, 鈥淭he revolution is in the classroom, and it is up to teachers to resist oppressive bills and bans, as it does not coincide with our job as state employees who have to follow a certain curriculum.鈥� She explains, 鈥� [Texas Essential Knowledge and Skills] state what we are to teach, not how. Teaching about race, racism, sexism, etc. is not Critical Race Theory. It is simply part of the reality of life and of history.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Although Arrieta is committed to teaching through such a lens in her classroom, other teachers may not do the same. She points out, 鈥淭hose teachers who never cared about the 鈥榠sms鈥� and never cared to highlight Black History Month or any other month will continue to ignore it. Unfortunately, I have worked with many of those teachers too, over the years.鈥�

Chandra Woods, another educator at the Academy, relates her experience, saying, 鈥淚 just had a conversation with a really good friend of mine about how I can appropriately implement Black history into my classroom while not going against state law. It is truly upsetting and unfortunate that this is happening in today鈥檚 world, especially with so many racially charged situations happening all around us.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

For Woods, talking about race in the classroom doesn鈥檛 violate the law. This month, she is focusing on 鈥淏lack excellence鈥� specifically centered on her all-female school. She says, 鈥淎lthough very limited in what we can cover, I think that discussing influential Black women in high spaces, such as former First Lady Michelle Obama, Oprah Winfrey, Shonda Rhimes, Viola Davis, etc. are just a few starting points on still being able to provide impact during February while also keeping with the theme of my school鈥攚omen who succeed.鈥�

Students Speak Out 

Students across Texas worry that their education is going to remove them from the realities of the past and present. Jahzara Wheaton, a high school junior attending the same school where Arrieta and Woods teach, says there was a lack of diverse perspectives in Texas education even before these laws: 鈥淲hen I was younger, I, as most children, was taught a very one-sided version of history. And in this version, the role that Black people played was largely that of a victim.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Now, she is concerned that accurate depictions of her community鈥檚 past will be even more elusive. 鈥泪迟 is very challenging to get an accurate picture or an account of history.鈥� Wheaton speculates that the bans are in place because 鈥渋f educators were allowed to teach students about the reality of oppression throughout history, it would go against everything this country prides itself on.鈥�

Otitodilichukwu Ikem, another high schooler from Coronado High School in El Paso, shares that she has had similar experiences: 鈥淚 go to school in Texas, so the topic of Black history is very filtered. I try my best to learn more on my own, but it is very discouraging when schools paint what I鈥檓 learning in a different light.鈥�

Ikem believes the educational system is undermining Black voices, saying, 鈥泪迟鈥檚 very hypocritical and harmful. We learn about European, Spanish, French, Italian, and even Japanese history. Why is African American history the one that鈥檚 banned?鈥� She says, 鈥淭he message they are sending to everyone is, 鈥楬ey, you can learn everything in school, but learning about African American history is too much.鈥欌�� 

When asked how this is changing the way her classes function, Wheaton explains there is fear among students and teachers. 鈥淢any teachers have been intimidated into teaching what others feel should be taught and not what needs to be taught. Even those teachers I鈥檝e had who were not afraid to challenge what is accepted had to do so in secret.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Such secret conversations on social issues seem to be a new normal for students. Worse, some worry it changes the way they navigate their lives outside of school as well. According to Wheaton, 鈥淭he impression that it left on me was that of fear. Not just for me, but for anyone willing to learn about social issues outside [the classroom] for themselves.鈥�

While the boy鈥檚 experience is an extreme example, it鈥檚 not an uncommon one. Many children in this country hate school. According to a 2020 study by the , 75% of high schoolers self-reported having negative feelings about school. Some of the teens鈥� most common descriptors for school were 鈥渂ored,鈥� 鈥渢ired,鈥� and 鈥渟tressed.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Our current conventional model of schooling inculcates young people in the United States to not expect pleasure or joy from a place where they spend at least 1,100 hours a year. These negative attitudes toward school continue into the workplace. One Gallup study from 2017 found that only 33% of U.S. workers were engaged at their jobs. 

What exactly makes school terrible for young people can vary somewhat from setting to setting. Many poor Black and Brown students are forced to experience curricula that don鈥檛 represent their experiences, taught by teachers who don鈥檛 look like them, in buildings that are under-resourced and overpoliced. Amanda Latasha Armstrong, in a published by New America, pointed out how educational materials are routinely unrepresentative of people of color. That lack of representation has a negative impact on Black and Brown students.

Meanwhile, in private schools serving wealthier, White students, , even at a young age, as per education expert Peter Gray, writing in Psychology Today.

There鈥檚 a range of alternative models for schooling that schools鈥攁nd workplaces鈥攃ould learn from.

There are several common characteristics across school settings that mirror adult workplaces. Most schools do not offer young people autonomy, work that feels meaningful, or enough time for rest or play. The U.S. is one of a handful of countries without guaranteed paid time off. Daily breaks vary from state to state, but generally workers earn 10 minutes off for every four hours of work. Meanwhile, as Sarah Jaffe describes in her book Work Won鈥檛 Love You Back: How Devotion to Our Jobs Keeps Us Exploited, Exhausted, and Alone, U.S. . 

Educator and organizer described the dominant model of schooling as a means of maintaining oppressive power structures, calling it the 鈥溾�� of education. In this model, Freire describes students as passive recipients of knowledge who do not develop creative and critical thinking skills that allow them to disrupt oppressive social systems. 

French philosopher also pointed out that a defining characteristic of schools is the maintenance of power. In Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, Foucault describes schools as a means of isolating students from broader society in order to bring them under control. The ranking of students based on grades and other criteria is a further example of how schools exert control over them. 

Reflecting on my 12 years as a public school teacher, both Freire and Foucault鈥檚 analyses resonate. Students, particularly Black and Brown ones in under-resourced schools, are rarely treated as knowledgeable or expert. Curriculum and pedagogy in these schools tend to emphasize 鈥渇oundational skills,鈥� i.e., procedural understanding, rather than cultivating curiosity and critical thinking. The curriculum not only de-emphasizes asking questions, but often punishes curiosity if it is viewed as critical, tangential, or disruptive. 

Meanwhile, 鈥減roductivity鈥� in schools remains a constant priority鈥攋ust as it does in the American workplace. During a typical school day, my students were expected to engage in academic tasks for a little more than five hours out of a six-hour school day. One of the most common offenses teachers complained about (and punished) was 鈥渙ff task鈥� behavior. In other words, if kids daydreamed, goofed off, or displayed other unserious behaviors during time meant for learning, or even the transition between subjects, they were disciplined.

Imagine a generation of children given the chance to practice autonomy and creativity at school.听

Thankfully, there鈥檚 a range of alternative models for schooling that schools鈥攁nd workplaces鈥攃ould learn from. Perhaps the most radical is 鈥�.鈥� Free schools first emerged in the United States during the 1960s and 1970s and offer students a 鈥渟elf-directed鈥� model of education. Generally, there are no required classes, tests, or grades at free schools, and students participate in democratic decision-making. Many such schools prioritize social justice in their mission; however, most cater almost exclusively to middle- and upper-class children.

Montessori schools are more widely known than free schools, but also . This is in spite of the as an educational model serving poor and working-class children in a tenement building in Rome. Montessori schools are somewhat more teacher-centered than free schools, but still emphasize student choice. Montessori school days generally give students more control over how they spend their time and use longer unscheduled blocks of time in their day as opposed to the high-paced, fragmented schedule my students experienced. 

It is exciting to imagine what would be possible if these models were freed from their exclusive silos and made more widely available to all young people in the United States. Imagine a generation of children given the chance to practice autonomy and creativity at school. 

With different schooling experiences, how might young people transform their workplaces as adults into places where people care about their work? What demands could they make for workplaces to care about workers? Perhaps they would ask for more input into decision making. Or they might demand more frequent and longer breaks. 

There is potential here for teachers unions to make a difference. It is often said that students鈥� learning conditions are teachers鈥� working conditions. However, until recently, most teachers unions have focused their bargaining power to negotiate salaries and contractual obligations rather than transforming the education system, and subsequently their own work.

Recent teachers strikes, like the one in , are signaling that there may be a shift. The Minneapolis Federation of Teachers won stronger job protections for teachers of color and pay raises for paraprofessionals who are majority workers of color. They also demanded increased funding for school nurses and mental health professionals in school. By doing so, the MFT, following in the footsteps of the and the , showed a growing effort by teachers unions to tie students鈥� well-being to their bargaining power. 

Schools are microcosms of our society.

It would be a profound shift if teachers unions began to also demand control over curriculum and the structure of the school day. It is not an unreasonable step either. As a public school teacher in New York City, I was contractually guaranteed a 鈥渄uty-free鈥� lunch and one planning period each day. This time was often insufficient. Nonetheless, it offers an example of the benefits enjoyed by educational workers that students ought to expect for themselves. 

Why not bargain for our students to have a minimum of 60 minutes of recess, or demand a school day that includes opportunities for student choice and leadership? Carrying out a strictly regimented curriculum takes a toll on students and teachers alike. Creating a school day with more free time for students would undoubtedly make work more pleasurable for their teachers too. One promising example is Seattle teachers鈥� successful negotiations in 2015, which won students . With burnout in the profession at breaking point, the urgency of this shift could not be greater.

Ultimately, schools are microcosms of our society. The structures that make schools oppressive to children鈥攑articularly kids from historically excluded communities鈥攁re shaped by capitalism, patriarchy, White supremacy, and all the other forces we face in the larger world. However, transforming these structures is possible if we begin by addressing the mindset of education. 

In Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom, visionary thinker and author writes, 鈥淭o educate as the practice of freedom is a way of teaching that anyone can learn. 鈥� To teach in a manner that respects and cares for the souls of our students is essential if we are to provide the necessary conditions where learning can most deeply and intimately begin.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Centering schools around the well-being of our students (and their teachers) is one path to positive change in the workplace. We need to respect students as full human beings worthy of dignity, honor their ideas, and give them space to explore and play and the power to shape their days. Such schools could train young people to expect more meaning and joy from the work they may spend the rest of their lives doing.

is all too familiar with the sort of contradictory statements like those DeSantis spouted. Kelley, who is the Gary B. Nash Endowed Chair in U.S. History at the University of California, Los Angeles, explains that he 鈥渃ame into the profession at the height of a battleground over history, in the 1980s, with the war on political correctness.鈥� And although he鈥檚 lived through decades of conservative-led attacks, like those by DeSantis, he describes the 2020s as 鈥渄angerous times.鈥�

The Origins of CRT

Kelley sees right-wing attacks on CRT鈥攚hat he considers an umbrella term for the teaching of 鈥渁ny kind of revisionist or multicultural history鈥濃�攁s a measure of the success communities of color and progressive parents and teachers have had after pushing for years to ensure that educational curricula reflect racially and ethnically diverse classrooms.

The most recent movement for such education can be traced to the of the 1960s, which, in the words of educators Deborah Menkart and Jenice L. View, 鈥渨ere intended to counter the 鈥榮harecropper education鈥� received by so many African Americans and poor whites.鈥� In a civil rights history lesson created for , Menkart and View explained that the education offered in nearly 40 such schools centered on 鈥渁 progressive curriculum 鈥� designed to prepare disenfranchised African Americans to become active political actors on their own behalf.鈥� In 1968, after months of pressure from student activists, established the first College of Ethnic Studies in the U.S.

A movement to offer ethnic studies courses in public schools, including colleges and universities, has gained traction nationwide. Such education is now standard fare as part of required college courses. California remains on the cutting edge of multicultural education, becoming the first state in the nation, in October 2021, to in order to graduate.

Leading African American scholar Kimberl茅 Crenshaw, a law professor at UCLA, coined the term 鈥渃ritical race theory鈥� and co-edited the book of the same name, which published in 1996, to define race as a social construct and provide a framework for understanding the way it shapes public policy. Crenshaw explained in a article that CRT, originally used by to analyze educational inequities, 鈥渋s a way of seeing, attending to, accounting for, tracing and analyzing the ways that race is produced 鈥� the ways that racial inequality is facilitated, and the ways that our history has created these inequalities that now can be almost effortlessly reproduced unless we attend to the existence of these inequalities.鈥�

Understanding the Attacks on CRT

Critical race theory is precisely the sort of nuanced educational lens that Crenshaw, Kelley, and others use in their courses and that has White supremacist forces up in arms. Attacks against CRT are taking the form of multi-pronged , as well as accused of teaching biased histories.

Kelley sees conservatives like DeSantis working relentlessly to eliminate any education that actually reckons with the history of American slavery, the genocide of Indigenous peoples and dispossession of their lands, sexism and patriarchy, and gender and gender identity. Reflecting again on the 鈥�80s, he says the attacks on ethnic studies, culture, and race didn鈥檛 only come from the Right. 鈥淚n fact,鈥� he says, they also came from 鈥渓iberals, from the Left,鈥� and from those saying 鈥渨e鈥檙e not paying enough attention to class [struggles].鈥�

Kelley cites 鈥渃lassic liberal fatigue鈥� against ongoing demands for racial justice, which he encapsulates in responses such as, 鈥淲别 already gave you some money, we already gave you this legislation, what else do you want to ask for? Why are you criticizing us?鈥�

A case in point about how liberal figures are joining the right-wing war on CRT is a new venture called the , Texas, created by a group of public figures led by former New York Times writer Bari Weiss. Weiss, in an , cited unpopular ideas, such as 鈥淚dentity politics is a toxic ideology that is tearing American society apart.鈥� She expressed dismay that such an opinion鈥攇enerally considered a racist one鈥攊s shunned by many academics.

To counter what Weiss considers censorship, UATX鈥檚 founders say they are devoted to 鈥渢he unfettered pursuit of truth鈥� and are promoting a curriculum that will include the 鈥溾�� centering on 鈥渢he most provocative questions that often lead to censorship or self-censorship in many universities.鈥�

As if to underscore Kelley鈥檚 warning about liberals joining the right-wing culture war, the nascent university鈥檚 includes figures like Lawrence Summers, former U.S. treasury secretary and former President Barack Obama鈥檚 economic adviser, who is a Distinguished Senior Fellow at the left-leaning .

A Counter to the Moneyed Interests Backing CRT Attacks

Kelley sees a difference between earlier battles over political correctness and those centered on CRT today. 鈥淭he Right has far more political weapons. They are actually engaged in a kind of McCarthyite attack on school teachers, the academy, on students, on families, and passing legislation on what鈥檚 called critical race theory,鈥� he says.

Right-wing narratives have cast the backlash against CRT as a led by parents concerned about bias in their children鈥檚 education. But secretive and powerful moneyed interests are at work behind the scenes. The watchdog group recently exposed how right-wing organizations, like the Concord Fund, are part of 鈥渁 network of established dark money groups funded by secret donors 鈥� stoking the purportedly 鈥榦rganic鈥� anti-CRT sentiment.鈥�

Additionally, CNBC reporter Brian Schwartz how 鈥渂usiness executives and wealthy Republican donors helped fund attacks鈥� on CRT and that it is expected to be a centerpiece of the GOP鈥檚 campaign ahead of the 2022 midterm elections.

In contrast to the politically formidable and well-funded forces arrayed in opposition to CRT, the each year gives out unrestricted funds to prominent thinkers, like Kelley, to counter 鈥渢he limited financial resources and research constraints frequently faced by scholars whose work supports social movements.鈥�

The Foundation chose six scholars whom it as doing 鈥渓eading research in critical fields.鈥� Those include abolition and Black, Latino, feminist, queer, radical, and anti-colonialist studies, which are precisely the fields that are anathema to anti-CRT forces.

Kelley, who was named one of the foundation鈥檚 2021 Freedom Scholars, agrees that such funding can help level the playing field for academics working to expand educational curricula that challenge White supremacist and patriarchal histories.

Going beyond defensive countermeasures against the right-wing attacks on CRT, such awards can help fund the study of histories of social justice movements that are thriving. 鈥淲别鈥檙e beginning to break through the narrative of civil rights begets Black Power, [which] begets radical feminism,鈥� says Kelley, citing grassroots change-making groups that have been active over the past 50 years through today and that have not gotten enough attention, such as the , the , the , , and . 鈥淛ust in the last two decades, we鈥檙e seeing so many amazing movements whose history is being written as we speak,鈥� says Kelley.

He is heartened by what he calls 鈥渘ew scholarship鈥� that is 鈥渢hinking transnationally, thinking globally, and moving away from a focus on mostly [White] male leadership and thinkers,鈥� giving way instead to the 鈥減olitical and intellectual work of those who have a different vision of the future.鈥�

Those numbers do not account for unreported and misreported murders, or trans people who have unexpectedly died under suspicious circumstances, but whose deaths have not been determined to be homicide.

While the number of individual deaths is low, Mic鈥檚 鈥淯nerased: Counting Transgender Lives鈥� project in 2016 estimated that, while the overall murder rate for the U.S. was 1 in 19,000 per year, the , more than seven times as high as that of the general population.

Many institutional factors are at play in this trend, and while there is no clear solution to ending the violence, some activists argue for direct financial support of trans women of color鈥攑aying them.

鈥淓ven small bits of economic security can help keep us away from unsafe situations,鈥� Renee Jarreau says. Jarreau is a Seattle-based musician, DJ, and producer who runs a Twitter account called 鈥淧ay Black Trans Women鈥� (@PayBlkTrnsWomen) and uses this platform to amplify disparate calls for financial support.

Trans people are a demographic highly at risk of being victims of violence and discrimination. The Human Rights Campaign has estimated that , and the vast majority of the victims are Black. Trans people often are denied work or fired when they come out as trans, present as their true gender, ask to be called by a different name or pronouns, or when their employers otherwise find out their gender identity. For this reason, many trans women turn to the dangerous underground economy of sex work because it has historically been a place where trans women have been able to make a living and even found acceptance in a community of peers.

But the financial burdens they face are considerable: common health care practices for trans people, such as hormone replacement therapy and gender-affirming surgery, are also costly. According to the American Journal of Psychiatry, undergoing , but the , according to the Human Rights Campaign. And when being passing as a cisgender woman can mean the difference between life and death, many trans women are left with little choice but to try to find the money anyway they can.

Take the example of : Her trans identity was rejected by her family, and she was kicked out at the age of 16. Houseless and desperate, she had little choice but to engage in sex work. Eventually she found work outside the underground economy and engaged in sex work less often. She got engaged to her boyfriend and had found a community outside of her blood family. However, she and her fianc茅 still struggled to find an apartment they could afford. At age 27, Carmon was found shot dead on a street in Fairmount Heights, Maryland, known to be a gathering place for sex workers and trans women.

When a trans person dies, the police reports of their deaths often are inaccurate, listing the individual鈥檚 鈥渄eadname,鈥� the name the individual stopped using once they came out as trans, or misgendering them or using incorrect pronouns. This makes it more difficult for communities to be informed of a trans woman鈥檚 death, and also for groups such as the Human Rights Campaign to get accurate data on deaths.

Jarreau says there are unique ways that trans women of color, and specifically Black trans women, are disenfranchised. 鈥淲别 [Black trans women] sit at the intersection of anti-Blackness and transmisogyny,鈥� Jarreau says.

鈥淗aving that [financial] security so we鈥檙e not worried about what鈥檚 going to happen at every moment of our lives gives us the opportunity to do other things that either helps us to sustain ourselves more or organize to help combat some of the issues we face,鈥� she says. Financial support means trans women of color can support themselves in fighting the violence they are subjected to.

鈥淎 lot of the legal progress is becoming undone, and a lot of that legal progress has never protected us anyway. The system, the courts, the police, they don鈥檛 support us. They often use their powers against us even when the letter of the law says otherwise,鈥� Jarreau says.

However, the ultimate goal isn鈥檛 money, but the security that money can help provide. 鈥淒on鈥檛 just give money to Black trans women,鈥� Jarreau says. 鈥淕ive us jobs, support our work. Support us if we鈥檙e artists, if we have businesses, if we have regular jobs. Check on us if we say we鈥檙e not doing well. Provide emotional and mental support. Provide in any way you can. Listen to the things we鈥檙e saying and center our words especially when we鈥檙e talking about issues directly related to us. Amplify our voices. It goes deeper than just money and economic security.鈥�

Formed in 2018, The Trans Women of Color Solidarity Network is a Seattle-based organization that collects money from the community through its Patreon page and redistributes it to . The group distributes up to $250 per person per month with no strings attached.

鈥淭rans women and femmes of color are still fighting for the right to live,鈥� says Lourdez Velasco, a founding member of the volunteer-run network. 鈥淲别 haven鈥檛 seen something modeled in this way specifically for trans women of color.鈥� It all started when one of the group鈥檚 founding members was planning for gender-affirming surgery. The operation ended up being covered by their insurance, and so they decided that they would use the fundraiser they鈥檇 planned to instead support the larger community.

The fund is not where the team鈥檚 work ends, however. Looking to the future, Velasco says, 鈥渨e鈥檙e hoping to build a housing solidarity network.鈥� Access to housing and safe places to stay is another large concern in the trans community, specifically when it comes to trans women of color.

Devin Lowe launched the Black Trans Travel Fund in June 2019 to provide Black trans women with funding to pay for safer ride-share services through Lyft or Uber. The group听 operates in the New York City metropolitan area, including New Jersey, but Lowe hopes to expand to a larger reach. 鈥淚 would like to expand to more high-risk areas, places like [Washington,] D.C., Baltimore, Dallas. Places where there have been lots of encounters of violence against Black trans women,鈥� Lowe says. 鈥淣o one is free until Black trans women are free and safe.鈥�

鈥淭rans women and femmes of color are still fighting for the right to live.鈥�

Lowe started the project after becoming frustrated with the lack of response to the killings of Black trans women across the country. He says he was inspired by his partner, who is a Black trans woman. 鈥淰ery often, she spoke about issues regarding harassment every day while walking down the street, trying to use public transportation, and issues with men on the train,鈥� he says, adding that many of his friends and other people in his community who are Black trans women have expressed similar sentiments.

United Territories of Pacific Islanders Alliance, or UTOPIA Seattle, is an organization that serves queer and trans Pacific Islanders (or QTPIs, pronounced 鈥渃utie pies鈥�). Taffy Johnson, the organization鈥檚 executive director, describes the organization as, 鈥渁 trans and 蹿补鈥檃蹿补蹿颈苍别-led member-based organization,鈥� explaining that, 鈥�贵补鈥檃蹿补蹿颈苍别 is a cultural gender identity native to Samoa, which translates [as] 鈥榠n a journey between masculinity and femininity.鈥欌�� The organization has many programs to support QTPIs and many of them are tailored to trans women, including a sex worker support group, HIV prevention/screening resources, employment education, workers rights workshops, tenant housing rights workshops, and a program called Mapu Maia, which supports trans people with name changes, health insurance, and obtaining access to trans-affirming health care such as hormone therapy.

Johnson says that legal obstacles that the trans community faces are compounded by the way society treats trans people. 鈥淥ur undocumented siblings, they could face incarceration and possibility deportation,鈥� she says. A 2018 Washington state law passed ostensibly to target sex trafficking in reality has made sex work more dangerous by making it more difficult to screen possible clients. In addition, an arrest could affect a trans woman鈥檚 ability to find housing and employment, and if they seek shelter in temporary housing, they will face additional structural barriers and discrimination.

Donato Fatuesi, UTOPIA鈥檚 operations manager, says that trans women of color are at risk for violence for many reasons, not just in sex work.

鈥淭here are often times that trans women of color, especially Black trans women, face violence, and in a lot of cases that violence is bred through toxic masculinity and it also comes from their partners,鈥� she says. 鈥淪ometimes it can be hard to navigate safe spaces in order to be able to receive resources, especially when that violence is coming from somewhere close.鈥�

Violence towards trans women often occurs when cis male partners feel that their masculinity is threatened, Fatuesi says. 鈥淲别 really need to have pressing conversations around toxic masculinity that continues to stigmatize trans women.鈥�

While paying trans women of color will not put an end to systemic transmisogyny or racism, advocates of the practice say it can be a step in the right direction toward more equity and safety. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 not going to alleviate the trauma of discrimination, criminalization, personal and state violence that trans women of color face,鈥� Velasco says. 鈥泪迟 is one radical way in which we can resist all types of oppression and violence. 鈥� There鈥檚 going to be so many ways collectively that we can create community and collective care.鈥�

Chilton鈥檚 apartment building is located within the campus, which is designed to facilitate intergenerational interaction. The bustling 180,000-square-foot Rosenstein campus brings LGBTQ youth, seniors, and housing together in a unified setting. to and is the only large-scale intergenerational campus in the United States to specifically provide housing, services, and programs for LGBTQ adults aged 50 and older with low incomes, and for LGBTQ youth鈥攑rimarily aged 18 to 24鈥攅xperiencing homelessness. [Disclosure: The author was a writer and editor for the L.A. LGBT Center鈥檚 quarterly magazine and blog through April 2022.]

鈥淚 look after them and they look after us,鈥� says Chilton, who is a lesbian. 鈥淚 live in a colorful building in a colorful neighborhood. We have every race, we have everyone across the sexual and gender continuum. It鈥檚 almost a microcosm of the world.鈥�

The Campus also serves as the administrative headquarters for the 54-year-old Center, which is the , with seven locations across the city. 鈥淪ome of our seniors feel very isolated, and being able to interface with the youth, I think that鈥檚 pretty special,鈥� explains Lisa Phillips, the Center鈥檚 director of youth services. 鈥淲别 had an intergenerational Thanksgiving event last year, and it was a line out the door. The seniors had a great time; the youth had a great time.鈥�

In March, the Center hosted an opportunity fair for youth and seniors looking for employment; youth residents later performed a drag show during a senior dance hosted at the Ariadne Getty Foundation Senior Housing complex. Kiera Pollock, the Center鈥檚 director of senior services, says these facilitated intergenerational interactions help create intentional opportunities for connection between people who may be at vastly different points in their lives. 鈥淥ur folks have different challenges in the community, and we have to kind of meet them where they are,鈥� Pollock says. 鈥淚 think many of our youth are trying to just figure out 鈥� how to survive, how to get back into school, how to stabilize their lives, how to get clean. So the way in which they interact with the older adults, we found, has to be kind of structured within a program that makes the most sense.鈥�

On any given day, there are more than 4,000 youths (under age 24) living on the streets of Los Angeles, mostly in Hollywood, according to the 2020 count. The percentage of unhoused youth who are LGBTQ can be as high as 40%, according to the Center. Before senior housing was available on the Rosenstein campus, the Center opened the doors of the Michaeljohn Horne & Thomas Eugene Jones Youth Housing building in 2021. The 25 apartments in the building are the first micro-units designed for LGBTQ youth experiencing homelessness in Los Angeles, .

The campus also offers 92 beds available for youths鈥�52 for the Transitional Living Project (TLP), where youths can stay for up to 24 months. Youths housed in the TLP work with Center staff to develop the skills they need to be able to live independently. The remaining 40 beds are for an emergency and crisis shelter. Youth residents have access to the Center鈥檚 full range of wraparound services and support, including case management, education, employment training and placement, health and mental health care, food and clothing assistance, counseling and support groups, and activities and events.

Carlos J. Mejia Vijil, 23, moved out of TLP in July, after living there for two years. He first arrived at the Center when he was just 19, after making a harrowing journey through Mexico from Honduras, where he feared for his life because he is gay. An immigrant-rights attorney connected him with the Center鈥檚 legal services department, which represents immigration and asylum clients from more than 70 countries鈥攎any of whom risk arrest or physical harm if they go back to their home countries because they are LGBTQ. 鈥淭hey helped me out with everything,鈥� Mejia Vijil says of Center staff. 鈥淓verything I have, every opportunity is thanks to the Center.鈥�

Mejia Vijil was initially placed in the Center鈥檚 emergency overnight shelter, then moved into TLP.  He made the most of his opportunities by completing an English as a second language program held at nearby Hollywood High School, then enrolled in the culinary arts program on campus. 鈥淭he culinary classes are in English, and I was just learning English. I tried real hard,鈥� he says. 鈥淭he older people were co-workers, and we talked like friends. They really respected who I am.鈥� Mejia Vijil now works as a line cook at Osteria La Buca on trendy Melrose Avenue, and lives in his own apartment in Hollywood.

Connecting Across Age 

The Center鈥檚 culinary arts and social services training programs are the most prominent examples of success in forging intergenerational connections in the classroom. The 100-hour social services vocational training program teaches younger and older students necessary skills to build a career in social services. Many graduates have since landed jobs at the Center, working in intake, street outreach, and peer support.

The 12-week, 300-hour culinary program focuses on developing basic culinary skills, producing 500 meals a day to be served to Center clients. Students also do a four-week internship at a local restaurant or hotel, and are then offered job placement assistance within the restaurant or hospitality sector. 鈥淚 think what鈥檚 been pretty amazing [is] to be able to have youth and seniors enrolled in a culinary class together,鈥� Phillips says. 鈥淢any of these young people have not had adults who are affirming of their identity. To see the seniors and a generation of older queer people, and to be able to support them and to share their experience from a different generation, has been really remarkable.鈥�

Pollock says since the older students usually have career and employment experience, mentoring and an abundance of mutual support occur organically in the campus鈥檚 commercial kitchen, where classes and meal production take place. And despite the decades between them, the students鈥� experiences sometimes mirror each other when it comes to gender identity or sexual orientation.

鈥淲别 had in our culinary program a youth who was transitioning and a senior who was transitioning,鈥� Pollock recalls. 鈥淭hey just happen to both apply for the program at the same time. They were able to support each other and talk about some of the different issues around that together鈥攈ow they were dressing and using different pronouns. And they talked together about how that transition is different for a younger person. That was amazing to watch.鈥�

After a career in sales, 64-year-old Annetta Daniel, who is gay, hopes to work with food in a variety of ways, and so jumped at the opportunity to enroll in the culinary program. 鈥淭hey make you very aware that this is going to be the seniors and the youth mixed. I thought, that鈥檚 fantastic!鈥� Daniel says. 鈥淚 know I have a lot to bring to the table for them. I鈥檝e been down the road that they鈥檙e headed down. And they鈥檙e going to bring a lot to the table for me.鈥�

When Daniel first moved into the Getty building in 2021, 鈥淚 had nothing but my clothes,鈥� she says. Her partner of 23 years had died in 2017, leading to housing instability. She was diagnosed with breast cancer, which enabled her to secure temporary housing because she was high-risk due to her health, then she moved into her current home in the Getty building, where she has thrived. 鈥淚 want to grow as tall as I can, I want to know as much as I can, and I want to go as many places as I can,鈥� Daniel says. 鈥淚 want to have as many friends as I can, and experiences, and this place offers that to me.鈥�

The High Demand for Housing

The Center has a total of 202 units of affordable housing for seniors who are 62 or older. More than half of the units are in the Triangle Square Senior Apartments complex, located at the corner of Selma and Ivar in Hollywood鈥攐ne mile away from the main campus. Of the , a majority (68%) live alone, as LGBTQ seniors nationwide are four times less likely to have children or grandchildren to care for them than their heterosexual counterparts, and are twice as likely to be single, notes Pollock. 

Before the doors of the Center鈥檚 affordable senior housing units had even opened in late summer 2021, more than 2,000 applications had been submitted. Most of the residents were chosen by a lottery system, but 25 of the units are designated as permanent supportive housing units for seniors experiencing homelessness, whose rents are funded by L.A. county and city grants.

The Triangle Square complex has an outdoor swimming pool and garden while the Getty building has amenities including a community room, communal kitchen, pool table, and a fitness center. Residents have direct access to the Center鈥檚 Harry and Jeanette Weinberg Senior Center and its services that include counseling and support groups, case management, home-delivered meals, in-home care, and benefits assistance. Residents can also be connected to health and mental health care, and HIV support.

For Chilton, moving into the building has been 鈥渓ife-changing.鈥� 鈥泪迟 is a personal miracle,鈥� she says. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 about having my own sanctuary. You don鈥檛 really understand that until you don鈥檛 have one. I had 10 years without [my] own sanctuary, of couch surfing and trying to make myself small, to not get in the way. Everything in my life has fallen into place, with a constant state of contentment. I don鈥檛 know that I ever felt this good emotionally, spiritually, and physically.鈥�

John Maragioglio, an 82-year-old Air Force veteran, has also found community since moving into the Getty building in October 2021. He worked at the Center as an accountant in the 1980s, during the worst days of the AIDS epidemic, and returned to the Center in 2021 when he needed a place to live. 鈥淚鈥檝e met a lot of gay people in here,鈥� says Maragioglio, who is also gay and attends a veterans social group every Wednesday. 鈥淭here鈥檚 one guy who does a movie night twice a month downstairs. You go to lunch downstairs every day. It鈥檚 so nice to have that lunch.鈥�

He has not connected with the youth the way Chilton and others have, but he鈥檚 usually happy to see them around. 鈥淚 can see where some of them have a little attitude,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut you know, we have to realize all kids have attitudes. They鈥檙e just finding themselves.鈥�

Together, Independently

Center leadership has been learning in real time how to best bring the seniors and youth together. Pollock says they鈥檝e had to learn to manage their expectations and be mindful that youth who have recently experienced homelessness may also have suffered any number of traumas in their young lifetimes.

鈥淚 think their goals are different in intergenerational connection, and we had to learn that right away,鈥� she says of the youth. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 really great that folks get to connect across our programs but can still go back home to live in their units, where maybe they鈥檙e hanging out with other 21-year-olds. Our [senior] folks are hanging out with other 70-year-olds, who maybe want it quiet after 9 p.m.鈥�

But when the connections are made, they can be invaluable. 鈥淚n the LGBT community, often people come out but they don鈥檛 have any members of their family who are queer,鈥� Pollock says. 鈥淎s a younger person, you don鈥檛 necessarily have another gay person in your direct life to mentor you. So the opportunity for some of our seniors to kind of mentor and support our youth, it鈥檚 really powerful in a community that doesn鈥檛 have that.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

This story was funded by a grant from Kendeda Fund, as part of the 猫咪社区! series 鈥�.鈥� While reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, 猫咪社区! maintained full editorial control of the content published herein.

Even as we continue to 鈥攖he shooter鈥檚 motive, the acts of heroism and sacrifice made by people who only wanted to gather in love, safety, and community鈥攊t鈥檚 important to be honest about what we know. Club Q was not simply 鈥渁 nightclub.鈥� It was for LGBTQ people to gather in Colorado Springs. The politically conservative city of less than 500,000 on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains is circled by five military bases (including the Air Force Academy) and several prominent, well-funded that have been drumming up anti-LGBTQ sentiment for decades. 

The gunman opened fire moments before the clock struck midnight, signaling the beginning of Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR), an annual observance of the ever-growing list of transgender people killed by hate violence. At least one of the five people killed at Club Q was an out transgender man; his name was no doubt added to the ceremonial reading of names in somber gatherings around the country on Sunday. 

Club Q was hosting a weekend of events to commemorate TDOR, including a drag show on Saturday night, and an all-ages drag brunch scheduled for Sunday morning. Events like these by far-right, anti-LGBTQ groups, including the Proud Boys鈥攚ho have showed up to harass families at drag queen story hours in , , , and other states this year. 

On a local scale, the member of Congress representing Colorado Springs鈥擱epublican Rep. Lauren Boebert, who just secured re-election by a razor-thin margin鈥攈as spent much of her time in Washington , including introducing legislation that would criminalize gender-affirming medical care for transgender youth. On Sunday, 鈥渢houghts and prayers鈥� to the victims and their families, adding, 鈥淭his lawless violence needs to end and end quickly.鈥� Out lawmakers, including Brianna Titone, the first out trans woman elected to Colorado鈥檚 state legislature, were , noting that Boebert not only opposes common-sense gun control, but also has promoted the anti-LGBTQ myth that gay, transgender, and queer people target children for sexual abuse. 

The death, devastation, and despair in Colorado today is the tragic but predictable outcome of relentless fearmongering, of hate speech allowed to go unchecked on major broadcast and social networks, and of legislation that attempts to control and punish people deemed 鈥渄ifferent鈥� simply by the nature of their existence. All of this, in a country that refuses to implement even basic gun control measures that might have kept weapons like the AR-15 used at Club Q (and in ) out of the hands of people who use them to commit mass murder.

Many of us have seen the writing on the wall. Queer people have been bracing for another attack like this, and many have been sounding the alarm for years. Sunnivie covered the Pulse massacre in Orlando in 2016, and it鈥檚 impossible to ignore the parallels with the attack on Club Q鈥攁nd what members of our community have learned about how to protect each other since then. In Orlando, police waited hours to enter Pulse, likely resulting in additional fatalities. In Colorado Springs, reports indicate that a transgender woman and an with his wife and daughter, actively fought, disarmed, and detained the gunman before police arrived. They undoubtedly saved countless lives. We have always been the ones to keep each other safe鈥攂ut this rises to a new level, where LGBTQ people and our loved ones now carry active combat training and knowledge of emergency medical care to a night out with our community. 

It doesn鈥檛 have to be like this.

There鈥檚 little doubt that the mass shooting at Club Q is the horrific result of rising anti-LGBTQ sentiment. There鈥檚 also little doubt that it will happen again unless we, as a collective community鈥攕traight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, queer, nonbinary, and cisgender鈥攎ake a serious commitment to act. We must commit to stopping queerphobic and transphobic legislation, to publicly and privately challenging anti-LGBTQ rhetoric spewed by politicians and people we鈥檙e in community with, and to protecting LGBTQ people at all costs. 

That鈥檚 what 猫咪社区! is about: bringing people together to explore solutions that transform our world for the better. The mass shooting at Club Q might not change gun laws, but it should be a rallying cry for all those committed to a world where LGBTQ people are free鈥攆ree to exist as we are, free to thrive, and free from hatred. We deserve that鈥攁nd so do each and every one of you.

Raeyun, a queer Filipino trans student, was carefully navigating the stairs down and paused midway. He was looking for me. Most lighting work had to be done during blackouts, so often Raeyun did not have much to do during regular rehearsals. Instead, we sat in the tech booth and hung out.

Sometimes he wrote fan fiction, which he referred to as his 鈥済aymances鈥�; other times he drew on his phone. Mostly, we talked.

Up in the booth, Raeyun pulled out his phone and started scrolling through photos of his favorite K-pop artists. He wanted me to see what he saw: beautiful, idolized, masculine men who were wearing skirts, crop tops, and eyeliner.

Raeyun loved K-pop. He had a singer from NCT as the backdrop on his phone. Raeyun鈥檚 adoration was not just about the music. He described K-pop as a world in which men of color could engage with their gender expression and each other in ways that felt distant and not quite possible to him.

As he was flicking through photos of all the fashion styles he admired and limning the possibilities of femme masculinity, I felt acutely aware of my recorder tucked into my backpack downstairs in the auditorium seats, turned off and unhelpful.

Got Trans?

East City High is an imposing building that encompasses a full city block and enrolls around 1,800 students. It has four floors, several outbuildings, an auto shop, a turf field, a track, and tennis courts. A local nonprofit runs a community gardening program from the grounds, and in the spring, local elementary school children regularly gather there, learning about seeds and plants.

East City High occupies the unceded lands of the Tsleil-Waututh, Musqueam, and Squamish Nations. This area, which is now known as the Lower Mainland of British Columbia, has been split into several neighborhoods, though it is often simplified into the east and west side. The west side is associated with wealth and understood as having better schools and opportunities. The east side is positioned as grittier and more politically progressive.

I was at East City High conducting an ethnography on the ways gender-nonconforming youth navigated their genders as they moved through different spaces and relationships at school. In my year at East City High, I accompanied youth to their classes, joined in during their extracurricular activities and clubs, ate lunch with them, attended their performances, and hung out in hallways, in tech booths, and on the peripheries of classrooms.

Sometimes we skipped school together, met up in caf茅s, and just roamed the halls. We texted (often). They taught me how to play Dungeons & Dragons, introduced me to the world of K-pop, schooled me on what TV shows I really should have been watching all along, and read me their writing. 

Many of these young people were nonbinary and genderfluid. Sometimes they used the term 鈥渢rans,鈥� though they also struggled with not feeling 鈥渢rans enough.鈥� They talked about themselves as gay, queer, bisexual, pansexual, trans, gender-nonconforming, genderfluid, and nonbinary. These words overlapped and existed together, in sometimes seamless and other times uneasy ways. 

Therefore, I most often use 鈥済ender-nonconforming鈥� and 鈥渢rans,鈥� an umbrella term for any person whose gender does not align with the one they were designated at birth, to signal how the youth desired to be recognized as trans and, at times, held this desire for recognition in tension.

The Labor of Gender Legibility

Over the year I spent moving alongside six youths in grades 9鈥�12 at East City High, I noticed that youth performed myriad forms of labor throughout a school day to exist as gender-nonconforming. This labor was in response to the people, the physical environment, the curriculum, and the policies that reproduced narrow understandings of trans identity that did not have space for the capaciousness of their relationships to gender. At times, this labor was apparent and perceptible as work.

Youth corrected adults when they were misgendered and deadnamed or spoke to teachers and administrators to secure accommodations in their classes. Other times, this labor was unnoticed and devalued, as with Raeyun鈥檚 sharing of K-pop photos in the tech booth.

Though youth regularly engaged in small acts of resistance and rebellion by escaping into their own spaces or disappearing into their writing during classes, this behavior was not acknowledged as important, as valuable, or as a form of intervention.

I take seriously their daily acts of trans life as forms of labor. I consider how in the tech booth, for instance, Raeyun was engaged in not only the labor of survival but also the work of utopic world-building. He was creating another world to exist in while at East City High through the work of caring鈥攆or himself, for his gender, and, ultimately, for the burgeoning trans community he was cultivating through this labor.

During my year at East City High, I observed many teachers respond with care and concern to the idea of trans youth and to the trans youth they were aware existed. This response aligns with recent scholarship on the privileging of visibility as a metric when working with and supporting trans students in schools.

Overwhelmingly, when East City High teachers were aware of a trans student, they endeavored to support this young person. This support was framed within an accommodations approach, which has become the dominant strategy for pursuing trans-inclusivity in Canadian schools. 

Teachers assisted students in accessing workarounds in physical education classes or changing their names and pronouns. At times, this support was seamless and useful. At other times, it was awkward and halting. However, it was always reactive, compelled either by adults鈥� awareness of a trans student in their class or by a student making themselves explicitly known as trans to an adult.

The administrators, teachers, and staff promoted this progressive version of the school in part through visuals. As one entered, one of the first visible images was a painted land acknowledgment expressing awareness of the Indigenous peoples on whose land the school was built. Throughout the school, there were poster campaigns denouncing racism and homophobia. 

The narrow hallway leading into East City High鈥檚 theater studio was lined with posters from old productions, potted plants, and a couple of couches. In this hallway, there was also a queer and trans visibility campaign, mostly obscured by the plants, that featured photos of celebrities and asked, 鈥淕ot Pansexual? Got Trans? Got Two-Spirited? Got Femme?鈥�

Scarecrow Jones, a mixed-race, nonbinary grade 9 student, abhorred this campaign. On many occasions, they ranted about the wording of this display: 鈥淲hat, like, I mean, have I got the disease, do you mean? Oh man, are you coming down with the bug?鈥� Scarecrow Jones offered, 鈥淎t least it鈥檚 not blatant homophobia… They鈥檙e trying, which I guess is nice, but at the same time, it鈥檚 the bare minimum form of representation that鈥檚 not accurate at all.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Scarecrow Jones did not see themself in these posters, but they reckoned that it was a nice attempt by East City High to recognize that trans people might exist.

Frequently unnoticed was the labor that youth performed to construct ways of existing that were unrecognizable to the adults at the school. At times alone and at times collaboratively, gender-nonconforming youth at East City High worked not just to understand and resign themselves to the circumstances and limitations of the school but to create trap doors鈥攕paces that did not require them to show up the same way from hour to hour or day to day.

These were spaces where they could be flamboyantly gay trans men who gushed about wearing halter tops, or long-haired, nonbinary, mixed kids who sometimes did not know if they were having a boy day until they went to bed that night. Gender-nonconforming youth created both physical and fantastical trapdoors where they could exist in relation to their genders in ways that adults in the school either did not notice or could not understand. 

Their practices of world-making were often undetected because they were intentionally happening in spaces that were tucked away, peripheral, and, at times, imaginary.

Theorizing Gender Nonconformity

At East City High, adults were quick to express care and concern for known trans youth because they believed that being trans makes a young person vulnerable, especially in a school. While educators accepted recognizable trans youth, they did not want youth to be trans.

When trans identity is associated with risk, then wanting a young person to be trans is analogous to wishing a young person a hard life. Therefore, despite adults鈥� care and support, no one ever expressed desire for a young person to be or grow up queer and trans.

As a result of the concern of adults at East City High, they were invested in helping visible trans students. I argue that this approach to trans-inclusivity both relied on and reproduced narrow terms of gender legibility that tethered gender nonconformity to risk, harm, and danger. It is critical to emphasize that most of the youth I worked with were not visible as trans. They were not recognized as trans because of the ways they were racialized, their fatness, their neurodivergence, and the many ways their genders did not align with societal expectations for what it 鈥渕eans鈥� and 鈥渓ooks鈥� like to be trans.

Many youth wanted to be understood as gender-nonconforming based on the ways they transgressed societal gender norms. However, youth also desired gender nonconformity precisely because it was confusing and uncategorizable. Being gender-nonconforming, therefore, meant that adults in the school would not be able to place them because they were intentionally unplaceable.

At times, their resistance was grounded in a fierce intention to disrupt cisheteronormative assumptions; at other times, it was others who resisted knowing them, unable to recognize the complexities of their genders.

I am not interested in making these youth and their genders stable and knowable. Rather, I ask: When educators respond to trans youth from places of risk and concern, how do youth work daily to create space to exist as gender-nonconforming young people? Though the youth I worked with regularly confronted transphobic, racist, and ableist ideas and narratives from adults, other students, the curriculum, and the physical space of the school, they intervened at East City High through their labor.

In North America, we are currently witnessing a heightened conversation regarding the bodies, experiences, and lives of queer and trans youth. There is a proliferation of fearmongering about their existence, leading to district-wide book bans, the blocking of gender-affirming health care, and legislation that criminalizes discussions of gender and sexuality in schools.

Often, this condemnation of queer and trans issues in schools is happening alongside the denouncing of antiracist teaching and learning. These intertwined denunciations are mired in widespread understandings of adolescence as a risky period of life and the belief that youth need adult protection to be safely guided toward adulthood.

However, the six youth I spent a year moving alongside did not predominantly understand themselves and their genders through discourses of risk and harm. Rather, they worked hard to build worlds at East City High where gender nonconformity was not defined by suffering. Their thinking illustrates the potential of a pedagogy of trans desire in schools, and I call on educators to turn away from concern and instead cultivate desire for trans and gender-nonconforming youth.

This adapted excerpt from by LJ Slovin (NYU Press, 2024) appears by permission of the publisher.

Like many people, I spent most of 2020 to 2022 indoors. The global pandemic halted most air travel in those early days and, once flights were available, I was far too concerned that people would be traveling unmasked, risking spreading the virus to those of us who had properly masked and practiced preventative measures for years. My concerns were valid. After years of no vacations, many Americans were engaging in 鈥�,鈥� or booking all the vacations they felt they had missed out on for years. COVID cases , producing new, highly contagious variants that were less likely to cause hospitalizations but were nonetheless concerning. While saw an overall decrease in hospitalizations and deaths from COVID-19, the surges in rates still followed the general trend: When people are outside, so is Corona.

There is a part of me that yearns for community. I grew up in Oakland, California鈥攁 lovely place to be young and queer. Pride parades were regular occurrences both in my hometown and across the Bay in San Francisco. Even beyond June, I often saw visibly out and proud queer people of all races, ethnicities, colors, shapes, and creeds. I鈥檇 seen breasts and chests with sticky stars over the nipples at least a dozen times by the time I was in middle school. The rainbow flag was raised in doorways, windows, and planter boxes all over my town. I鈥檓 pretty sure that鈥檚 where I first learned to take Pride for granted.  

In fact, I never actually attended a Pride celebration as an out queer person until I was in my mid-30s. A few trips to New York鈥攎ost of them ruined by exes鈥攁re all I really have to remember the season. My social anxiety has always been a deterrent for me as I often avoid large crowds, loud music, or spaces where I will have to be seen. After years of therapy and healing, I鈥檓 hoping to find safe queer spaces where even I can be fully 鈥渙utside.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

For queers like me, who likely haven鈥檛 had many Pride experiences, this year is special. I鈥檓 turning 40 this year, a milestone for a neurodivergent heart patient who was told I would be lucky to make it to this age. Not only that, but as a professor at a private university, I am among the many people in academia navigating the political atmospheres of our college campuses, as pro-Palestinian students and faculty have been by university leadership. Meanwhile, I am watching people sit silently as Palestinians are , seeing our state governments , and witnessing an impending that offers us a vote for 鈥溾�� or no vote at all. So many of us queer and trans folks live in isolated communities, existing as 鈥渢he only鈥� at our jobs, in our classrooms, or in our neighborhoods. Pride has long been an opportunity to be one of the many. 

We have to remember, though, that Pride was a rebellion against police brutality. As I write in my book, , 鈥泪迟 was a Black butch lesbian and drag king named Storm茅 DeLarverie who ignited the confrontation between police and onlookers when she allegedly punched police who were arresting her.鈥� Meanwhile, it was trans icon Marsha P. Johnson who is said to have thrown the first brick that started the Stonewall Rebellion. Johnson and her longtime comrade, Sylvia Rivera, were critical in organizing protests in those early hours, helping many white gay men see the struggle for freedom from oppression as their own. On June 28, 1970, the first Pride parade鈥攖hen known as the 鈥攚as held, on the first anniversary of the Stonewall Rebellion. We come from this rich queer and trans history. Pride is the result of this struggle.

For our Pride events to live up to the benchmarks set by our queer and trans forefolks, today鈥檚 events must consider the fullness of our identities. Pride has to be accessible and cop-free. Wheelchair ramps, hand sanitizer stations, free masks, and outdoor venues seem like the most basic accommodations. For folks who are sound- and sight-sensitive, we should have more events with sensory considerations and places where we can find quiet. We can no longer accept Pride events that only make room for one type of queer person鈥攐r that cater primarily to the corporations more invested in than collective liberation. 

The overpacked clubs, skin-to-skin dance halls, seedy bars, and sweaty festivals are emblematic of Pride. And I want all of it. I want to touch grass and dance until my knees hurt. I want to find glitter in my hair with no clear explanation of how it got there. I want to feel comfortable and safe meeting new people in intentionally created venues, given that there are so few places for us to really just be. I want to feel as though no one is watching me because I鈥檓 gay but they are watching me because I鈥檓 fabulous. I want to feel free.

Though I am firmly of the belief that I am way too old to be in 鈥渋n the club,鈥� I am confident that there are places for us queer aunties seeking community and fellowship with our comrades. Spaces centered on us and our fellowship are spaces that take away the unease and overwhelm we typically feel outside. Spaces like these help prevent us anxious gaybies, femme and butch queens, androgynous goddexes, and broken-wristed twinks from feeling the isolation we feel most everywhere else.听

So, this year, instead of worrying about my mental and physical health at Pride, I just want to be focused on asking, 鈥淲ho all gon鈥� be there?鈥�

For Murphy, starting her gender transition helped her focus on her education as she developed her career鈥攂ut she faced near-impossible barriers at every turn. She started her transition while incarcerated with the Colorado Department of Corrections (CDOC), which repeatedly denied her gender-affirming care. She had to make multiple appeals before she could access hormone replacement therapy, she recalls, and she experienced severe depression because she was unable to treat her gender dysphoria. Even a recommendation by a CDOC psychiatrist wasn鈥檛 enough to qualify her for surgery. 

Her safety was also compromised, she told The 19th. Murphy was denied transfer to a women鈥檚 prison, she said, and constantly harassed and misgendered by staff and inmates while housed in men鈥檚 facilities. She endured sexual advances from other inmates and was punished through solitary confinement for speaking out when faced with threats against her life. Survival was exhausting. 

鈥淎t one point for me, if I wasn鈥檛 at my job assignment, I didn鈥檛 really come out of my room a lot,鈥� Murphy said. 鈥淚 just wanted to stay away from the drama and any type of attempt to try to victimize me.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Murphy is one of hundreds of transgender women with similar experiences in the state. Her story is included in filed in 2019 by the law firm King & Greisen, LLP and the Transgender Law Center. According to the lawsuit, these women were frequently subjected to sexual and physical violence, and their requests for medical care were routinely ignored, in violation of the state constitution and Colorado Anti-Discrimination Act. 

This March, that suit resulted in a groundbreaking that requires Colorado to overhaul how it houses incarcerated transgender women and provides medical care to all trans people behind bars. Now, Colorado鈥檚 prison system must provide the same gender-affirming health care covered by state Medicaid, and trans women must have the option to be housed with other women.

While other settlements may mandate specific changes without any input from the government agency involved, in this case lawyers worked with Colorado officials to outline a legally binding agreement. Experts hope it will serve as a model for comprehensive change for other states. Transgender women across the country face life-threatening circumstances behind bars鈥攁nd the majority of them are forced to live with men. 

The roots of the case trace back to 2018 when a Black trans woman named Lindsay Saunders-Velez after she was . She later worked with attorney Paula Greisen and the Transgender Law Center to file her case. During the legal team鈥檚 investigation into Saunders-Velez鈥檚 experiences, the attorneys learned that many others in Colorado shared similar problems.

鈥淲别 started going to the prisons to meet witnesses and we were shocked at that time to learn that there were about 150 women living in men鈥檚 facilities,鈥� said Greisen, who is now a partner with Greisen Medlock, LLC, a civil rights and employment law firm. Over time, that number more than doubled to about 350 women, resulting in that Greisen鈥檚 previous firm filed in November 2019 against Colorado鈥檚 governor and the state鈥檚 corrections department, in which Murphy is named as a plaintiff. 

Saunders-Velez鈥檚 own case was settled in July of that year for $170,000. It did not allow her to transfer to a women鈥檚 facility, which she preferred, but she was allowed to serve the rest of her sentence in the men鈥檚 facility where she felt the safest. It also did not require broader changes to the state鈥檚 treatment of incarcerated transgender people. 

The new consent decree, however, mandates systemic changes aimed at addressing trans women鈥檚 health and safety needs. These must be implemented in full by January 2025, although it allows for some flexibility if the Colorado Department of Corrections experiences staffing or budget shortages. 

This agreement is unique because of the ways it addresses housing and care for incarcerated trans women.

Since 2003, the federal Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA) has required that transgender, nonbinary, and intersex people be assessed on an individual, case-by-case basis to determine the appropriate housing for them. But the ambiguity of the law鈥檚 language gives corrections departments broad discretion to make housing assignments for transgender people. Many prisons require trans people to undergo gender-affirming surgery before they can be placed in a facility that aligns with their identity, yet accessing gender-affirming care within prison at all is often impossible or involves long wait times. 

The World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH) publishes internationally recognized for transgender and gender-diverse people. Frequently, however, prison facilities, including those in Colorado, deny trans people鈥檚 requests for care and housing that aligns with their gender identity.

To address these concerns, the CDOC has agreed to house transgender women in one of three areas, including two new units, depending on what the person wants. These can include living in the general population at one of the state鈥檚 women鈥檚 facilities or the integration unit at the Denver Women鈥檚 Correctional Facility, which would help an incarcerated trans woman adapt before moving into the women鈥檚 general population. Another option is living in the voluntary transgender unit at the men鈥檚 Sterling Correctional Facility, the largest prison in the state鈥檚 system. 

Julie Abbate, a lawyer and advocate, said it is clear that a lot of thought and attention to detail was put into the Colorado agreement. 鈥淭his consent decree seems to have drawn on lessons learned in the field that if you just throw a bunch of people who have lived in a facility designated for men into a facility for women鈥攚ithout any kind of transition period or warning鈥攖hen it can really be an awful situation,鈥� she said. Abbate worked for 15 years in the civil rights division of the Department of Justice and is now the national advocacy director for Just Detention International.

Shawn Meerkamper, managing attorney at Transgender Law Center, who worked closely on the Colorado lawsuit, said that the housing options laid out in the consent decree should help both transgender and cisgender incarcerated people adjust to new living situations. The integration unit is meant to be a temporary place to ease the transition for everyone involved, they said鈥攚hile the voluntary unit is meant for trans women who don鈥檛 want to leave the only prison system that they know and have experience navigating. 

Having so many options for transgender women is unique, and is a significant achievement for state advocates, said A.D. Lewis, attorney and project manager for Trans Beyond Bars at the nonprofit Prison Law Office. Although PREA requires prison officials to ask transgender people how they want to be housed, none of his clients have ever been asked, he said. 

鈥淚n the vast majority of prison systems, they will be housed by the external appearance of their genitals at the time of booking,鈥� he said. Some trans women are placed into women鈥檚 facilities based simply on that criteria, while others are placed into solitary confinement or isolated from the general population鈥攐ften because they are such a target for violence. 

The Colorado consent decree outlines a process for making housing placement requests for transgender inmates and it sets deadlines for when the CDOC must respond. Any of the placement requests that are denied for the integration unit, voluntary transgender unit or women鈥檚 general population must be reviewed every six months. 

The agreement also directs the CDOC to update its clinical standards for medical care and to work with an independent medical and mental health consultant to provide training for staff. It allows for flexibility depending on the type of medical care an incarcerated trans woman may want, Abbate said.

The policy provisions of the consent decree apply to 鈥減ersons who have been, are, or will be incarcerated in the CDOC and who have, at any time, identified themselves to CDOC during their incarceration as transgender women,鈥� according to the consent decree.

These changes will make transgender women behind bars safer, experts told The 19th鈥攚hich is sorely needed, as the problems in Colorado are part of a pattern throughout the country. D Dangaran, director of gender justice at Rights Behind Bars, a nonprofit legal advocacy organization, takes on legal cases for incarcerated transgender people who are being denied gender-affirming care and other needs. Trans people behind bars are misgendered, deadnamed, forced to endure strip searches, they said鈥攁nd these everyday violations of bodily autonomy are torturous. 

鈥淰iolence occurs behind bars on a daily basis for all trans people, especially trans femme people,鈥� they said. 

Transgender people behind bars鈥攑articularly women housed with cisgender men鈥攅xperience a of sexual violence, harassment, and assault in prisons. It is still rare for transgender women to be housed in women鈥檚 facilities, Dangaran said.

Researchers are in the early stages of understanding the outcomes of policies that aim to support incarcerated transgender people, since there are so few examples of inclusive policies to learn from, said Elana Redfield, federal policy director at the Williams Institute at the UCLA School of Law. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a huge need for more information,鈥� she said. 鈥淥n their experiences and particularly what policy changes actually make a real, concrete, measurable improvement for them.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In California, such an experiment is currently underway. In 2020, the state that requires transgender women to be placed in a women鈥檚 facility if they ask to be. The law went into effect in 2021. Yet Lewis, who works closely with trans clients in California, said that in the three years since then, only 44 people have been approved for transfer out of hundreds who have requested it. There is a huge backlog of requests and no formal administrative policy on how the state鈥檚 corrections department should address it. 

鈥淚 think it would take over a decade for them to house the rest of the people that have requested to be reviewed for housing in a women鈥檚 facility. That鈥檚 just trans women,鈥� Lewis said. 鈥淪o we鈥檙e talking about pretty significant delays.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Frequently, prison facilities only change their policies on housing or gender-affirming care if a lawsuit forces their hand, Dangaran said. 

Donna Langan federal prisoner to receive gender-affirming surgery in December 2022 after she sued the U.S. Bureau of Prisons, according to her lawyers. In June 2022, Cristina Nichole Iglesias to receive gender-affirming surgery while in federal prison. She received her treatment in 2023. 

Even with a court win, implementation can be slow or further enforcement may be required.

Ashley Diamond after she was held in men鈥檚 prisons, where she reported being sexually assaulted multiple times and denied hormone treatments. In 2016 she won an undisclosed settlement, which prompted policy changes in Georgia. Diamond in 2023 because the state failed to provide her adequate health care or protect her from sexual assault after a second incarceration, according to her complaint. Ultimately, Diamond withdrew her second lawsuit, citing mental health reasons.

As for Murphy, she never got gender-affirming surgery while in prison. She was released in May 2020 and was able to get the surgery last year鈥攕ince it was covered by Colorado Medicaid, she didn鈥檛 have to pay out of pocket for the expensive procedure.

The settlement reached alongside the consent decree also requires the state prison system to pay over $2 million in damages to members in the class action suit, which Murphy sees as an acknowledgment that the state did something wrong, she said. The policies brought by the consent decree are going to make 鈥渟ome monumental and systematic changes in the system,鈥� Murphy said. 鈥淚 feel like it will be a catalyst for the rest of the country. A blueprint.鈥�

Consent decrees, while legally binding, must also be monitored for enforcement. The limited data collection inside prisons can make the process of determining outcomes for transgender people a challenge, Abbate said. Surveying the affected women about their experiences is one important way to understand the effectiveness of a particular change, she said.

And in the Colorado case, if the state prison system falls out of compliance with the consent decree, they can be taken to court again. The Transgender Law Center will stay in touch with plaintiffs as well as with the outside experts who will help implement the new policies, in order to make sure the state is following through on its obligations. 

These changes will show other courts what is required for incarcerated trans people to be safe, even if it鈥檚 not binding precedent in other states. The policy changes mandated by the Colorado consent decree are groundbreaking in their breadth, Dangaran said鈥攁nd hopefully, those changes will play out more effectively than in California.

鈥淚f it鈥檚 what the people in Colorado really wanted and needed, that itself is going to create an impact that will have ripple effects鈥攁nd that is a carceral intervention that could lead to a lot of good,鈥� they said. 鈥淥r we could find after five years of this that it didn鈥檛.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

This story was originally published by .

Since 2021, PEN America has recorded cases of book bannings鈥攁 staggering number on the rise. In just the first half of the 2022鈥撯��23 school year, PEN America saw a compared to the previous six months. A striking written for and by the LGBTQ community.听

鈥淭he real power of a book is that they open up a different world to readers. And what people want to ban is our worlds and our lives,鈥� says Julie R. Enzser, Ph.D., editor and publisher of the lesbian literary and art journal . 鈥淏ook bans are a concrete strategy [used] by folks who are interested in denying the existence of LGBTQ people and people of color who have ideas that challenge white hegemony.鈥�

Book bans鈥攚hich describe any action taken to limit access to a book鈥攃an happen through a variety of channels. On a local level, parents or an individual may decide to challenge a book in their local libraries or schools, triggering a review of the titles, and often their removal from shelves. Regardless of the motivation behind these complaints, the impact is undeniable: In Florida, following the complaints of a single man. There are also organized, large-scale efforts from far-right parent groups like Moms for Liberty, which lobbies school districts and officials to oppose curriculum and books that are LGBTQ inclusive or related to critical race theory. 

The targeting of books by and about LGBTQ people and people of color isn鈥檛 new鈥攁uthor George M. Johnson, who wrote about growing up as a Black queer man in the oft-banned 2020 memoir All Boys Aren鈥檛 Blue, has spoken openly about the connections between . But what is new is the of these book bans鈥攁nd their symbiotic relationship with conservative and anti-LGBTQ legislation. 

鈥淭he bans and challenges are resulting in proposed legislation or [passed] legislation,鈥� says Leigh Hurwitz, the collections manager at Brooklyn Public Library. 鈥淭hey are targeting lists of hundreds of books in some cases. [It鈥檚] not just a single person coming to a PTA meeting talking about a single book.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In 2021, the Oklahoma state senate, for example, that would ban all books that dealt with sex, sexuality, and gender identity from public school libraries. More recently in Utah, a to 鈥渙bjectively sensitive鈥� materials and books鈥攁llowing public school employees to be charged with a misdemeanor if banned books are found in their classrooms. Meanwhile in Florida, some school districts are due to recent, and incredibly vague, state laws. At the same time, states that targets queer, and especially trans, access to education, health care, and other basic human rights. 

LGBTQ youth are particularly vulnerable to book bans, as they may not have the means to buy, find, or keep a book outside their school or public library. And while by publishers, authors, and advocacy groups, most young people can鈥檛 afford to wait for slow-moving legal action. Given the stakes, the role of librarians, publishers, and grassroots organizers are critical in the fight to maintain access to these cherished queer and trans stories. 

Libraries as a Lifeline

The first line of defense is libraries. For Hurwitz, there are two main strategies for protecting book access鈥攁dministrative and communal. Libraries have policies to handle bans, but often these procedures aren鈥檛 being used. 鈥淚n many cases, books are just taken off the shelf once someone complains, and that鈥檚 not what should be happening,鈥� says Hurwitz. Clear, protective policies are needed so that librarians can field complaints and point to a systemic response. And there are organizations there to help鈥攖he American Librarian Association for libraries and individuals navigating a ban.

At the same time, libraries are also urgent sites for youth organizing, which is why Hurwitz helped develop through the Brooklyn Public Library. Launched in 2022, Books Unbanned provides youth all over the country with free, no-questions-asked access to the library鈥檚 entire digital collection, as well as access to book clubs, a podcast, and intellectual freedom forums. Recently, the program also launched the training, where youth can learn hands-on advocacy skills and fight censorship through civic engagement.

鈥淭eens are so aware that books are extremely powerful for learning more about themselves and the world. They鈥檙e a force for change,鈥� says Hurwitz. By leveraging youth engagement, libraries and programs like Books Unbanned empower the and advocate for their right to read.

Beyond the Shelves

Still, access to queer and trans stories can鈥檛 rely solely on institutions鈥攊ndependent publishers, informal advocacy networks, and tight-knit social groups all create vital points of access. 

Sinister Wisdom, for example, not only publishes new lesbian writing, but also recontextualizes and redistributes rare, formerly out-of-print works through its , which has published works by banned author Audre Lorde, as well as authors like Pat Parker, Judy Grahn, and Beth Brant. In this way, access to LGBTQ texts isn鈥檛 just about fighting a wave of book bans. It鈥檚 about challenging a publishing landscape that allows vital LGBTQ books to fall out of distribution in the first place. Likewise, Sinister Wisdom offers an dating back to 1976 and free books for incarcerated women.

鈥淲hat we鈥檙e really trying to do is bring people together to organize around books, to talk about books, but also to really know one another and to really expand our sense of what it means to be a lesbian in the world today,鈥� says Enzser. 鈥淲别 always need to bring back stories from our history to talk about our future.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Others look towards the internet. , an independently run online database, was launched in 2019 by Ash*, a trans woman and researcher, after she realized there was no centralized location for free, trans-related texts.

鈥淲别 believe education should be free and knowledge shouldn鈥檛 be behind a paywall,鈥� says Ash. There are dozens of volunteers who manage the growing collection of more than 2,000 texts, and the estimated 120,000 yearly visitors to the site. And the independence of sites like Trans Reads makes them less susceptible to pressure by school administrators, lawmakers, or parents to remove books. Simply put, anyone can on Trans Reads any time, for free. 

The project is dedicated to Leslie Feinberg鈥攁 butch lesbian, author, and transgender activist who released the 20th-anniversary edition of hir canonical, banned novel Stone Butch Blues for free in 2014 shortly before hir death. 鈥淭he novel was a way for trans, gender nonconforming, and queer people to realize ourselves. It told us we aren鈥檛 alone,鈥� says Ash.

Like Ash, Kayleigh Lassonde was changed by this single banned queer book. In 2023, a friend gifted Lassonde a copy of Stone Butch Blues鈥�a text Lassonde was always drawn to, but felt hesitant to read alone. 鈥淭he idea of experiencing and reading the book alongside fellow butches made the content feel significantly more approachable,鈥� says Lassonde. Inspired by Feinberg, Lassonde launched Butch Nook in February 2024, a New York City鈥揵ased book club for butch, stud, and masc-identifying folks. The first book discussion welcomed 23 people and since launch, 70 people have filled out the interest form.

鈥淩ight now in the United States we are in a moment of extreme censorship and historical erasure. There are people working at this very moment to remove as much evidence of queer and trans existence from the law as they can,鈥� says Lassonde. 鈥淎t the Butch Nook we are providing space and resources for butches to not only read and discuss censored literature, but to understand what meaningful solidarity looks like. The group may bring people together through our shared identity, but our purpose goes beyond the issues of the butch community. We believe that none of us are free until all of us are free.鈥�

Taken together, these strategies鈥攑rotective, institutional policies in libraries; intentional youth development; and independent trans- and queer-led literary projects鈥攚ork to create a world in which queer and trans stories aren鈥檛 just accessible, but abundant. 

* Ash requested to use a pseudonym to protect her from professional reprisal and the risk of doxxing. Read 猫咪社区!鈥檚 policy on veiled sources here.

10 Banned LGBTQ Books for Your Reading List

The author and the sources they spoke to for this article have curated a reading list of their recommendations for oft-banned books by, for, and about LBGTQ people. Bring a bit more color to your spring reading list by adding these titles:

by Maia Kobabe

Maia Kobabe鈥檚 Gender Queer is one of my personal favorite banned books. Kobabe has been at the forefront of censorship and we always need more youth-oriented comics and literature like eir graphic novel!
鈥擜sh, Trans Reads

by Kyle Lukoff and by JR and Vanessa Ford

Although literature by, for, and about trans youth has historically been overwhelmingly white, new books like When Aidan Became a Brother by Kyle Lukoff and Calvin by JR and Vanessa Ford speak to the stories of trans kids of color. Unfortunately, these books are almost immediately targeted with bans upon publication.
鈥擜sh, Trans Reads

by Trung Le Nguyen

This award-winning YA graphic novel roots itself in the past, the present, and the timeless realm of fairy tales. Every night since he was a kid, Ti岷縩 and his mother, Hi峄乶, have read each other fairy tales from the local library, a tradition that continues through to Ti岷縩鈥檚 adolescence. Told from both of their perspectives, we see them learn about each other through stories: Ti岷縩鈥檚 grappling with how to come out as gay and Hi峄乶鈥檚 omnipresent memories of the family she left behind in Vietnam. now at Brooklyn Public Library!
鈥擫eigh Hurwitz, Books Unbanned

by Alison Bechdel

Bechdel鈥檚 rich graphic novel about growing up in a funeral home, coming out, and thinking about her father鈥檚 homosexuality is a romp through queer literary culture and contemporary lesbian communities. It is wonderful in every way.
鈥擩ulie R. Enszer, Sinister Wisdom 

by Alice Walker

The Color Purple is a novel written in letters about two sisters, Celie and Nettie, in rural Georgia. It is gorgeous and difficult and challenging and provocative鈥攁nd it won multiple awards when it was published and continues to delight audiences today, not only as a novel but also as a film and stage play. Our lives would be diminished immeasurably if we could not read and grapple with The Color Purple.
鈥擩ulie R. Enszer, Sinister Wisdom 

by Leslie Feinberg

Originally published in 1993, Stone Butch Blues tells the life of Jess, a stone butch living a working-class life in 1950s New York. Banned shortly after its publication, Stone Butch Blues is a call to action, exploring identity, violence, trangender and lesbian community, and the power of organizing.
鈥擲ara Youngblood Gregory

by Jonathan Evison

Lawn Boy tells the story of Mike Mu帽oz, a Chicano man living in Washington state, who, after getting fired from a dead-end landscaping job, is trying to figure out exactly what the American dream means for him. With humor and wit, Lawn Boy explores capitalism, class, discrimination, and sexuality. It鈥檚 the perfect coming-of-age novel for readers of any age.
鈥擲ara Youngblood Gregory

by Malinda Lo 

This book is at the top of my list for its emphasis on historical and cultural detail鈥攜ou鈥檒l feel immersed in 1950s San Francisco, Chinatown, and the lesbian bars of the era as Lily Hu, the main character, explores her sexuality. Last Night at the Telegraph Club was also the first YA book with a queer woman as the main character to win the National Book Award.
鈥擲ara Youngblood Gregory

by Susan Kuklin

Originally published in 2014, this book features the stories of six young trans and nonbinary youth through interviews and photography. Touching, triumphant, and sometimes heartbreaking, this book is a lifeline for not just trans youth, but also the people who care for them.
鈥擲ara Youngblood Gregory

And occasionally, an ask, on behalf of a client: “I need $100 … Do you have it?” The money might be for transportation to help get a client to an abortion clinic across the state or across state lines.

Another request might be: “I am overwhelmed; can I shift my calls to you today?” says Laurie Bertram Roberts, who runs the Mississippi Reproductive Freedom Fund in Jackson, Mississippi.

Across conservative states and in cities such as Jackson, home of the state’s only abortion clinic, or in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, grassroots organizations like Roberts’ are working nonstop to support reproductive justice. Funding cuts and increasingly restrictive legislation have transformed large swaths of the Southeast into , where low-income women increasingly have come to depend on these groups to access abortions.

The recent surge in new laws is leaving many women with few options.

“It’s not just about taking away access from one state,” Roberts says. “It’s about making sure we have nowhere to go.”

States like Mississippi, Alabama, Kentucky, and Georgia have been a gathering storm around abortion access—and what many believe is the before the U.S. Supreme Court over the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision that made abortion a constitutional right. Conservatives hold a 5-4 majority on the court.

Alabama Gov. Kay Ivey this week signed perhaps the to date, banning the procedure in almost all cases, including for incest and rape, and making an allowance only for cases where a woman’s health is at “serious” risk. Under the law, doctors who perform abortions can be charged with felonies and sentenced to up to 99 years in prison.

It’s the latest in a series of so-called “heartbeat bills” passed by Republican-controlled legislatures in six other states, including Mississippi. With limited exceptions, the measures outlaw abortions after a doctor can detect a fetal heartbeat, usually after six weeks, a point before most women even know they are pregnant.

So far this year, have proposed abortion bans, according to NARAL Pro-Choice America. Several have passed so-called “trigger laws,” which would make abortion illegal if Roe v. Wade is overturned.

The ACLU has said such bans are blatantly unconstitutional and has sued to block Ohio’s heartbeat bill from taking effect in July. It has already and vowed to challenge the Alabama and Georgia measures. A .

So far this year, 28 state legislatures have proposed abortion bans.

Reproductive justice advocates and their allies see these cases as real-life Handmaid’s Tale scenarios. They have been raging on social media and scrambling for women in need.

Amanda Reyes, executive director of Yellowhammer Fund in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, said her office on Wednesday fielded so many frantic calls from scared, confused women that she pinned a message to its Twitter account: “YOU CAN STILL GET AN ABORTION IN ALABAMA!”

“This happens every time there’s a restriction,” says Reyes, whose organization, like Roberts’ Mississippi fund, also helps low-income women get to and pay for abortions.

She said one call was from a woman who wanted to know if she could “self-manage” an abortion based on the supplies she had on hand.

“This is the danger of these kinds of things.”

Both Yellowhammer and Robert’s Mississippi Fund are part of the National Network of Abortion Funds, which provides funding to help remove the financial and logistical barriers to abortion access. It supports dozens of funds across the country, including across the Southeast. It is one of across the country working to help make abortion more accessible, especially for lower-income women.

“We see people facing the most extreme financial and social barriers to getting an abortion,” Reyes says. People sometimes roll their eyes when they hear about a typical case: “a minor who is disabled and her parents who are poor and undocumented. That is normal for us. That’s what we get every day.”

Yellowhammer volunteers started out as clinic escorts, but Reyes said she always had the idea of starting an abortion fund. “Then Trump happened,” she says. And the clinic protestor rhetoric he espoused, unheard of at that level before then, created more of an urgency.

She funded the first abortion in January 2018, and more than 300 abortions last year. She expects to do 1,000 this year.

“You can hear the fear in people’s voices when they call us—nervous and scared. They are talking to complete strangers” about intimate details of their lives.

“We tell them, ‘We’ve got your back” … And you can literally hear a huge sigh of relief.”

In Mississippi, Roberts, who was raised religious and held anti-abortion beliefs until her own changed her, operates under the motto “by any means necessary.”

She helps clients pay for abortions but also for things like transportation and child care, or for airfare, hotels, and food when they need to travel away from home. Clients are assigned abortion doulas, who might accompany them or be available and on call.

She recalls one client who at 25 weeks pregnant flew—for the first time—out of state for an abortion. “We were literally on call the entire time she was” in Colorado, she says. And Roberts cultivated a contact on the ground there to help her.

Roberts embraces a more holistic approach by also offering services to women who are pregnant and parenting. For example, one client whose abortion she funded a few years ago is now getting help while she’s pregnant.

People who want to help, she says, “need to think about what they are willing to do. What’s your threshold for resistance?”

Beyond Planned Parenthood and NARAL fighting to protect reproductive rights in many parts of the U.S., there are organizations seeking to make abortion more accessible, especially for lower-income women.

Here are some located across the Southeast:

Access Reproductive Care Southeast, ARC, is a volunteer organization in 12 Southeastern states that help people access reproductive care.

National Network of Abortion Funds is a network of over 80 funds that helps lower-income individuals access abortion care.

Mississippi Reproductive Freedom Fund is volunteer-run group that helps people access abortion in Mississippi.

The Yellowhammer Fund is based in Alabama and provides funding for abortions as well as help with other obstacles, such as travel and lodging.

As House Speaker Paul Ryan said in a post-failure news conference: “Obamacare is the law of the land … We’re going to be living with Obamacare for the foreseeable future.”

For his part, Trump (who, of course, says he is not to blame for the loss) “The best thing politically is to let Obamacare explode.” He called the law “totally the property of the Democrats” and said that “when people get a 200 percent increase next year, or a 100 percent or 70 percent, that’s their fault.”

The president and his administration can do a lot to make that happen. The secretary of Health and Human Services has extraordinary authority under the Affordable Care Act and can use the power of regulation to . There will be many battles ahead on the regulation front.

But, and this is the good part, states will have a say in this too. And there is the potential for a few states to engage in experiments that might improve the law. The question here: Is the administration willing to work to improve insurance options for Americans or is it more interested in punishing Democrats? (Yeah, I know, but there is a political upside to answering that question correctly.)

Here’s the thing: There is a crisis in insurance markets. And a bipartisan solution, meaning most Republicans working in partnership with Democrats, is the best way to reach a solution.

There are three ways most of us get health insurance: our employers, public insurance such as and , and the individual market when we buy our own insurance policies. Employer-based care is an accident of history (it’s a long story) and has been . Public health insurance has been growing (something the conservatives in Congress really object to because it codifies the notion that health care is a right), and under the Affordable Care Act the number of people who have individual insurance coverage has increased from about 10.6 million to 15.6 million.

Much of the current health insurance debate is about that individual market. Even if it is the smallest part of the problem, it’s important to understand, as :

Individual markets were troubled prior to the ACA’s enactment in 2010. One reason was that premiums for these policies were increasing more than 10% a year, on average, while the policies themselves had major deficiencies. They often excluded pre-existing conditions, charged higher premiums for people with health risks and for young women, placed limits on annual and lifetime benefits, or refused to renew policies for individuals who became sick. Many people who tried to buy plans were turned down. In 2010, an estimated who had tried to buy a plan in the individual market over the prior three years reported that they were turned down, charged a higher price, or had a condition excluded from their plan because of their health.

Thus “returning to the status quo ante—before the ACA—is not a viable option for the individual markets.”

The fix does not involve a “great mystery,” according to Blumenthal and Collins. It’s simply making certain that more young people buy insurance to help pay for the higher health care costs of older Americans. The bigger the pool, the lower the cost. (Which is why single payer works as a public policy.)

One part of that solution is to increase the government subsidies so more people will buy in. That’s how the insurance market could work better.

Where does Indian Country fit into this matrix?

There is a legal understanding that the Indian health system is federal obligation that stems from the promises made in treaties to provide doctors and nurses to reservation communities. Yet no Democrat or Republican government has ever—ever—proposed fully funding that Indian health system. Members of Congress often acknowledge the treaty responsibility but have never followed those words with an adequate budget.

No Democrat or Republican government has ever—ever—proposed fully funding that Indian health system. 

The Affordable Care Act separates insurance from health care delivery. It basically makes the Indian health system (both the government-operated Indian Health Service facilities and those run by tribes and tribal organizations) medical care that’s mostly funded by federal appropriations and by insurance. Nationally that mix right now is about 80 percent appropriations and 20 percent insurance. But the insurance side of the equation under the Affordable Care Act is unlimited. That pool of money grows every time an eligible American Indian or Alaska Native signs up for insurance.

This makes full-funding of Indian health a possibility. Even better: Insurance collections remain at the local clinic or hospital. It really is the best kind of funding.

There are three ways to add money to Indian health care now.

First: More American Indians and Alaska Natives can sign up for Medicaid. The fact is there are many more people eligible than have signed up. estimates that nationwide 1 million American Indians and Alaska Natives lack coverage. Already, Medicaid covers more than half of all children, but 11 percent of those children remain uninsured.

Second: More American Indians and Alaska Natives can sign up for exchange plans under the Affordable Care Act. This is huge. , “If you get services from an Indian health care provider, you won’t have any out-of-pocket costs like co-payments, co-insurance, or deductibles, regardless of your income.” And this benefit has essentially a permanent open enrollment.

Signing up for insurance (including plans from an employer) makes the Indian health system stronger for everyone. It’s the same principle as any insurance: the larger the pool of people who participate, the lower the cost.

1 million American Indians and Alaska Natives lack coverage.

Third: It’s time to make the case for Medicaid expansion in state governments that have said no now that the Affordable Care Act will remain the law of the land. Currently, there’s unequal funding. States can remedy that by expanding Medicaid eligibility (even while trying some of the conservative experiments such as imposed work rules). It’s a win for Indian Country when a state does this because it increases the number of people eligible for insurance. It’s a win for the state because Indian Health Service patients are a 100 percent federal obligation— so the state will be reimbursed by Washington, D.C.

expansion. And it’s likely that the Trump-Ryan failure will push other state legislatures to consider this approach. Indian health patients would benefit from Medicaid expansion in Oklahoma, South Dakota, Texas, Maine, Mississippi, Nebraska, North Carolina, Utah, Idaho, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

It might be easy to see the defeat of Trump and Ryan’s plan as a huge win. But it is also a warning sign—make that a flashing red light with sirens—that Congress is deeply divided and cannot govern.

The same Republican divisions that killed their health reform plan will kill President Trump’s budget (thank you). But it will also make it nearly impossible to pass any kind of budget. The best outcome might be a “continuing resolution,” a status quo budget.

An even bigger challenge will be for Congress to pass an increase in the debt ceiling. Secretary of Treasury Steven Mnuchin informed Congress that the United States reached its limit on March 15. The Treasury is now juggling accounts so that the government can continue to pay bills.

Conservatives in Congress—actually, just about every member of Congress—hate this part of governing. But a no vote here has enormous consequences for everyone’s finances: the markets. There is an absolute requirement that Congress increase that borrowing authority. It will be a nasty fight.

Of course there is a solution: Create a new coalition of Republicans and Democrats. This works in state legislatures across the country (most recently Alaska). It takes 216 votes to pass legislation in the House so a working body of 22 or so Republicans, plus the 194 Democrats in the House, could accomplish a lot together. But that would mean rethinking the role of party politics. And governing.

This article was originally published at Trahant Reports. It has been edited for 猫咪社区! Magazine.

For those of us who aspire to an equitably shared multiracial democracy, freedom and safety require, at minimum, dominion over your own body and responsibility for the well-being of the larger community, including those with less power and fewer resources.

That blending of personal and communal well-being has been at the heart of, an annual, national event initiated nine years ago by the 鈥攚hich has for 25 years organized to shift resources away from prisons and punishment and reinvest in our communities.

NOSL was our response to the 2012 murder of Trayvon Martin, a 17-year-old African American boy who was killed by a Florida neighborhood watch captain. The purpose of this yearly event is to reimagine safety as dependent on community, and centered on health rather than on punishment. It is held on the first Tuesday in August every year and organized as an alternative to the police-centered National Night Out to redefine how we can create safety and joy in our communities without policing. Since its inception, NOSL has spread across the country, with more than  to redefine safety centered on the power of community, not cops.

Just a few weeks ago, I joined more than to celebrate that alternate vision for public safety at the 2022 NOSL. There was music and face painting, food and workshops, free books and diapers, and a drag show. Unlike the police-centric National Night Out, which pushes a narrative of 鈥溾�� as the pathway to community safety, NOSL models how we can be together in secure and supportive communities.

But underlying it all was the profound understanding of how that vision is endangered in today鈥檚 America. Some of those threats have roots going back to the institute of slavery. As author Michelle Alexander exposed in her groundbreaking 2010 book, our prison industrial complex of incarceration and detention is too often a rebranded form of cruel bondage and servitude, falling most heavily on Black, Brown, and Indigenous people.

Those racial disparities have been so sharply and painfully revealed over the past few years by a succession of highly publicized murders and deaths of unarmed people of color at the hands of police and within our prisons. While local governments have continued to fund law enforcement and expand jail budgets, police continue to kill people of color: .

The racial and gender hatred fomented by Trump and embraced by far too many of our citizens has added layer upon layer of physical danger and spiritual trauma to vulnerable communities. The same 鈥淢AGA鈥� politicians and right-wing fanatics who howled about mask mandates and vaccinations as overly intrusive show no compunction about asserting dominance over the bodies of people of color, the LGBTQ community, or the women who make up more than half this nation.

We have witnessed the vilification of immigrants, young children torn from their parents, and young adults who have never known another home outside the U.S. needlessly deported by Immigration and Customs Enforcement. We have seen Asian elders and transgender teens increasingly become the targets of violence and abuse, fearful of walking to the supermarket or attending school. And this year, our courts have yet again failed to keep us safe by ripping away the bodily autonomy and freedom of pregnant people across the country.

NOSL invites us all to expand our definitions of freedom and public safety by seeing the intertwined nature of both the challenges of violence that happens in our communities and the solutions to keep each other safe from state violence and the systems that harm us. Even within our own communities of color, queer people, transgender people, and gender-nonconforming people have been historically marginalized. That has made them doubly vulnerable to mistreatment and violence within the carceral system as well. NOSL provides an opportunity to educate us all on those intersections.

This year, as part of NOSL, we commissioned  to reflect on what safety means to them. The artwork they created reflected the hunger we feel to hold our blended communities in a safe embrace. Their loving and luminous depictions emphasized that true safety and liberation go far beyond 鈥渇air and respectful鈥� policing. Artist  reflected on their artwork for this year鈥檚 event:

鈥淢y art for Night Out for Safety and Liberation came with a lot of reflection on the recent hardships of these past few years of the COVID-19 pandemic and uprisings against state violence. This piece reimagines safety and liberation by conveying a desire to bask in rest, appreciation, and healing by way of one鈥檚 immediate natural environment; relying on your loved ones to hold you up or even teach you how to float when it鈥檚 necessary and while you can. Our work towards liberation shouldn鈥檛 come at the expense of our health and individual care.鈥�

True safety and freedom come when we work together to heal ourselves and each other beyond the need for policing.

It comes with people having their needs met.

It comes when we invest in community-based alternatives to policing, like community mental health programs, public education, restorative justice practices, and economic justice.

True safety and freedom come when we change local, state, and national spending priorities to bolster those systemic changes and fund local community people and programs that can implement them. 

Only then can the artists鈥� vision become our lived reality.

But that progress is likely invisible to a casual media consumer, as coverage of these myriad efforts in mainstream media has been cursory, at best. That鈥檚 why 猫咪社区! has created 鈥淩ealizing Reparations,鈥� a six-part series of deeply reported stories that illuminate the rich ecosystems of reparations already growing throughout the country. We are proud to present this series, funded by a grant from the , during Black History Month. 

As Torsheta Jackson explains in her examination of local reparations efforts, cities such as Evanston and Chicago in Illinois, as well as Asheville, North Carolina, are carrying out their own versions of reparations, paving the way for other cities around the nation to do the same.听

But in Tulsa, Oklahoma, home to arguably the clearest incident of racial harm deserving of compensation, formal reparations efforts have stalled. In a powerful report centered on Greenwood and the aftermath of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre, Anneliese Bruner, who has deep roots in that community, explores how the descendants of survivors are rebuilding economic power.听

Meanwhile, the politically powerful state of California has gone the furthest of any state in realizing reparations. As Erin Aubry Kaplan reports, the California legislature is considering a bill based on careful recommendations by a reparations task force that it appointed some years ago. Yet the big question remains: Will there be cash compensation?

Because reparations are not restricted to compensating for the harms of slavery, they must also include recognition of the myriad lost opportunities that slavery鈥檚 legacy and ongoing systemic racism continue to deny Black people in the U.S. Torie Weiston Serdan knows firsthand the impact on Black youth who have been deprived of generational wealth. In a report that spans the nation, she examines how Black youth-centered spaces can be a form of reparations for a new generation, and explores the edges of what is possible in an economy that continues to marginalize young people of color.听

There is an urgent need for a cultural shift on reparations at a time when right-wing forces are attacking history education. Given Hollywood and social media鈥檚 outsized impact on the public discourse, Jonita Davis scours through pop culture narratives on reparations and finds that young Black influencers are pushing the envelope on how to talk about the issue in simple terms. Our series opens with a forward-thinking report, where Trevor Smith explores what it means to identify as a 鈥渞eparationist.鈥� Examining how identity politics can further social justice, he raises comparisons to distinct identities such as abolitionist or feminist and leaves readers to consider becoming reparationists on the road toward realizing reparations.

The (Identity) Politics of Reparations

Can 鈥渞eparationist鈥� be a distinct identity, akin to feminist or abolitionist, a label worn with pride by progressives who believe in reparative compensation for Black people?

By Trevor Smith

How Pop Culture Shapes Reparations

As the movement for reparations gains steam, mainstream and independent content creators continue to find new ways to advance the idea of reparative damages for Black people on screen.

By Jonita Davis

Spaces as Reparations for Black Youth

Investing in programs, resources, and physical spaces by and for Black youth is critical to narrowing generationally inherited disparities in wealth, health, and beyond.

By Torie Weiston-Serdan

Beyond 40 Acres and a Mule

Cities like Evanston, Illinois, and Asheville, North Carolina, are paving the way for local reparations in the absence of a federal plan.

By Torsheta Jackson

Will California Do Reparations Right?

California is closer than any other state to realizing reparations for Black people. Now, the state faces a make-or-break moment.

By Erin Aubry Kaplan

Rebuilding Tulsa With or Without Reparations

Tulsa鈥檚 Greenwood District is measuring its wealth in bonds between people and generations, even as reparations for the 1921 massacre remain elusive.

By Anneliese Bruner

More to Explore

猫咪社区! was privileged to be the media partner of the inaugural 鈥攁 historic and unprecedented national convening on reparations hosted by the Decolonizing Wealth Project. For three days in June 2023, hundreds of activists, organizers, politicians, and funders gathered in Atlanta, Georgia, to connect, collaborate, and take action to make reparations a reality in our lifetimes. On the final day of the conference, DWP announced a to support the reparations ecosystem with a new round of direct grantmaking of $3 million to be deployed in 2023, in addition to other resource and education programs to support the reparations movement over the next five years. 猫咪社区! Senior Editor Sonali Kolhatkar was on location in Atlanta, and had in-depth conversations with more than a dozen leaders in the reparations movement鈥攊ncluding elders who have dedicated decades to this fight, and young people who are bringing fresh energy and momentum to the movement.

Watch these exclusive video interviews below:

This series was funded by a grant from Liberated Capital, a fund of the , which is led by Edgar Villanueva, of the Lumbee tribe, and works globally to disrupt the existing systems of moving and controlling capital using education and healing programs, radical reparative giving, and storytelling. Reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, but 猫咪社区! maintained full editorial control of the content published herein.Read our editorial independence policy.

Chris Harris, policy director at the , explains that the 2020听demands were rooted in a vision of public safety that ensures communities have access to 鈥渄ifferent means by which people get their needs met, [and] that people鈥檚 needs are actually being met, and they鈥檙e not just being sent police because that is the only public service that the community has invested in or that鈥檚 available.鈥� By the time the general election rolled around that November, however, establishment figures, including soon-to-be President Joe Biden, were from the demand to defund the police. Cities such as , , Austin, and Los Angeles that took initial steps to cut police funding in response to protesters鈥� demands soon faced challenges.听

Today, the struggle to realize the movement鈥檚 central goal of reimagining public safety continues in the streets, the conference rooms of community justice organizations, and in discussions around government budgets despite roadblocks and a lack of mainstream support. 

鈥淭he importance of this work is to see public dollars invested in and meeting the needs of people in our community and prioritizing those who have been historically marginalized,鈥� says Harris.

Following the George Floyd protests, some cities initially made big changes, shifting hundreds of millions of dollars of city funds away from law enforcement. In August 2020, the city council in Austin, Texas, to the city鈥檚 police department budget totaling about $150 million over a year and to reallocate those funds to violence prevention, food access, and abortion access programs. That November in Los Angeles, California, , requiring that 10% of the county鈥檚 unrestricted general funds, totaling between $360 million and $900 million per year, be invested in social services and prohibiting the county from using the money on prisons, jails, or law enforcement agencies.

These wins soon faced establishment opposition. A superior court judge in Los Angeles issued a tentative ruling just months after voters approved it, claiming it improperly restricted the L.A. County Board of Supervisors from deciding how and where to spend county funds (an appellate court and upheld the measure last year). Meanwhile, the Texas state legislature passed , which levied penalties against cities that reduced police budgets. This legislation forced Austin to halt plans to reallocate police department funds and restore funds it had cut from its police budget the previous year. Similar legislation is being to ensure that even in cases of a city budget shortfall, 鈥渢he police department will be the last department that would be defunded,鈥� according to Representative David Marshall, one of the bill鈥檚 Republican sponsors.

Democratic politicians on Capitol Hill have also rejected calls to defund the police, even condemning Republican-led moves that would in federal budget appropriations using the talking point that 鈥渄efund[ing] law enforcement hurts communities.鈥� During his 2022 , President Joe Biden declared that when faced with questions about safety and justice, 鈥淲别 should all agree the answer is not to defund the police.鈥� During Biden鈥檚 tenure, in 2023, by U.S. law enforcement than in any other year in the past decade. Since 2020, state and local governments in have also green-lit militarized police training facilities, some with federal funding.听

Research shows that the growing militarization of police forces nationwide communities and disproportionately worsens law enforcement outcomes for marginalized groups, such as disabled people and people of color. Claims that funding police training could help better protect communities fall flat, too, with research showing that even training programs designed against marginalized groups do not improve police interactions with those communities.听

Communities of color have led the movement against police violence for decades, recognizing that the institution of policing is rooted in racism. 鈥淗istorically, those who were involved in lynching people in our community were local judges and sheriffs up into the 1950s and 鈥�60s. We have continued to have similar incidents with police departments and abuse,鈥� says April Albright, legal director of .听

With stubborn opposition from both sides of the aisle to reducing police budgets, organizers have shifted tactics. Harris says community leaders in Austin are now focused on preventing the city鈥檚 police budget from growing. They are also working on allocating funding from the city鈥檚 general fund in ways that align with some of the aims of movements to defund the police through a .

鈥淭his is a community-built and collaborated-upon set of budget recommendations at the city level, designed to invest in the community with a focus on equity, meaning particularly folks who have historically had their neighborhoods and communities disinvested by the city,鈥� explains Harris. 鈥淲别鈥檙e pushing forward for recommendations to see services, programs, and direct dollars given to people in those communities.鈥� A similar budget-focused initiative is .

Starting the struggle with budget allocations is practical. 鈥淢ost budgets鈥攚hether at the municipal level, county level, state, or national level鈥攁lmost a lion鈥檚 share of these budgets are committed to public safety. And what safety looks like, traditionally, is law enforcement,鈥� says Albright. Most cities dedicate of their budgets to policing.

Recommendations in Austin鈥檚 annual community investment budget include funding harm-reduction services, homeless services for Black youth and adults, emergency rental assistance, and alternative forms of first response to reduce police interactions with community members in crisis. 鈥淲别 have community health paramedics and community health workers [who] have proved pivotal in responding to both health and mental health issues in the community, particularly among unhoused folks, and connecting folks with services rather than pushing them into the criminal legal system,鈥� explains Harris.听

When armed police are dispatched to an individual in crisis, especially those experiencing a mental health crisis, results can be deadly: According to at least 20% of those killed in a police shooting since 2015 were experiencing a mental health crisis at the time.听

Austin is one of dozens of cities to non-police first-response programs since 2020. Early research on these programs suggests that not only do they improve outcomes for people in crisis but they also . The public agrees: According to a recent national survey, think 鈥渟ending behavioral health care workers to certain calls related to mental health, substance use and homelessness鈥� would help improve public safety.

Efforts like those in Austin have also garnered some institutional support, with organizations such as the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) backing them as evidence-based approaches to community safety. 鈥淲别鈥檙e looking at shifting the paradigm in community safety to more front-end, solutions-driven approaches,鈥� explains Cynthia W. Roseberry, director of the Justice Division at the ACLU.听

The ACLU recently held its on Capitol Hill to brief Congress and the White House on research showing the success of non-police first-response programs and investments in solutions to prevent crime, including addressing rising housing costs and improving access to mental health care. One of the ACLU鈥檚 asks to Congress was for $100 million to be earmarked for mobile crisis response in the appropriations process, which Roseberry says was well received by lawmakers.

There are legislative efforts already underway to reimagine public safety and first responses. Arguably, none is more promising than . This legislation, introduced by U.S. Representative Cori Bush in 2021, would establish a Division on Community Safety within the Department of Health and Human Services and provide funding for noncarceral first responders, restorative justice, and harm-reduction-based mental health and substance use treatment programs for communities nationwide.

Albright says that recent actions to stop Cop City in Atlanta, Georgia, and high-profile brutal crackdowns on pro-Palestine protests on college campuses have brought the demand to defund police back into the national spotlight and could help spur change. 鈥淐op City and the movement against cop cities around the country, as well as what we see happening on campuses鈥� is renewing the cry for folks to find a way to redirect the funds that are normally given to law enforcement to other areas,鈥� she says.

While the demand to defund the police may not have the sort of establishment lip service it got four years ago, organizers say the issue remains top-of-mind in communities nationwide and will be on the ballot this fall. 鈥淲别 have to join forces and use every tool that we have available鈥攆rom voting to protests to boycotts, whatever it is,鈥� Albright says. 鈥淗istory shows us that when we do that, we win.鈥�

Conditions at Men鈥檚 Central are so dangerous that it has been under federal oversight for . Located just minutes from downtown Los Angeles and Chinatown, the sprawling cement structure is surrounded by barbed-wire-topped walls. Inside are some 12,000 people awaiting trial after arrest, or prison after conviction鈥�and some of the most notorious  in the country. 

Years of reform efforts driven by elected officials and federal oversight have resulted in  toward ending the neglect and countless abuses documented at the facility. Activists say it鈥檚 past time to shut down the system altogether. Grassroots groups working with the  are leading a campaign dubbed 鈥淐are First, Jails Last鈥� that advocates replacing jails with affordable, quality housing and mental health resources. Meanwhile, the  has worked to move county revenues away from incarceration and toward community-based initiatives.

The Case of Jalani Lovett

In September 2021, 27-year-old  became one of the latest victims of the L.A. County jail system. The Oakland native was being held in solitary confinement at Men鈥檚 Central while awaiting the start of his prison sentence when he was found unresponsive in his cell. Despite having multiple injuries and deadly levels of fentanyl and heroin in his system, the county coroner ruled his death 鈥渁ccidental鈥� and closed his case shortly thereafter. 

But Lovett鈥檚 mother, Terry Lovett, says there鈥檚 no good explanation for how her son, held in a single-person cell, could have obtained drugs or sustained injuries so severe that his shoulder was dislocated. She points to the , which indicated that her son had high levels of heroin and fentanyl in his system at the time of his death. 鈥淵ou die at 2 milligrams [of fentanyl],鈥� Lovett says. 鈥淗ow did he get 10 in him?鈥� 

Lovett is convinced that a notorious  operating inside Men鈥檚 Central, known as the 鈥�3000 Boys,鈥� is responsible for her son鈥檚 death. In a  against the county and its former sheriff, Alex Villanueva, Lovett鈥檚 lawyers claim: 鈥淭he 3000 Boys hold de facto control over the Men鈥檚 Central Jail,鈥� and 鈥渋nstead of protecting and serving, deputies who are part of the 3000 Boys terrorize individuals and operate the deputy gang similarly to a street gang.鈥�

In 2018, Villanueva became the  to be elected sheriff of L.A. County,  to policing and jails. But he proved to be a  to progressive hopes. In 2022, he  in a probe of abusive deputy gangs, and he vehemently  the closure of Men鈥檚 Central. Villanueva lost his bid for re-election in 2022 to , who ran on a platform of bringing stability and a spirit of collaboration to the office. Villanueva鈥檚 predecessor, Republican , had also promised to reform the jail system and end inmate abuse, and likewise failed to do so. Before McDonnell,  oversaw the L.A. Sheriff鈥檚 Department for half a century, before being convicted of interfering in a federal investigation into inmate abuse. 

It is against this backdrop of corruption and violence that Lovett鈥檚 lawsuit alleges nefarious conduct as the reason for her son鈥檚 mysterious death. She鈥檚 clear about the first step toward real reform: 鈥淚 think first of all, you need to get rid of the [sheriff鈥檚] deputies,鈥� says Lovett. 

Depopulating Men鈥檚 Central Jail

Activists like Mark-Anthony Clayton-Johnson, executive director of , one of the member organizations on JusticeLA鈥檚 executive committee, notes a 鈥減attern in which Black and Brown mothers are finding their children dead in the county jails with no answers, with cover-ups.鈥� He believes that beyond holding sheriff鈥檚 deputies accountable, jails ought not to exist at all. 

鈥淧eople who have lost loved ones to brutality and medical abuse and negligence in those jails have actually moved the board of supervisors to close [Men鈥檚 Central],鈥� he explains. The Care First, Jails Last campaign he backs is centered on replacing L.A. County jails with facilities that foster both mental health and restorative justice.

Mental health crises are inextricably linked to incarceration and abuse in L.A. County. Built in 1997 as an expansion of Men鈥檚 Central Jail is Twin Towers Correctional Facility, which the L.A. County Sheriff鈥檚 Department touts as the 鈥�.鈥� Like Men鈥檚 Central, Twin Towers is also  of its approximately 3,000 residents. About one-third of all those incarcerated within the L.A. County jail system have received treatment for mental health. 鈥淏y default, we have become the largest treatment facility in the country. And we鈥檙e a jail,鈥� Tim Belavich, director of mental health for the county jail system, told NPR鈥檚&苍产蝉辫;. 鈥淚 would say a jail facility is not the appropriate place to treat someone鈥檚 mental illness.鈥� Activists seeking to close the facility echo this sentiment, saying the county is simply locking up people who need mental health resources. 

鈥淧eople with mental health disabilities [are very likely] to experience the type of brutality and medical abuse and negligence that is costing people their lives,鈥� says Clayton-Johnson. Abolitionists like him say brutality and abuse are only amplified when incarceration and mental health illnesses are combined at the hands of law enforcement. In 2019, JusticeLA beat  to replace Men鈥檚 Central with a nearly 4,000-bed facility that activists decried as a 鈥�.鈥� In September 2022, the L.A. County Board of Supervisors again considered a motion to build what the Sheriff鈥檚 Department called 鈥�.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Again, activists succeeded in thwarting the plan, and instead pushed the board to adopt a  filed by county supervisors Hilda Solis and Janice Hahn on 鈥渄eveloping mental health care facilities to help depopulate Men鈥檚 Central Jail鈥濃�攁 critical distinction from 鈥渟ecured mental health facilities.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

These victories signaled crucial, if preliminary, steps toward reducing the harm incarcerated people continue to experience while under the care of L.A. County. 

鈥淭here is a map, there is a solution, there is a well-researched, well-substantiated plan 鈥� that would improve the well-being of our communities and see less and less jail facilities in Los Angeles County,鈥� says Clayton-Johnson. Part of that plan includes diverting those who struggle with mental health issues into 鈥減rograms that would get them out of the jail, out of a cell, into the community, into peer-based models with clinicians on-site, and resources on-site, and permanent housing.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淲别 know that that model works,鈥� he adds.

Moving Money Out of Jails

 is a well-known activist who challenged longtime incumbent L.A. City Councilmember Gil Cedillo in June 2022 by running on a platform of abolishing mass incarceration鈥攁nd .

The 32-year-old points to the data illustrating that jails are a racial justice issue. 鈥淚n L.A. County, 50% of the people in the jail system are Latino, 30% 鈥� are Black,鈥� she says, adding that 鈥淏lack community members only make up about 9% of the population.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Hernandez was part of the grassroots , which pushed for the demands of the Care First, Jails Last campaign to be codified into a ballot measure. 

Responding to relentless community pressure, the L.A. County Board of Supervisors convened an Alternatives to Incarceration (ATI) work group, which in turn produced an  in spring 2020, built from the consensus of thousands of stakeholders. 

In fall 2020, nearly 60% of L.A. County voters , a ballot measure that came out of the ATI report. Hernandez believes Measure J 鈥渨as a groundbreaking measure, written and championed by community members and organizers,鈥� and one that 鈥渞eallocates existing general funds into community investments, alternatives to incarceration, and housing.鈥�

What鈥檚 more, Hernandez notes that Measure J 鈥渕oved 10% of locally generated tax dollars back into community 鈥� to make sure that money could go specifically to Black- and minority-owned businesses.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Progress Amid Challenges

County supervisor  was once a member of the U.S. House of Representatives and the nation鈥檚 first woman Labor Secretary (under President Barack Obama). Today, she has successfully turned part of JusticeLA鈥檚 vision into reality via a newly launched project called .

Funded through federal CARES Act money, the village, which opened in summer 2021, is a 4-acre housing facility built on the site of what was to be an expanded Men鈥檚 Central Jail. The village offers shelter to the unhoused, as well as wraparound services, including mental health care. 

鈥淚nvesting in an infrastructure rooted in care is necessary to not only reduce the jail population, but to provide resources that interrupt cycles of incarceration,鈥� says Clayton-Johnson. He applauds Supervisor Solis for 鈥渄riving forward an essential model of what is needed to close Men鈥檚 Central Jail; and the promise of this model should be the basis of setting a timeline to do so.鈥�

Construction has now begun on a similar, larger project called the , part of what Solis calls a 鈥渃are first infrastructure,鈥� echoing the language used by grassroots abolition groups. 

Meanwhile, the impacts of Measure J鈥檚 passage remain unclear. Although it鈥檚 been two years since the ballot measure passed, the reallocation of funds from incarceration into social service has been slow, prompting local journalist , 鈥淲hy is the current Board of Supervisors, the same one that adopted Measure J, not doing anything?鈥�

Part of the problem is that a  challenging Measure J鈥檚 constitutionality has delayed implementation of the voter-backed measure. But crucially, Hernandez explains, 鈥渢he county never needed Measure J to reallocate funds鈥攕o they renamed this effort Care First Community Investment (CFCI) and continued with implementation.鈥� A  outlining expenditures for the diverted funds includes money for permanent housing, education, violence prevention, job training, and youth development.

鈥泪迟鈥檚 not perfect,鈥� says Hernandez of the measure she helped to realize. 鈥淏ut it has been successful in moving money to the priorities of community. It takes a while to get here, but this is just the beginning.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Although the  framed Hernandez鈥檚 win as 鈥渁 testament to the solidifying power of the city鈥檚 progressive movement,鈥� it remains to be seen if she can move the city and county to end mass incarceration when she takes her seat on the City Council in December 2022. 

Waiting for Justice

鈥淚 will fight until the day I die to get justice for my son,鈥� says Terry Lovett. 

She remembers how, growing up in Oakland, her son was an athlete, winning numerous trophies for basketball and football. 鈥淗e was a product of the hood,鈥� she says, and he 鈥渨ent to L.A. to pursue his rap career.鈥� She pictures him fighting for his life in his jail cell, wondering if he may have been beaten to death. She imagines him saying, 鈥淢y momma is going to get y鈥檃ll.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In the meantime, Men鈥檚 Central Jail continues to operate鈥攁nd continues to generate disturbing reports. In September 2022, the  in 鈥減sychological distress鈥� had been shackled in the inmate reception center at Twin Towers for days at a time while they awaited processing. 

Conditions like those鈥攁nd the high likelihood of additional fatalities within the jail system鈥攁re just a few of the reasons abolitionists like Clayton-Johnson say, 鈥淢en鈥檚 Central Jail needs to close, and 鈥� that is not up for debate.鈥�

Given the glacial pace of federal change, cities like , and , have begun implementing their own version of reparations. And in 2020, California became the to take on the monumental task of studying the devastation wrought by centuries of racial terror and oppression against African Americans and exploring tangible compensation for harm.

California Goes It Alone

Last fall, under the leadership of , who served as a state assembly member, the California legislature establishing the first state-level reparations task force of its kind in the nation. The nine-member task force is expected to 鈥淪tudy and Develop Reparation Proposals for African Americans, with a Special Consideration for African Americans Who are Descendants of Persons Enslaved in the United States.鈥�

Weber, who went on to become California鈥檚 state secretary this January (becoming the first African American to assume that role), addressed the task force earlier this year, that its aim is 鈥渢o heal the injustices of the past and present with tangible action, and to set a course for a better future for African Americans in the state.鈥�

While California鈥攚hich retains an arguably 鈥攎ight seem an odd precedent-setter on reparations considering that it was not part of the Confederacy, Weber outlined the ongoing effects of slavery still felt today. She said the task force will address 鈥渞edlining, theft of labor, wealth and capital, over-incarceration, over-policing and systemic discrimination.鈥�

The road toward reparations for African Americans has been a long one. 鈥淎frican Americans and descendants of slavery started to push for reparations immediately upon emancipation,鈥� explains Lisa Holder, civil rights attorney and a member of California鈥檚 reparations task force. 鈥淓veryone鈥檚 heard of 鈥�40 acres and a mule.鈥� That was the first known push toward reparations.鈥�

Of the appointed to California鈥檚 task force, eight, including Holder, are African American, and one, Donald Tamaki, is of Japanese descent. The group is charged with three tasks: to propose what reparations could look like, to educate the public about the task force鈥檚 study of reparations, and to make specific recommendations to the state on how to implement them.

Holder explains that the reparations task force will make 鈥渆vidence-based recommendations鈥� drawn from two years of gathering testimony and documenting the harms arising from 鈥渢he original systems of oppression, like slavery and Jim Crow segregation, and the continuing and ongoing systems of oppression that we鈥檙e seeing in institutional racism and structural racism.鈥�

鈥淭he evidence will be unassailable,鈥� she says.

Among the witnesses who have already testified to the task force is , the Pulitzer Prize-winning and bestselling author of Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents. At a Sept. 24, 2021, , Wilkerson said, 鈥淚 am testifying because not enough Americans know the true and full history of our country or the origins of the divisions that we now face.鈥�

Wilkerson believes 鈥渢hat knowing our country鈥檚 history is the first step toward overcoming the challenges we face as a nation.鈥�

The Economic Harms of Racism in California

One of the most powerful stories of financial harm wrought against African Americans in California is that of the Bruce family, who in the 1920s purchased and developed many acres of beachfront property in Southern California. Members of the Bruce family, who testified to the reparations task force, were 鈥減ushed out and racially terrorized by the residents of Manhattan Beach and by the government,鈥� says Holder.

Eventually, the Manhattan Beach City Council, using eminent domain, claimed the land, Holder explains, 鈥渁s a way of making sure that that area was exclusively White.鈥� Today, is one of the most expensive places in the nation to live.

The Washington Post related how the seizure of from its Black owners was one of many such cases of land theft across the country, and that this is 鈥渁 scenario that, repeated many times over, lies at the root of the wealth gap between Whites and African Americans.鈥�

Holder estimated that Bruce鈥檚 Beach should have 鈥済enerated billions of dollars of wealth for this family,鈥� but instead, the Bruce family 鈥渉as not been able to meet many of their most basic needs.鈥�

It鈥檚 not just historic discrimination that the task force is studying. We鈥檙e still seeing 鈥渧irulent White supremacy in this country,鈥� says Holder. The task force has also heard from witnesses about the modern versions of , where homeowners of color see their properties devalued, are quoted too-high mortgage interest rates, or are subjected to other forms of housing discrimination.

For example, Paul Austin and his wife, Tenisha Tate, who live in San Francisco, testified about the discrimination they experienced from an appraiser. The couple made to their property before expecting a bank appraisal to reflect the extent of their investment, but their home was appraised at a value far lower than they expected. They then asked a White friend to pose as the owner, and a new appraisal came back half a million dollars higher.

Holder sees Austin and Tate鈥檚 experience as proof of the ongoing racial harms in California that exist within a racially biased system, one she says is 鈥渂ased on the notion that White people are essentially better than Black people.鈥� She maintains that 鈥渨hether or not you consciously believe that, you are unconsciously being given that message every single day, every moment in this country, and that is why we see these legacies of oppression continuing.鈥�

The Psychological Harms of Racism

Cheryl Grills, a professor of psychology at Loyola Marymount University and a member of California鈥檚 reparations task force, says that when people think about reparations, they immediately think of the economic harms done to African Americans. But Grills points out that the 鈥減sychological and emotional harm[s], the community harm that can happen across generations鈥� is just as severe. She sees her role in the task force as highlighting what she describes as 鈥渢he health consequences of the trauma and racial stress that people experience, in particular Black folks鈥� in California. 

Grills says she relates to the 鈥渉eavy testimony鈥� from people who have been sharing their personal family history and experiences with the task force. 鈥淚鈥檝e been seeing the deep scars emotionally that have resulted from this exposure to racism,鈥� she says. The 鈥渓evel of disempowerment, the level of oppression, of intense response, that鈥檚 necessary and exhausting to counteract the negative narrative about who we are as Black people.鈥�

Bertha Gaffney Gorman, a Black woman whose family came to California from Clarksville, Texas, by way of New Mexico, with the task force about the years of racial and gender discrimination she experienced in her educational and employment career in Sacramento. 鈥淭his has been a very emotional memory trip for me,鈥� she told the task force.

鈥淭he negative narrative about who we are as Black people wears and tears on the very fiber of our being,鈥� Grills says.

Can California Successfully Implement Reparations?

Holder describes the process the task force has taken as incredibly comprehensive and expansive. 鈥淭here鈥檚 almost no industry that we鈥檙e not pursuing and getting evidence from, and no stone will be left unturned.鈥� So far, it鈥檚 too early to tell what form reparations will take, but the task force will continue to gather testimony and evidence until summer 2023, after which members will compile those findings into a report and present it to the California legislature with specific recommendations for compensation.

Because the task force is the first state-level body of its kind on reparations in the country, California could set a significant precedent if the task force鈥檚 recommendations are carried out. 鈥泪迟 will have a major impact on the reparations movement that we鈥檙e seeing in full bloom at the local level,鈥� says Holder.

Hanrahan, who made a name for herself producing radio commentaries by the well-known political prisoner , told in 2001, 鈥淕iven the corruption, I am not sure it would even be possible for [Abu-Jamal] to receive a fair trial now. But I have to believe in the justice system.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Her views have since evolved, influenced by the abolitionist views of thinkers like Angela Davis and Ruthie Wilson Gilmore. 

In 2020, , who already had a master鈥檚 degree in criminal justice from Boston University, went on to obtain her J.D. from Rutgers Law School so she could legally advocate for the freedom of the incarcerated people whose voices she helped to proliferate through Prison Radio. 

In a wide-ranging conversation with 猫咪社区! Racial Justice Editor Sonali Kolhatkar, Hanrahan spelled out why she no longer trusts the justice system and the courts to deliver impartial decisions, and how the resources that prop those systems up need to be reallocated directly toward people鈥檚 needs.

This interview has been edited for clarity. 

Sonali Kolhatkar: So you鈥檝e had a front-row seat for decades to how the criminal justice system, and particularly the courts, operate. Can you lay out for me how badly broken our legal system is, from the perspective of minimizing harm to individuals and communities? It鈥檚 supposed to be the place that justice gets decided and meted out, but is it really? 

Noelle Hanrahan: I think what we鈥檙e all really trying to come to terms with is [that] the system is designed to function exactly as it was planned. It is not broken. It is doing a service for the ruling class, the capitalist class, those who want to manage people who are demanding food, work, and bread, and humanity. So, I think it鈥檚 working exactly as it was intended. It鈥檚 not broken. 

I think that we have suffered, in particular, in [the] number of decades that we鈥檝e all been alive, [and] our children are currently suffering from an escalation of the tactic of incarceration. The response to people鈥檚 demands for liberation was to criminalize and to incarcerate. 

I learned a lot from reading a number of different people, including Mike Davis and Ruthie Gilmore, about how class interests are being served by managing people who deserve work and deserve health care and deserve humanity. And so, I think that is the response: It鈥檚 working exactly as it was planned.听

Kolhatkar: When discussing abolition, it鈥檚 sometimes spoken about in terms of ending policing, sometimes in terms of ending prisons, and occasionally in terms of ending the entire criminal justice legal system as we know it. Where do you fall on the issue of abolition?

Hanrahan: It鈥檚 been an evolution, but I am firmly, a thousand percent, an abolitionist: to defund the police and to completely transform the criminal justice system, including the courts, [at every] level. 

I think every morning when I get up in the morning, I think, What鈥檚 the Jenga piece that can come out from the bottom of the puzzle? Because it鈥檚 the whole system that鈥檚 corrupt, that鈥檚 trying to reproduce itself. It鈥檚 like cancer. The criminal justice system is criminogenic: It creates crime. 

A number of years ago I went to get my master鈥檚 in criminal justice because I wanted to understand the boiling pot of water that we were in. It was in the last 40 [years that] we鈥檝e had an immensely larger growth of mass incarceration, and we were in the middle of it. And so I was studying with a lot of cops and a lot of guards who were calling in or Zooming in from Bagram Air Force Base. And they were thinking people鈥攖hey probably also wanted the pay bump for getting a master鈥檚鈥攂ut people thinking about this system, [one that] creates crime in and of itself. 

I was trying to get this master鈥檚 program to look at any other country, any other country鈥攏o one else on earth does this. They do not control their population through mass incarceration. And we couldn鈥檛; we weren鈥檛 studying anything outside of the U.S. As Supreme Court Justice Harry Blackmun said, they were 鈥渢inkering with the machinery of death.鈥� And so, you can鈥檛 tinker with the system. It has to be completely overhauled. 

And it鈥檚 a public health crisis. I mean, the only way that we are going to get people to have a decent, equitable future is to completely reenvision this entire rubric that is suffocating and killing our people. And we all feel it. I mean, everyone feels it, whether they can see it and identify it as the thing that鈥檚 choking them and their children to death. But it is the thing that is allowing us to not be able to fund schools, to not be able to fund health care, that鈥檚 driving down our life expectancy. It is driving down our life expectancy across all categories. 

And the violence that鈥檚 perpetrated by frontline police officers, by people in the system鈥攐n both sides of the wall, the prisoners and the guards鈥攄estabilizes our entire culture. And so, when the system fuels that, they鈥檙e privileging that violence, and that violence is everywhere, as is the number of diseases. Tuberculosis doesn鈥檛 respect prison walls. [Hepatitis] C doesn鈥檛 respect prison walls. 

I mean, there are epidemics that our communities are facing: violence, the violence inside and outside. Guards are not immune from the violence. People in general are not immune from the violence that wreaks havoc on our communities. So, all of that needs to be looked at in terms of how we live and breathe every day. 

Kolhatkar: I want to pick up on what you just said earlier in your answer around how there aren鈥檛 other countries that try to control their population through incarceration. Is that really true? Don鈥檛 most countries have prison systems?

Hanrahan: We incarcerate . So that is just a fact. We also are doing it in a certain kind of way that鈥檚 systemic. Other countries deal with crime and drugs and criminalization in far different ways than we do. Like, you can name any country鈥� there are a couple of countries that are right below us on the incarceration spectrum鈥攑robably I wouldn鈥檛 go to those. But we need to look at other models of how people police. 

It may very well be true鈥擨 think it is鈥攖hat no other country privileges the access to guns that we privilege, the way in which they saturate the community with armed police officers鈥攖hat鈥檚 very unusual. It鈥檚 not generally a response to health issues or community issues. So I think, yes, this country creates crime through its criminal justice policies, and then it creates the courts and the justice system to have an appearance of finality in approving those unjust arrests, the criminalization of entire populations. 

It鈥檚 criminogenic. So it is criminalizing and penalizing people through fines in vast ways, as was demonstrated in Ferguson, [Missouri], when and could be picked up at any time. The way in which the system is designed, it鈥檚 designed to control people. 

Kolhatkar: And generally it鈥檚 poor folks, it鈥檚 people of color, and some would say that this is a direct line from what policing and the courts stemmed from historically, as a way to control Black people, as a way to control enslaved folks, or as a way to control people after slavery, during Jim Crow segregation. Would you agree that it鈥檚 basically an extension? We鈥檝e never really truly built the system from the ground up to deliver justice. And therefore, since it was built on injustice, it remains that way?

Hanrahan: I think it was designed to keep the inequities, to privilege only a few certain things, and to gloss over with colorful language the essence of liberty. It was not designed to liberate or empower all. It was designed to privilege [the] few鈥攁nd predominantly white men. 

And I think it鈥檚 true that those systems have been evolving. But if you look at it, the 13th Amendment privileged slavery in prisons鈥攜ou know, slavery鈥檚 abolished except upon commission of a crime. So, that is just one example. But the U.S. Constitution is littered with racial language that privileges inequities. And it was those inequities that benefited a certain class that have been continually privileged. 

, our progressive, revolutionary district attorney [in Philadelphia], said in [The] Atlantic magazine that everyone knows鈥攁nd here, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, everyone knows the reason why we have over-incarceration and we have such corruption in our police department is because they are arresting poor [people] and people of color in order to increase their pay bump for overtime. When they visit the courthouse the next morning, those warrants are fabricated and everyone knows it. And it was going on for decades, where they trained each other鈥攁 majority-white police force鈥攚e had 6,500 active police officers, majority-white in a majority-Black city, where they have very little education鈥攁nd they were going to arrest people who were perceived as not having enough power to fight it. The Brown and Black bodies were being [sent in] an assembly line through the Juanita Kidd Justice Center, and the courts were just approving it.

Kolhatkar: This is in Philadelphia specifically?

Hanrahan: It is, to this day, it鈥檚 in Philadelphia. So they come in the next day for police overtime, so they get a pay bump. So I said to [councilmember] Kenyatta Johnson鈥檚 legal director, I said, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 up with this?鈥� And he goes, 鈥淥h, everybody knows that鈥檚 what鈥檚 happening because they have to pay their Jersey mortgages. They have summer homes in Jersey, or they have a home in Jersey, or oh, it鈥檚 the last three years and they have to get that pension bump. And so, they need to really stack up the hours. But that鈥檚 why we can鈥檛 fix anything. That鈥檚 why we don鈥檛 have any money.鈥�

I mean, everyone knows that the system is completely corrupt here.

Kolhatkar: Speaking of money, it is a huge resource sinkhole: policing, prisons, and the courts. And the idea of abolishing police for that very reason was accompanied by a call to 鈥渄efund the police,鈥� to start moving resources away from policing and into the things that would make policing obsolete, such as providing people with all of the things that they need: shelter, food, health care, etc. From an attorney鈥檚 perspective, what are the legal resources that could benefit from being funded, that could be transferred from the courts and put toward things that would make the courts themselves obsolete? 

Hanrahan: Everything that is currently being funded has to be reimagined, and they [should] have to justify what they鈥檙e doing. And we need social workers and not police officers. We need the community to have health care and jobs. We do not need incarceration and policing. And the courts are just there to put a rubber stamp on it. We would have a lot less of that if we could address the social inequities and also the problems that have been stoked by defunding our schools and defunding our health care and not having enough jobs for people. That鈥檚 what we need. 

We need that behemoth of a police budget, the billion-dollar police budget, to be completely defunded, and it needs to be reallocated in a way that鈥檚 going to actually support people in their lives. 

And there鈥檚 other things that the criminal justice system does. They commodify everything. They commodify the mail, they commodify phones, they commodify people鈥檚 bodies. And they do that [in this way]: Anybody who in Pennsylvania is convicted and sent to state prison, they lose their vote. But the rural county that they鈥檙e incarcerated in gains their vote. And even after they鈥檙e released, it keeps their vote. So it鈥檚 transferring the votes. Like, they get more congresspeople in rural counties because they have three big prisons. That kind of commodification and stealing of people鈥檚 agency has to stop. 

And yes, it may be our dream, but we get to dream. We get to dream about a future that doesn鈥檛 kill our children, and we get to dream about a future that鈥檚 equitable, where we don鈥檛 have to watch and witness police brutality on a routine basis. And the democracy that I want to live in doesn鈥檛 exist yet, but it will be better if we fix these things鈥攏ot so much fix them, but reimagine them, become them. And we have to have the vision. Thank god for Ruthie Gilmore and Angela Davis and the .

So as a lawyer, lawyers need to show up. And the only reason I became a lawyer was because we didn鈥檛 have people showing up in court for the people I was representing: a juvenile lifer, doing a mitigation packet to get him home, who was arrested when he was 16. And also for people who had Hep C in prison. People were dying with Hep C, which is a curable disease, because they didn鈥檛 have someone advocating for them. So that鈥檚 why I went to law school. I also went to law school because at Prison Radio we privileged people鈥檚 voices [who are] inside. 

And it wasn鈥檛 enough to just be a journalist to broadcast their voices. I also had to bring our home, to do everything I could to get their release, not just work with them as a colleague. 

Kolhatkar: Earlier we were discussing how the court system really does not validate and foster justice. What could a reimagined legal system look like? Because it is important when we live in a democracy to have legal accountability, right? I鈥檓 thinking of corporate criminals or war criminals or corruption at the highest levels. Is it important to have a court system in a functioning democracy? What could a functioning democracy鈥檚 legal system that actually fosters justice look like? 

Hanrahan: I think having radical and revolutionary DAs who prosecute police and who prosecute people for the crimes they commit against people, I think that鈥檚 super important. 

I think we need to elect our own judges. I think we need to鈥�

Kolhatkar: And that happens in some places like in Los Angeles, where I am, local judges are elected. 

Hanrahan: Many judges are [also] elected in Pennsylvania. Mumia Abu-Jamal said that things would鈥檝e been different [for his case] if we had started electing judges back in the day. Because it doesn鈥檛 take much, but we need to do it. And they need to be people who we vet and trust and who are not going to participate in the assembly line that has become the criminal justice system. 

I think that the system is like a cancer, and it is very capable of adapting. And 鈥渞eform鈥� is always a nice-sounding word, but it is not what we need. We need radical systemic change. And it has to happen. Because reform is only going to tinker with it. 

And also, they won鈥檛 do the reforms in a way that is going to challenge the system. 

Kolhatkar: So electing judges, and electing radical DAs, those are reforms toward reimagining courts, aren鈥檛 they?

Hanrahan: I think we need to vet those people, and we need to make sure that they鈥檙e really going to do the job that we want them to do. I think that it鈥檚 difficult to reform this system. What I think of in the morning when I get up is, we need to find that little mechanism, that lever that鈥檚 going to change everything. 

I was reading a book this morning, and it was talking about how the Obama administration recognized that the Ferguson issue, the legal issue of making almost all the residents have criminal records鈥攖hey weren鈥檛 going to fix it wholesale. 

We need wholesale amnesty. I don鈥檛 need an or a district attorney letting 20 people out of prison. I need all of the arrests that were unjustly done, all of the arrest warrants, all of the [people who police] incarcerated 鈥� through incorrect means, the whole class of people, I need all of them to get relief at once. No piecemeal, one person gets released, we feel better. Because that鈥檚 just not how the system worked. The system worked to incarcerate whole classes of people. And so the rollback needs to be an equal response. 

There was a from our district attorney鈥檚 office, Larry Krasner鈥檚 office, in Philadelphia. Those need to have teeth. They need to acknowledge what happened, hold the people accountable, and free the people that were unjustly convicted. And that needs to be en masse, not piecemeal. 

Kolhatkar: It seems as though our criminal justice system specifically is designed to let wealthy folks off the hook, because they can hire the fanciest lawyers. Should we be looking at reimagining our court system in a way that poverty is never criminalized, that any crime that arises from someone鈥檚 financial inability or from their financial distress is automatically not seen as a crime, and is seen as something that needs to have a systemic change, either figuring out the right kind of restitution, proper rehabilitation, long-term economic-justice approaches? And then if you are wealthy, you are the one who gets stuck with a public defender who might have a huge caseload because your wealth shouldn鈥檛 privilege you. Is there a way to turn it upside down so that the rich aren鈥檛 the ones who are taking advantage of the system that鈥檚 been sort of rigged for them? 

Hanrahan: You know, the rich are never arrested. And if we see them, it鈥檚 just an illusion. It鈥檚 a mirage. I wish that, when crime is analyzed鈥攁bout what鈥檚 deeply impacting and hurting the most people鈥攖hat the DA鈥檚 budget and the police budget, whatever鈥檚 left of it, is organized to go after the people that are hurting the community the most. Right? And that is very much not going to be all of the people they鈥檙e currently arresting. 

You know, it鈥檚 going to be people who have a much more systemic [impact on] pollution, guns, and crime. You know, there鈥檚 a lot going on that is not looked at. It鈥檚 privilege, because it鈥檚 supporting the system. So it needs a radical revamping of how we look at crime. 

And it鈥檚 like a chicken and an egg. Like, we have to take all the money that we spend on these 鈥渟lave-catching鈥� police patrols, and we have to take all of it and invest in the people, and in the community, and in the culture, and in providing jobs and housing and a minimum income. And why not? We鈥檙e a rich country. We don鈥檛 need to be just taking all this money out of the community and giving it to people who live in other zip codes and who are wealthy. We need to keep the money in the community, and it needs to be of service to the community. That is fundamentally going to change how much crime there is. 

When people have access to their humanity, you know, when it鈥檚 not such an amazingly hostile environment to breathe in and live in鈥攁nd when we don鈥檛 have police who will criminalize protesters, who will criminalize people who are disabled, who will criminalize the mentally ill, and who will make them so vulnerable鈥攜ou know, that鈥檚 what we need. We need to eliminate police, and we need to invest all of that money directly in the community. 

Kolhatkar: How has your work with incarcerated individuals for so many decades influenced you and helped you articulate this vision of abolition? What has made you an abolitionist? 

Hanrahan: I think we grow, and I think our experiences teach us. My father was arrested when I was 9 years old, and my family was dramatically affected by that. And he couldn鈥檛 work in his chosen field. And I learned from that. 

You know, my father had five kids, and it was very hard for my family. It was a benefit in one way because I got to spend a lot of time with my father, and he dragged me to every basketball game he [refereed] and every baseball game he umpired. And so that was the first real impact it had on me. 

And then I always was looking for a way to hear people. As I was doing radio at Pacifica [Radio], at other places, and writing, I wanted to hear people鈥檚 stories. And when we were covering criminal justice, we couldn鈥檛 cover it without hearing from the people who were dramatically affected鈥攖heir families and the people inside. And so, when my editors started pushing back and not wanting to hear from the people on death row, for instance, when we were covering the reimposition of the death penalty in California, I knew that was the story. I knew it. 

And that has driven me to put a microphone in front of people. And I鈥檝e learned an enormous amount and continue to learn. It鈥檚 a different language, it鈥檚 a different culture, it鈥檚 different. You have to really privilege listening. But I鈥檝e learned an enormous amount from those experiences, and I continue to learn every day from the experiences. 

And I understand that the abolitionist movement, the work that we鈥檙e seeing now, the changes in our culture, are often coming from the inside out. That these ideas have been studied and realized on the inside [of prison walls] prior to being motivated in the outside. 

So, I鈥檓 doing a book right now, helping Mumia Abu-Jamal and Jennifer Black edit a book. It鈥檚 an anti-prison reader, it鈥檚 called Beneath the Mountain, and it鈥檚 Angela [Davis]鈥檚 in-prison writings and Nat Turner鈥檚 writings, and, throughout the centuries, writings from inside that have really illuminated both what鈥檚 happening and the path forward. And that鈥檚 what I see. I see that the work has come from below. Basically we鈥檝e gotta get people out, and we鈥檝e gotta be the abolitionist reality. We鈥檝e gotta envision that, and demand it, and make it happen. 

Kolhatkar: Thank you so much for all your do, Noelle, and for joining me today. I really appreciate your time. 

Hanrahan: Thank you.

Younger generations are significantly , and according to a , younger Asian Americans are the demographic group most likely to sympathize with Palestinians and to believe that the United States is too supportive of Israel. The legacy of U.S. wars waged throughout Asia has historically shaped generations of solidarity-building between Asian Americans and all peoples facing the brunt of U.S. militarism. And as the U.S. continues , , and exacerbate tensions , young Asian Americans have a particular role to play in challenging the ever-growing U.S. war machine. 

In a , Ji Hye Choi, a young organizer with Mari氓nas for Palestine, shared that as a Korean woman born and raised on the U.S. territory of Guam, her ancestral legacy and upbringing have shown her how communities across time and space have organized to , , and .

Ji Hye said skeptics dismiss her because of her young age, but she is nevertheless determined to stand in solidarity with Palestinians based on a shared understanding of 鈥渢he global fight for resistance and liberation.鈥� As I listened, I was deeply struck by her clarity and deep sense of purpose, both tied to her ancestral inheritance.听

Through her work to build solidarity with Palestinians, Ji Hye is one of many young Asian Americans working to resist U.S. militarism and war. She is continuing a tradition that I have been proud to be a part of through my own work across the country to end the Korean War.

While the term 鈥淎sian American鈥� has been , the origins of Asian America are rooted in an internationalist, anti-war ethos. As Karen Ishizuka , it was 鈥渘o accident鈥� that Asian America was born during the peak of organizing against the Vietnam War, when Asian Americans highlighted the connection between racism and militarism in Vietnam鈥攁 perspective they felt the mainstream anti-war movement ignored. U.S. militarism and imperialism .

Past Asian American organizers also applied a class lens to their organizing, and reinvestment in working-class communities at home. This class-based analysis is even more critical today as Asian Americans have the . Much of this economic disparity can be tied to the legacies of and in Asian Americans鈥� countries of origin.

We stand on our predecessors鈥� tall shoulders and those of preeminent feminists like Margo Okazawa-Rey, a founding member of and the historic , a 鈥渞adical black feminist, socialist, anti-imperialist .鈥� As a 鈥� Okazawa-Rey has long led movements in challenging militarism and radically rethinking possibilities for intersectional activism in the Asia Pacific and beyond.

Like Okazawa-Rey, our predecessors applied intersectional lenses to their activism. We must learn from them as we advocate for long-term change in all arenas of policymaking by building out , as urged by veteran movement leaders Ahmad Abuznaid of , Deepa Iyer of , and Darakshan Raja of .

In particular, we must wrest power out of the hands of and reclaim the halls of legislative power from corporate interests. U.S. has reached new heights; in April, a $95 billion military spending package after it was approved by Congress, with . As the U.S. continues to fund Israel, it also expands its military presence in preparation for a potential war with China. 

of U.S. national discretionary spending already goes toward the Pentagon, which has failed every single audit ever mandated by Congress, . With zero accountability, the U.S. military continues its costly ramp-up for a war against China as it prepares for the听听(RIMPAC)鈥斕齝arried out in the Pacific biennially in coordination with 25 other countries (including Israel, South Korea, and the Philippines). While听, U.S. communities lack听,听, and听, and are underprepared to deal with the听.听听

In April, Biden also approved a controversial bill after it was passed by Congress, . A coalition of leading Asian American organizations because FISA has been used to 鈥渏ustify mass spying, racial profiling, and discrimination of innocent people,鈥� with harsh consequences for both and .听

We must as we organize during this increasingly precarious time. Our elders have taught us that an identity grouping is only as meaningful as its capacity to be transformative for all peoples. Okazawa-Rey has explained that the Combahee River Collective鈥檚 鈥渋dentity politics鈥� were not exclusionary, but about to organize against all systems of oppression.听

If we are to continue making meaning out of 鈥淎sian America鈥� this AAPI Heritage Month, we must root ourselves in intersectional principles, draw threads across global and local struggles, and forge new paths toward a world free from U.S. militarism and forever wars.

In the fall of 2014, I traveled to Eastern Oregon with Intisar Abioto, an acclaimed photographer and frequent collaborator of mine, to do case studies for the Urban League of Portland鈥檚 State of Black Oregon 2015, a comprehensive report on various aspects of Black life in the state. Perhaps as much as any region we traveled to for the project, Eastern Oregon exemplified the glaring juxtaposition between vast natural beauty and anti-Black ghost stories鈥攁nd the rich Black history hidden behind it all. For example, despite La Grande鈥檚 reputation as the unofficial Ku Klux Klan capital of the state (former Oregon Gov. Walter Pierce, once endorsed by the Klan, lived on a ranch here in the 1920s), the town is home to one of the oldest Black churches in Oregon, Boyd Memorial Baptist Church. Now named Amazing Grace Fellowship, the church was created, in large part, to serve the Black community that came to the region during the Great Migration, seeking work in the logging industry. 

As in other parts of Eastern Oregon, this rich Black history is tucked away amid the more eye-catching attractions, like the Columbia River Gorge and the Wallowa Mountains, or else it is obscured by the noticeable increase in Thin Blue Line flags and aggressive displays of so-called patriotism.

Fast-forward to the spring of 2022. My YouTube series, The Blacktastic Adventure, which highlights the variety of stories about Black life in Oregon, was headed to the eastern part of the state for a road trip episode. The crew (myself, Abioto, Ifanyi Bell, and Tiara Darnell) set out for Pendleton and Joseph with plenty of questions. Mainly, we wondered: Why would a Black person live in this part of the state? And conversely, by asking that question, were we stereotyping in reverse?

Our trip began in Portland, at the Open Signal media arts center, where the crew met to gather equipment and pack the van before hitting the road. I was initially struck by just how much gear Bell had checked out for the trip: cameras, microphones, all types of lights and heavy steel stands, and tripods in every size. I鈥檇 never driven a van before, so I was entering the impending four-hour drive with both excitement and anxiety. The latter emotion threatened to be overwhelming. 

Thankfully, the trip through the Columbia River Gorge was as calming as I remembered it being back in 2014. As the largest designated National Scenic Area in the U.S., the Gorge is certainly well known. But since Eastern Oregon is one of the unwritten places Black people don鈥檛 visit unless it鈥檚 for business, we don鈥檛 often get to appreciate the area鈥攚ith its tree-lined canyon terrain, its waterfalls, and the winding Columbia River鈥攅specially not loudly and in the company of other Black Oregonians. Taking in the landscape with the crew and reminiscing about our past experiences in the region made the drive go by quickly. Some of our stories touched on nature; many highlighted unsettling moments, such as seeing blackface dolls casually sitting in a restaurant鈥檚 display case.

Soon, we found ourselves in downtown Pendleton. No longer rolling through the Gorge, we were now on Main Street, in a town that looked to me like it belonged in a Western movie.

I first met Pendleton resident Leon Ransom on that initial trip I鈥檇 taken with Abioto in 2014, for the State of Black Oregon project. One of the most indelible pieces to come out of that trip was Abioto鈥檚 photo of Ransom: a portrait of a Black cowboy. During our first interview, Ransom had repeatedly referenced George Fletcher, a legendary Black cowboy who鈥檇 been inducted into the Rodeo Hall of Fame at the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum in 2001, nearly 30 years after his death. So it was fitting that this time we caught up with Ransom in front of the bronze statue of Fletcher on Main Street. Erected in 2014, a few months before our last visit, it was the first statue of a Black person in Pendleton.

Fletcher is most well known as the People鈥檚 Champion of the Pendleton Round-Up, a title he earned during the 1911 Northwest Saddle Bronc Championship, when the judges denied Fletcher first place, but the crowd declared him the real winner. He was a larger-than-life figure in Pendleton and was also a close friend of Ransom鈥檚 father. 鈥淗e was just 鈥楪eorge鈥� to me,鈥� says Ransom.

Sitting in front of the statue with his wife, Kathleen, and sporting a black cowboy hat and boots, Ransom simultaneously stands out and appears completely at home. His family migrated to Pendleton from Springfield, Illinois, in 1952. His parents had worked as sharecroppers in Mississippi. When we spoke in 2014, Ransom says his father had made the choice to relocate to Pendleton because 鈥渉e wanted to get as far away from the cotton fields as he could.鈥�

When Ransom鈥檚 family went back to visit Mississippi, they wouldn鈥檛 let him go into town with his siblings, because he was never afraid to speak his mind, and they feared for his safety. His early confidence helped him become a standout athlete in high school. He was recognized as one of the top football prospects in the state and ended up playing at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. However, his path was paved, in many ways, with the manifestation of his mother鈥檚 fears.

Prior to his senior year of high school, Ransom was caught with marijuana, and a local prosecutor named Rex Bell Jr. decided to make an example out of the confident teen by sentencing him to jail time. Ransom spent his senior year sleeping in jail at night and going to school and playing sports during the day. This same prosecutor, who had gone out of his way to make an example of Ransom, also happened to be a recruiter for the University of Nevada, and he convinced Ransom to take a scholarship at the school. 鈥淸Bell] was a very good man who just wanted to help,鈥� says Ransom. 鈥淚 know I gave him fits.鈥� Eventually, the two men became friends.

Their friendship is reflective of the complicated space Ransom occupies. He has personally experienced and witnessed many racial injustices in Pendleton over the years; however, he also maintains a friendly relationship with the town鈥檚 residents, having grown up with many of them.

鈥淚f you鈥檙e mad, my mom used to tell me, you鈥檙e going to be fighting all the time. So you have to pick your battles.鈥� Of the town鈥檚 white residents, Ransom says, 鈥淭hey mean well鈥攎ost of them.鈥� He laughed. While he may pick his battles when it comes to racism, he also carries himself with a confidence reminiscent of Muhammad Ali, his childhood hero, whose image sits next to portraits of Barack Obama and Ransom鈥檚 family on his living room wall.

At heart, Ransom says, he just considers himself a country guy鈥攕omeone who enjoys tending to horses, hunting, and fishing, and who refuses to let others push him around, a quality he shares with his childhood family friend Fletcher. One of Fletcher鈥檚 friends, Ransom told me, was fellow Round-Up legend Jackson Sundown, a Nez Perce rodeo rider. Outside of competitions, Fletcher and Sundown hunted and fished together, gaining respect throughout the region for their willingness to fight鈥攑hysically鈥攚hen faced with racism.

While he and his family have dealt with a lot, Ransom says he tries not to let it bother him.

A lot of it comes down to curiosity, he notes, and white people having little experience with Black people: 鈥淵ou get used to people looking at you and talking to you.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

That part of the conversation stuck with me for hours after the interview ended. After filming b-roll of the plains surrounding our motel, the crew and I went to a nearby Shari鈥檚 restaurant for dinner. As we walked through the parking lot, people in the booths lining the window stared at us. Many didn鈥檛 break eye contact, even as we stared back. 

There was that juxtaposition again. On one hand, we were surrounded by the tranquil beauty of rolling hills and blue skies. And on the other, we were being stared at by numerous white people in a Shari鈥檚, as if we had walked into the restaurant with bleeding heads on pikes.

Curious, indeed. 

While the Gorge and the plains in Pendleton were as breathtaking as ever, ultimately, I was still treading familiar ground. Traveling to Joseph would be a first for me.

The drive to Joseph, two hours to the east, featured winding mountain roads, even more lush plains, and one stretch in particular, Hells Canyon, which holds the distinction of being the deepest river gorge in North America. Despite being slightly out of our way, the scenery was worth the extra miles. Still, when I reflect on the drive, the thing that stands out the most isn鈥檛 any of the views, but one stretch of road: the entire main street of a small town that was lined with American flags, one every few feet. 

The sight evoked images from recent years of neo-Nazis marching through streets across the country, chanting 鈥淯SA鈥� without an awareness or care about the inherent irony. That same loud, blind patriotism is what has millions of Americans frothing at the mouth to this day when they hear the name Colin Kaepernick. And yet, it鈥檚 an atmosphere of potential danger that, as Black Americans, the members of our crew have learned to navigate. I made a mental note of the jarring sight, and we continued on.

We arrived in Joseph later that morning. Behind Main Street, with its mountain-town buildings and familiar proliferation of American flags, were the Wallowa Mountains, nicknamed 鈥淟ittle Switzerland.鈥� But we were here to visit the Maxville Heritage Interpretive Center, which occupies a storefront in the middle of Main Street. There, we met with the center鈥檚 founder and executive director, Gwen Trice. Inside, Trice led us on a tour of the center, starting with the main room, filled with artifacts showcasing the history of Maxville鈥檚 logging community: assorted tools, photos of crews and families, maps and historical documents, and even a baseball uniform worn by Maxville鈥檚 integrated minor league baseball team. (Due to segregation, the town had two teams, but combined them for regional tournaments.) 

Maxville was once the largest town in Wallowa County, and it stood out from other Oregon timber communities because it employed Black loggers who had migrated from the South and Midwest in the 1920s. When she started researching Maxville, Trice was simply trying to learn more about her father, Lafayette 鈥淟ucky鈥� Trice. He had come to Oregon with his father, both recruited for logging jobs. Lucky was 56, and his logging career was long over by the time Trice was born. He rarely talked about it. The subject did come up once, she recalled, when she saw a deep scar on his shoulder and dared to ask him about it.

Trice simply knew her father as a hardworking Black man, well regarded in the community. For much of her life, she assumed he鈥檇 gotten his nickname from his success at playing cards. Later, she learned it was actually short for 鈥渓ucky to be alive.鈥�

Growing up in La Grande in the 1960s, Trice enjoyed country life and dreamed of raising horses and marrying a cowboy. Her family didn鈥檛 leave the neighborhood often. She vividly remembers the constant conversations with her parents about why she couldn鈥檛 go play with the white children from her rural grade school. Before Trice was born, white people burned a cross in her family鈥檚 yard (it was never determined whether the people who did it were neighbors, residents, or from out of town). Perhaps the most terrifying incident, Trice recalled, happened after her older brother David鈥檚 football team played against a rival school and won. Following the game, a car full of white students from the rival school chased David and the others in his car all the way to the Trice family鈥檚 driveway, where they cornered the students and shot into the car, injuring David.

As soon as she got the opportunity, Trice says, she moved to Seattle after college to work for Boeing. She had no thoughts of moving back to Eastern Oregon. Then, in 2003, Lucky passed away. Trice traveled back for the funeral and met elders in the community who showered her with stories of her father鈥檚 exploits. She learned that he鈥檇 not only had a prolific career as a logger, but had also been a pioneering Black public servant in the state, and an amateur boxer who wouldn鈥檛 hesitate to knock out a white person for calling him the N-word.

鈥淲hen he got too popular and they鈥檇 knock him down, he鈥檇 just build something new,鈥� says Trice about her father鈥檚 various decorated careers. 鈥淭hat healed me, because it let me know that I鈥檓 here because I鈥檓 supposed to be and meant to be.鈥�

Trice felt inspired to build something that would preserve the history of Maxville and teach it to others, and in 2008, she founded the Maxville Heritage Interpretive Center. In addition to collecting stories about her father, she explored the history of the larger logging community, and soon she expanded her collection to include artifacts and documents along with oral histories. A few years later, she began to look for a physical space to showcase the growing collection.

The first iteration of the Maxville Heritage Interpretive Center opened in 2010 and was located next to the Nez Perce Visitor Center in Wallowa, Oregon. This was a strategic choice for Trice, since one of the interpretive center鈥檚 key goals is to highlight the relationship between Black Eastern Oregonians and the region鈥檚 Native American tribes. Her father had had a close relationship with members of area tribes, bonding over activities like hunting and fishing. It was important to Trice that the center honor the tribes鈥� ancestral connection to and true ownership of the land. 

In 2015, Trice moved the interpretive center to its current location in Joseph, where it has since become a tourist destination. Both the center and Trice鈥檚 work have earned a number of accolades and have been featured in projects such as the Oregon Public Broadcasting documentary The Logger鈥檚 Daughter and the multimedia concert From Maxville to Vanport. She鈥檚 especially proud when student groups come to visit and engage with the history.

In many ways, Trice sees her work鈥攐f sharing her appreciation and life lessons from the woods鈥攁s a way of passing on the gift she received from her parents. 鈥淎 lot of people of color鈥攁 lot of kids of color鈥攋ust don鈥檛 set their feet in the woods,鈥� she says. 鈥泪迟 makes them uncomfortable. Black people, especially鈥攚e鈥檙e taught to fear rural Oregon.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Trice is in the process of restoring an authentic Maxville cabin that will accommodate the center鈥檚 next expansion. This project, in partnership with Hancock Timber, Eastern Oregon University, and Clatsop Community College, will relocate and establish the cabin as a visitor鈥檚 center and permanent exhibition. Trice emphasizes that spaces like the interpretive center benefit everyone by illuminating the history of all the ethnicities that made up the logging community: 鈥淲别 are Black-led, for sure, but this is really lifting up the voices of everyone that has been in this industry.鈥�

Over the days, I鈥檇 developed a feel for the rhythm of our trip: breathtaking natural surroundings and inspiring stories of Black determination and placemaking juxtaposed with virulent expressions of white supremacy, both historical and present-day. While driving back through the town with American flags displayed every few feet certainly kept in step with this rhythm, the nighttime drive back to our motel in Pendleton brought a plot twist: What happens when the dark element comes from nature itself? 

Driving along a sporadically lit road on a windy, rainy night was easily the biggest test of my newly acquired van-driving skills. The crew鈥檚 conversation had turned quieter than usual, so I assumed my anxiety might be overblown. Then, Bell broke out of character from filming to let me know I could slow down, a seemingly subtle way of saying, 鈥淗ey, Bruce, your driving is scaring the shit out of us right now!鈥�

We ultimately made it back to Pendleton fine. At Trice鈥檚 suggestion, we鈥檇 stopped at Wallowa Lake (it was just as beautiful as she鈥檇 promised), but it was the dark, rattling drive through the mountains that made her words about finding your comfort in nature truly stick.

When my crew and I began the trip, we鈥檇 asked the question: Why would a Black person choose to live in Eastern Oregon? Yet as much as I would like to believe the stretch of road lined with American flags was a feature unique to Eastern Oregon, I encountered a similar display while driving down Boones Ferry Road when I visited my parents in Lake Oswego a few days after returning. These flags were more artisanal and stylized, but they appeared just as frequently, and their message was just as clear.

I kept revisiting Trice鈥檚 words about Black people being taught to fear rural Oregon, and thinking about all she鈥檚 built there in spite of it.

The beauty of nature, Black determination, and white nationalism: these were the three prevailing themes of the trip. All three are visceral. The particularly infamous history of racism in the region and its present-day manifestations make the stories of Black determination and placemaking that much more impressive.

Asking why a Black person would choose to live in Eastern Oregon felt presumptuous before the trip. After speaking with Ransom and Trice, it felt downright arrogant. If anything, we should have left with lessons to bring back to Portland.

I鈥檒l start with myself. My hometown of Lake Oswego has only one piece of public art depicting Black people. Meanwhile, the Maxville Heritage Interpretive Center is creating a permanent home in Joseph after making an indelible impression throughout multiple Eastern Oregon towns since 2008. At the same time, Leon Ransom鈥檚 brother Kalvin, a former bull rider himself, is working on getting a street in Pendleton named after George Fletcher, to go with the bronze statue.

In the state of Oregon, where the lasting effects of anti-Black exclusion laws can still be felt, these efforts are invaluable. Beyond preserving history and building business, these stories do the necessary work of helping Black Oregonians see themselves wherever they so choose. In the case of Ransom, Trice, and their fellow Black Eastern Oregonians, that place is the country.

鈥淢y heart,鈥� says Trice, 鈥渂elongs where the trees are, the water is, and where the wildlife is close.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

This story originally appeared in and is published here with permission.

Most of the women, like organizer Wolf Terry of Lakewood, Colorado, were at the event from before 5 a.m. until well after 5 p.m. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 been an immense morning,鈥� she says. 鈥淭here was a lot of anticipation leading up to this moment. This is why we鈥檙e here. This is what we鈥檙e here for. We鈥檙e here for the kids. We are here to ban guns and this movement is starting to grow.鈥�

And grow it did. By midday, the crowd had swelled across the street and into Lincoln Veterans Memorial Park. A week before the sit-in, organizers had sent their , imploring him to ban guns in the state and implement a buyback program. They wanted him to issue an executive order declaring gun violence a public health emergency that warrants such actions.

However, by the end of day 1, Gov. Polis had not complied. Unbeknownst to Terry and others outside the Capitol that day, Polis鈥檚 public relations team had sent a long memo to the press stating all the reasons why he would not comply with Here 4 the Kids鈥� demands. In it, Polis said, 鈥淯nfortunately, the asks being made by the organizers are simply not in the governor鈥檚 executive powers and would violate both the state and federal constitutions.鈥� The memo went on to say that Polis agreed to meet with the organization鈥檚 legal team to discuss alternatives, but the group declined.

The women behind the Here 4 the Kids movement want all the guns gone鈥攏o compromises.

Saira Rao, cofounder of Here 4 the Kids, also helps lead a project called , which launched a series of dinners in 2019 where Rao and co-organizer Regina Jackson facilitated conversations forcing white women to confront their relationship to white supremacy. Those dinners became the basis of the documentary film . Those conversations also inform the racial dynamic at play in Here 4 the Kids鈥檚 strategy: women of color guiding white women to use their racial privilege to win social justice. 

Rao, a former resident of Denver, once had children in Denver-area schools. She shares that her children would have attended East High School, the site of a .  However, it was the March 27, 2023, mass shooting in Nashville, Tennessee, that motivated her to start researching solutions. That solution became Here 4 the Kids. 

Rao noticed that the Nashville shooting took place in a predominantly white school and involved white kids. In spite of this, it dominated the news for only six hours.

鈥淚鈥檓 scrolling through my phone looking for news on that shooting. And I鈥檓 sort of like, stopped in my tracks, because I鈥檓 like, it鈥檚 gone. It鈥檚 gone,鈥� Rao says. 鈥淎nd so I鈥檓 sitting here on March 27, thinking, holy moly, white babies dying don鈥檛 matter anymore, not even for six hours. So, if white babies鈥� lives don鈥檛 matter, what does that mean for everybody else?鈥�

Rao says she spent the rest of the evening listening to President Joe Biden 鈥渟ay the quiet part out loud,鈥� in a that he had done all he intended to do, and the rest was up to Congress. She summarizes, 鈥淎s Americans鈥� we are told on the evening of March 27, that we have a full federal institutional catastrophic failure [to address] the number one killer of our children.鈥�

鈥淚 have read a ton of Supreme Court cases,鈥� says Rao, who has a law degree from New York University Law School, and clerked on the Third Circuit Court of Appeals in Philadelphia. Rao came up with the idea of an executive order on gun control after extensive brainstorming and workshopping the idea with fellow activists, a few legal scholars, and other friends.

More specifically, the idea of activating white women came from her work with Race2Dinner. 鈥淚鈥檝e always known that white women hold the power,鈥� says Rao, calling them 鈥渢he most powerful demographic in this country.鈥� She says, 鈥淭here鈥檚 a reason advertisers chase white women between the ages of 25 and 55. 鈥� Statistically, white women are the most privileged in that they鈥檙e the least likely to be harmed by police ever.鈥� So, she concludes, 鈥渨hite women have the most power and privilege.鈥� Rao believes that since white kids are dying, it was time that white women stepped in to help the fight against guns.

Rao collaborated with a Black activist named to launch Here 4 the Kids. Strawn, who provided the plan for the sit-in, spends her days steeped in civil rights history in Alabama鈥攇iving tours of the area around Selma and Montgomery.

鈥淚 think that there is a disconnect in America,鈥� Strawn says, 鈥渨here we do not fully balance that we have not fully overcome… That we鈥檙e still overcoming… That we鈥檙e still in the fight鈥� against white supremacy.

鈥泪迟 makes sense that we examine our current situation, our current challenges, the current injustice,鈥� when seeking inspiration from Selma鈥檚 history for action on gun control in Colorado. 鈥泪迟 makes sense that we look back to the blueprint that our ancestors gave us back then, to the blueprint that other Black civil rights leaders gave us. Doesn鈥檛 it make sense that we looked at them to see how they affected change?鈥�

Strawn recalls trips that she took to the, also known as the Lynching Memorial in Alabama. The memorial shares stories of many Black people whose lives ended because of the lies told by white women. That detail stuck with Strawn. Here 4 the Kids provided an opportunity to not only confront the injustice of such racial dynamics but to also begin to correct it. Through the organization, the words of white women would be used to save Black lives.

Strawn refers to a by Malcolm X: 鈥淭he most disrespected person in America is the Black woman.鈥� As a queer Black woman, she says that she experiences an additional level of hatred. 鈥淲别 are always the ones showing up on the frontlines of protests, leading,鈥� she asserts. 鈥淪o what would happen if the white women that rely on us and who, for years, caused our communities to be destroyed, just because they said鈥榮ome a Black man slipped me a letter or note,鈥� or 鈥榓 Black man spoke to me,鈥� or 鈥榓 Black man walked in front of me and behind me,鈥� to destroy in an entire Black town鈥� were the ones in the frontlines of the protests? Strawn sees white women confronting their role in white supremacy as long-overdue justice. 

Further, she views their role in using their privilege to effect change as a form of reparations. 鈥淟et鈥檚 have these white women show up and make this demand. Because make no mistake, Black and Brown kids are the ones that are being killed at greater rates than the white kids. But we do know the white kids are [also] dying.鈥�

Strawn and Rao agree that it鈥檚 time for a shift in the way white women participate鈥攁nd that it鈥檚 time for them to show up.

And led by organizers like Terry, they do .

However, by day two of the protest, Gov. Polis had still not signed onto the order presented by Here 4 the Kids. But Rao and Strawn had prepared the group well, and the white women protesters were ready to respond. 

Terry describes a 鈥渢one shift鈥� on the second day, saying, 鈥渢his morning, we sat on the steps of the Capitol for about an hour, close to an hour and a half. And women shared stories of the people that they have lost, their relationship to gun violence in the United States of America.鈥� She is most moved by the moment that Strawn and Rao came out to read the names of all the victims who lost their lives to gun violence within the past two months of their movement. She calls it, 鈥減owerful,鈥� 鈥渟olidifying.鈥�

Afterward, Rao and Strawn conversed with the women. Terry describes the interaction: 鈥淲别 spoke and had hugs [with] our founders, and just held community. Then one of the white women here said this would be a great time for us to open up an 鈥榟onesty circle,鈥� so we can have honest conversations about white women and white supremacy culture and how we uphold it, how it moves through us, how it shows up and comes out of us.鈥�

Just like that, the movement to ban guns became a moment for white women to reflect on white supremacy on the Colorado Capitol lawn. Although banning guns is still the organization鈥檚 primary goal, Here 4 the Kids is also looking to do the deeper work of racial justice started by Rao and Strawn, and by civil rights workers more than 50 years ago. The conversations that played out at the sit-in revealed that white supremacy empowers gun violence鈥攁nd so to abolish latter, the former must be addressed as well.

On day 3, the protest disbanded, but the tone was once more communal and empowering. It was as if these women heard my conversation with Wilmer. They were shifting and changing into something that would 鈥渒eep this going.鈥� It became clear that victory lies in the conversations that began in the , and in the truth circles and conversations on the Capitol steps. It lies in saying the quiet parts about connecting white supremacy and gun violence out loud, and in white women holding each other accountable for their role in upholding such institutions. These conversations are still happening on social media. Here 4 the Kids is also making a documentary, filmed across the three-day sit-in. For Terry, this is not the end, it鈥檚 a beginning.

鈥淭oday I am settled in this somber reality that this is the beginning of a very, very beautiful revolution,鈥� she says. 鈥淲别 planted the seeds and now we鈥檙e watching them sprout. And by next year, we鈥榣l be picking the fruits.鈥�

One day after the sit-in ended, California Gov. Gavin Newsom began a media blitz calling for a to the Constitution, which would repeal the right to bear arms. Terry and the Here 4 the kids community may be harvesting the fruit of their labors sooner than expected.听

So, in 2019, when PRX鈥攖he Public Radio Exchange鈥攂egan accepting applications for podcast pitches, Isom and podcast producer Chris Smith approached El-Amin about pitching a Black in Appalachia podcast. 

鈥淗ell, yeah, I鈥檒l be interested in doing it,鈥� El-Amin told 100 Days in Appalachia during an  about the project. The pitch was the first in the PRX challenge, which typically serves public radio creators, to come from a PBS station

The pitch was selected, giving the team access to training and funding that led to the July 2020 launch. 

The , which El-Amin co-hosts with journalist and literary activist Angela Dennis, narrates the Black experience in Appalachia and the long history of Black communities in the region鈥攏arratives that they say are often overlooked or ignored in mainstream (read White-run) media.

鈥淭hrough historical and contemporary stories of people, places and experiences, hosts Enkeshi El-Amin and Angela Dennis interrogate what it means to be Black in Appalachia, creating space where under-told stories can be heard and Black identity can be reclaimed,鈥� the podcast鈥檚 website proclaims. 

El-Amin spoke with 100 Days Digital Managing Editor Ashton Marra about the podcast鈥檚 recent success, the importance of repositioning history and the impact words can have on our understanding of our history. 

Responses have been edited for clarity.听.

Ashton Marra: The podcast is pretty new, you all just started in July, so how did you get started? 

Enkeshi El-Amin: So, I do research on Black Knoxville within the context of Appalachia, and early on when I started doing my research, folks kept telling me that I had to meet William Isom, and we had a lot of mutual friends and I guess they were telling him the same thing. So, it was just sort of like, you all need to know each other. Eventually, we did meet and we talked about our research. 

It was kind of cool because William and I get to be Black in Appalachia nerds together in a way that other people don鈥檛 usually understand and it鈥檚 fun. We had this really nice relationship where we get to just dig in and be excited about [our research] with each other. We talked for a while about working on a project together, and we made a couple of attempts and they didn鈥檛 work out, but about a year and a half ago, William and our producer Chris Smith reached out to me and they were like, 鈥淗ey we saw this call for podcasts and we鈥檙e thinking about pitching a Black in Appalachia podcast. 鈥e wanted to know if you鈥檇 be interested in doing it?鈥� and I was like 鈥淗ell, yeah, I鈥檒l be interested in doing it. Who else would do it? This is my job. Let鈥檚 do it.鈥� So, William and I applied for that grant, and we heard back from them shortly after that we were selected. 

We were really honored and excited to be the first and only TV station that they鈥檝e worked with through this program. We were selected along with five other stations from around the country to do this really intensive, exciting, take you out of your comfort zone sort of training with Public Radio Exchange in Boston. So, starting last October, we started flying out to Boston for the training. It was really amazing. 

We started working on a pilot episode last October. We worked it out over the course of three months, which is really nice. Of course, we don鈥檛 get that luxury anymore. But early on, once we started the training after the very first visit to Boston, we knew that we did not want a regular NPR-sounding podcast. We wanted something a little bit more upbeat and lively and really kind of showcasing, but also representing who we are as Black folks. 

We reached out to Angela very early on in the process, so she came on board and we started playing around with a format, and it鈥檚 been good. 

Marra: Were you and Angela friends before this process started? As a listener, when I turn on an episode, it feels like, 鈥淥h, these two ladies who have known each other for 30 years are talking about things that they think are cool.鈥� So, have you all known each other for a long time? 

El-Amin: We were not friends. We knew of each other probably more so than we knew each other. I really kind of met Angela on Facebook. She had been doing some freelance writing here in Knoxville for a little bit, and we were both in similar organizing spaces at different times. So, we knew of each other and then I think really what attracted me to Angela was her writing. I knew she was writing about race, and issues affecting Black Knoxvillians. 鈥hen I saw her writing, I was like, 鈥淥K, this is somebody that would be good to bring in onto the team.鈥� That鈥檚 kind of where it started. 

We get along well, which is really nice. I think the whole podcast team鈥攕ometimes I feel like if people could only see the craziness and fun that goes on in the making of this podcast. But, we have a really good team, and that鈥檚 really nice as far as people who really like each other. 

Marra: So, I want to talk specifically about a couple of episodes that I felt like were really representative, at least from my perspective, of what you all are trying to do overall. I re-listened to . I really liked that one, and in it, you all are talking about the shift in population as Black people move from the South into kind of Central Appalachia as a stopping point along the way into Northern cities to work in factories. 

There鈥檚 this moment where I think Angela specifically says this is the story of the Great Migration, but that鈥檚 not the only story. And you respond to her in this way that I feel like just describes the podcast so well. You say, yeah this is the other story. Can you talk about how this podcast is representative of the other story of Appalachia that you鈥檙e trying to tell?

El-Amin: That episode is definitely one that we鈥檝e gotten a lot of good feedback on, and people really like it, so I鈥檓 pleased about that. 

When I started doing research on Black Knoxville, Black Appalachia, in general, my interest in this kind of came out of 鈥� I moved here for graduate school. I was living here. I was seeing things around me as they relate to the Black experience, as it relates to issues of race that were sort of almost invisible. They鈥檙e happening in front of you, but nobody is saying anything about it. Nobody is talking about race in this way or at least not a lot鈥攏ot in a public way. 

But at the same time, I was in a department where I was hearing a lot about Appalachia. I was also studying environmental sociology. I heard a lot about mountaintop removal and all of the environmental issues that were going on in Appalachia. All these conversations about poor Whites and loss of jobs and all of these things, which are important things, but I was just kind of thinking鈥� where鈥檚 the Black people in all of this? I know there are Black people here because I鈥檓 living in Knoxville, and I鈥檓 seeing it, but there鈥檚 no conversation whatsoever about life for Black folks. 

So, honestly, that鈥檚 kind of where this interest for me got started. I鈥檓 seeing one thing that I鈥檓 trying to grapple with this experience as a Black person in this space. I鈥檓 hearing a lot about Appalachia because this is my first time actually being in Appalachia and even really spending the time to think about what and where Appalachia is. But I see no Blackness in it. I sort of started pivoting my research from environmental sociology, and really delving into race a little bit more. 

I tell that story to tell you that we know that there鈥檚 a general perception of this region. For people who are from here, or who are not from here, even for Black folks in Appalachia, they don鈥檛 always see themselves as part of this region. They don鈥檛 claim this identity. There鈥檚 a kind of contestation there with their Appalachian identity. People will refer to Appalachians as people up there in the mountains.

So we know that there鈥檚 a general narrative of Appalachia that doesn鈥檛 look like what our narratives look like. It鈥檚 very White, it鈥檚 very rural, it鈥檚 very poor, backwards. The same things that even White folks in this region are not always comfortable with because it paints folks in Appalachia in a very narrow way. 

So, the Black in Appalachia podcast was definitely looking to push that narrative to help us to reimagine Appalachia, and to think about the intersections of place and race and culture, and looking to see where we can bring to the forefront the stories of Black folks in this region. We鈥檙e telling different stories. We鈥檙e telling a different story from what you鈥檝e heard in the past about Appalachia. 

And also a different story about what you鈥檝e heard about Black folks at times. Because that particular Great Migration story was not the one that we鈥檝e heard in the past. So in studying Black experiences in Appalachia and really talking about Black experiences in Appalachia, we even get a more nuanced understanding of the Black experience in general. 

Marra: There鈥檚 a common language that I feel like we鈥攁nd when I say we, I mean White people and White Appalachians鈥攗se to discuss our history. It is the language that is in our history books. It鈥檚 in the textbooks in our elementary schools and our high schools. You all don鈥檛 just reposition history in your podcast, you also do it explicitly through language and through the words that you are choosing to use. 

I want to just talk about one example in the , which is your Halloween episode. But we get to near the end, this story about the Ramsey house鈥攚hich was really the Ramsey plantation鈥攖here鈥檚 a discussion about how the White tour guide chooses to cast that word. 

But that鈥檚 actually not the part of the story that I found so fascinating. It was when we get to the discussion about Ramsey and how he came to his land. That he was a surveyor for the state of North Carolina, which at that point, stretched into Tennessee. They didn鈥檛 have any money to pay him. They said, 鈥渢ake 500 acres wherever you want.鈥� He wanted this piece of land that was actually being held by the Cherokee. So, this Cherokee community was using the land as hunting ground. The tour guide tells you all on the tape, 鈥渨ell, after the land was negotiated from the Cherokee.鈥� One of the two of you come back in immediately with the track and say, 鈥渁fter the thievery was solidified.鈥� Those are very different words.

In that moment, to me as a White person hearing negotiated with, that鈥檚 what I learned in school and often didn鈥檛 question it. And then all of a sudden to hear that it was stolen from them, which is a concept that I understand, but in that moment, felt so deeply. Like it made me feel something. How conscious are you all when you鈥檙e choosing that language? Or is it just natural to you because this is the space that you鈥檙e in; this is the research space that you鈥檙e in, the academic space that you鈥檙e in?

El-Amin: That鈥檚 a great question. I think that there鈥檚 so many different pieces. There have been people who have studied these things enough for us to understand that there was not negotiating here, and even whatever you might perceive as negotiation was not negotiation here because those are real power dynamics. So on one level, we鈥檙e really honestly just trying to keep it real as we understand it. But also, just calling things out because there鈥檚 a reason why we don鈥檛 question, there鈥檚 a reason why we kind of go with the flow of things. That鈥檚 because the ideology is sort of built into the language. 

If we just hear negotiation, there鈥檚 no conflict there. We don鈥檛 think of this conflict. We know that there was a conflict because people are not just gonna pack up their stuff and ship on out. We know that because that鈥檚 not natural, but also because we know that there were wars; that the Native Americans didn鈥檛 just say, 鈥渁ll right, y鈥檃ll can have this.鈥�

A lot of times we kind of think about Native Americans and this thievery that happened and we put them outside, just kind of like hanging on the margins somewhere. But, this was no margin. This was right there in their land. You just showed up one day and was like, 鈥淎ll right, I want this, this is mine now. North Carolina just gave it to me. They gave me land that they didn鈥檛 own. They gave me land that somebody else owned.鈥� It is by definition, thievery. 

And what I like about podcasting, and about our podcast in particular is that we can just say it. The same rules that govern other forms of media don鈥檛 necessarily govern podcasting. We can just be real. We don鈥檛 have to code-switch. We don鈥檛 have to use language that hides the truth. We can just be real. Part of it is intentional and part of it is how we understand this to be. It comes naturally for us. For one, we know the history and for two, logically, this is what makes sense. 

If we don鈥檛 use the right language then we continue to perpetuate these things and we keep this quiet story going鈥� and nothing gets changed when you do that. 

Marra: That鈥檚 just one that鈥檚 fresh in my mind but there are so many moments when I hear you all鈥攁nd it鈥檚 not like you鈥檙e making a big deal about it鈥攂ut you are choosing words in the podcast that鈥攁s a White person in an overwhelmingly White state that definitely has a Black history that for sure gets overlooked鈥攋ust hearing the way you all choose words has been such an eye-opening experience, a learning experience. There are things I intellectually understood but things that I did not maybe personally connect with until I heard you all talking about them. So, thank you for that. 

You all have done episodes about the , you have done a  you did a fantastic pre-election episode on the  who are changing the political scene, which I think that was one of my favorites. I keep hearing you all say 鈥渢his isn鈥檛 even the slavery episode.鈥� So, I have to ask, what are the topics you鈥檙e hoping to tackle next? 

El-Amin: We鈥檝e got so much. One of the cool things about the Black in Appalachia podcast is that the Black in Appalachia initiative has been going on for eight years and so we鈥檝e been collecting that data and collecting stories. 

Every time we go into the field, there鈥檚 so much that we learn that we want to share. Also, people are sending us emails鈥� and we definitely welcome them, but there鈥檚 so much. We鈥檙e definitely going to talk about slavery, we have to. We didn鈥檛 necessarily want to start there, but we will definitely come back.

Justin Davis and Kristen Uppercue contributed to this interview. This article originally was published by . It has been edited for 猫咪社区! Media.

I think that this part of the psalm is the proper introduction to Appalachia because all of the Appalachians, all of the people, came here for comfort. But let鈥檚 just take it back a little bit. The rabbits, the groundhogs, the wolves before we killed them off, all found comfort in Appalachia. The trees, the bushes found comfort in Appalachia. The Indigenous people lived here first with Appalachia.

The next group that came were the people that the English kicked out. And the Irish kicked out, because they didn鈥檛 want to, for lack of a better word, be bothered with them. And those settlers began to destroy the trees and the bushes because they wanted to make things. The Black Americans came, mostly as people running from slavery. And as they ran from slavery, they found that they had friends in Appalachia, that Appalachia could offer comfort to those who needed a way to be safe.

During the time of the Underground Railroad, we鈥檝e been told that Appalachian women made quilts so you could follow a quilted map from Georgia to Maine toward freedom. There would be a quilt laid outside of a cabin, which relayed a message. We think of escaping from slavery as a nighttime run, but you couldn鈥檛 see a quilt at night. So fleeing slavery was also definitely a daytime activity, and it sometimes meant communication between the whites who had been kicked out of Europe and the Blacks running toward freedom.

They, too, understood what it was like to not have a home. When they hung lanterns at night to light the way for the enslaved, the people who chased the enslavers could see the lanterns too. They reached out to work with them, to move during the day. So we need to look at the daytime running of the enslaved鈥攖here鈥檚 a story there鈥攐f the white women lynched for their compassion, of people working together for comfort and home.

We also know鈥攁nd it鈥檚 incredibly important鈥攖hat without Appalachia speaking up, as it were, for America, the outcome of the Civil War would have been different. West Virginia decided it would not remain a part of Virginia and said that we will not send our sons to die so that the Shenandoah can have slaves.

When West Virginia鈥攚ith its Kanawha River鈥攑ulled away from Virginia, it blocked the Confederacy鈥檚 access to the Ohio River and saved the Union. If they hadn鈥檛 done that, it would have been a different war. So the United States owes being united in part to Appalachians. They stood up for that which was right and have continued to do so.

Parts of Appalachian history will cause some to be embarrassed and ashamed. But we also know that Appalachians, whether they were Black or white or Indigenous, have welcomed visitors from other nations, have welcomed other people who are escaping not slavery but the violence of other nations, and Appalachia has offered them a home.

These are a great people. And the stories shared among people in Appalachia are those of people who have found comfort in Appalachia and who have brought their sense of what is right to Appalachia鈥攚hether it鈥檚 what鈥檚 right for the people, what鈥檚 right for the trees and animals, or what鈥檚 right for the water. How do we listen to what nature has given us?

We must learn to listen to the lessons of Appalachia, to the voices, which is to say the heart, of the great people who have chosen Appalachia as our home.

This excerpt, adapted from edited by Katrina M. Powell (Voice of Witness and Haymarket Books, 2024), appears by permission of the publisher. Beginning Again brings together oral histories of refugees, migrants, and generations-long residents that explore complex journeys of resettlement and belonging. Free lesson plans are .

We Tlingit have been harvesting herring eggs for thousands of years. In late March or early April, the herring return to the inlets of Southeast Alaska to lay their eggs in the moss and kelp along the shore. Their arrival heralds the coming of spring鈥攍ike a door opening into the cold, dark room of winter. The Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian people step out of the darkness and into the light of a world awash with renewed life. Returning salmon feed on the herring, as do many other creatures including halibut, tuna, cod, and seals.

鈥淭his place is really, really magical when the herring come,鈥� Khasheechtlaa Louise Brady, head of the grassroots Sitka-based group , tells me in March. 鈥泪迟鈥檚 magical all the time, but when the herring come, it鈥檚 amazing. Like right now, the eagles start coming back, and I鈥檓 able to go, 鈥楢hh 鈥� the herring are around the corner. I can make it.鈥欌��

This cultural lifeline extended all the way to Seattle when I was a boy. My Aunt Betty or Aunt Amy would bring herring eggs when visiting from Alaska. I didn鈥檛 know much about these eggs, except that they were delicious and they were Tlingit. So when I heard the herring egg harvests were being endangered, I set off on a quest to help save this one thread of my mother鈥檚 culture that had survived my relocation.

The Herring Egg Dilemma

At its root, the problem is a clash between two worldviews. The Alaska Department of Fish and Game manages the herring fishery using a method called Maximum Sustainable Yield.  According to Thomas Thornton, professor of environment and society at the University of Alaska Southeast, this method measures the physical size of herring population, called the biomass, to determine how much can be safely harvested without endangering the survival of the species.

Commercial fishing boats with permits are allowed to catch between 12% and 20% of the allowable harvest, depending on the state鈥檚 yearly biomass estimate. Tons of herring are scooped up in seining nets in Sitka Sound, then transferred to processing boats where lines of workers slit each fish open, remove any egg sacs present, and toss out the herring carcasses. These egg sacs are sold to markets in Japan to make kazunoko, a high-priced delicacy that became popular during that country鈥檚 economic boom of the 鈥�90s. The result has been overfishing of the herring fishery.

Thornton has written several , articles, and on the Tlingit connection to the environment and has become an outspoken critic of the state鈥檚 method of managing the herring fishery.

鈥淲别 need a more ecosystem-oriented model to manage herring, not a single-species population model,鈥� Thornton explains.

The current method doesn鈥檛 take into account the effect of the herring population on King Salmon, for example, or other species who rely on them.

鈥淵ou have to think about them in an ecosystem perspective and all that they鈥檙e providing to all of these other species, instead of just saying, 鈥極h, well we figure if we catch this many, we鈥檒l be able to sustain this population.鈥欌��

And, of course, one of the 鈥渟pecies鈥� of this ecosystem are Tlingit people like me who rely on the herring and their eggs to sustain our culture.

We Are All the Same

From her home in Sitka, Alaska, Brady gives me a Tlingit teaching about Raven, the trickster, who once released daylight from a box where his grandfather had been hoarding it. This famous story, commonly known as 鈥淩aven Steals the Sun,鈥� has been depicted in Tlingit art for millennia. But most people leave out the ending, in which the sunlight scares everyone, causing them to run away in different directions.

鈥淭he people who escaped to the ocean became the fish, and the people who escaped into the air became the birds, and the people who escaped into the forest became the four-leggeds, and so on,鈥� she explains. 鈥淪o we all started out in the same place, all together, in the dark.鈥�

鈥淭his story is like the Tlingit version of Darwin鈥檚 On the Origin of Species,鈥� Brady continues. 鈥淲别鈥檙e really all the same, when it comes right down to it.鈥�

Reflecting their worldview, the Tlingit method for harvesting herring eggs is much gentler and more respectful. The Tlingit prepare nice, comfy places for the herring to spawn, securing rows of hemlock boughs in the water, and then waiting for the fish to come and coat the branches with fresh herring eggs. Thornton explains how special this method of harvesting is.

鈥淭he herring have a choice,鈥� Thornton says. 鈥淭hey can choose to spawn in your area, or they can go somewhere else. You cultivate them to choose the area where you want them to spawn. You do that materially with your hemlock branches but also another way is with your songs, your prayers, your invocations. And that鈥檚 another idea that鈥檚 pretty foreign to science.鈥�

In a sense, the herring and the Tlingit share a culture during the spawning season. We rely on each other, in a way that could be termed a 鈥渃ovenant.鈥� When this covenant is broken or damaged, life goes out of balance as it did for me.

The Pain of Losing My Culture

In 1960, my family moved from Juneau to Seattle to escape the racism my white father and Tlingit mother experienced in Alaska. Two months before my third birthday, we moved into a house in a poor Seattle neighborhood called Georgetown, not far from the industrialized Duwamish River and Todd Shipyard.

I was too young to understand what had happened. Juneau is a lush, green town hung as if in a hammock of protection between Mount Juneau to the east and Gastineau Channel to the west. The town was slow-paced when I was little and filled with round, brown faces, many of whom were related to me.

But Seattle was huge and noisy and filled with unfriendly people. At first, I thought we were only visiting and would eventually return to Juneau. I hated Seattle, and waited for the day when we would return home.

On my third birthday, as my mom placed a birthday cake in front of me, I finally understood. We were never going back. If we were, we would have returned before my birthday. With this realization, I blew out the candles and ran off to hide under the front porch.

I didn鈥檛 have the ability to express what I was feeling or process the enormous grief. I shoved my anger and sadness deep down inside me, like holding a beach ball underwater. Every once in a while, the beach ball would slip from my unconscious grasp and pop up into the real world, causing me to create a crisis or a catastrophe for no apparent reason.

This put a wedge between me and my parents, in particular between me and my father. No one understood at the time, not even me, that what I craved was a Tlingit elder, an uncle to teach me the way of my clan.

A Tlingit Elder Speaks Out

In 1997 , Tlingit elder Mark Jacobs Jr. of the Dakl鈥檃weidi (Killer Whale) clan explained the problem of the commercial sac roe industry in a uniquely Tlingit way.

鈥淚鈥檝e never seen anything worse than sac roe fishing,鈥� he testified. 鈥淚 would say that, allegorically speaking, it鈥檚 worse than taking a whole herd of deer and killing them all and taking only the liver, and from the doe only.鈥�

Jacobs told the board of fisheries how he had monitored a spawning ground the previous year. The spawning activity looked robust. When the fish dissipated a few days later, he went to inspect the area.

鈥淭here were no herring roe on the beach,鈥� he told the board members. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 what you call 鈥榝alse spawn.鈥� In my early days, those things were never known. When the herring spawned, you were sure to get what you鈥檙e after, herring roe on branches, herring roe on all the kelp and on all the rocks.鈥�

Commercial fishermen at the meeting had already given testimony that they saw plenty of herring swimming around Sitka Sound. They believed the Native subsistence harvesters were overreacting.

But Jacobs explained that the fishermen in their boats and the board of fisheries members in their offices in Juneau had no way of knowing what was really going on. To know that, you have to get close to them and become an intimate part of their life cycle, just as the Tlingit have done for thousands of years.

The board of fisheries had no idea or concern that sac roe fishing during the spawning season stressed the herring population and removed the vital herring elders, the 鈥渆xperienced spawners,鈥� from their schools right at a time when their knowledge was most needed.

The loss of this herring cultural wisdom must be devastating for the herring, just as it was for the Tlingit, Haida, and all Native people.

Returning to My Mother鈥檚 Homeland

My mother鈥檚 family originally came from Sitka. As members of the Kaagwaantaan clan, our roots there go back farther than anyone can remember. The community is the center of traditional herring egg harvesting, which is why my aunties always brought some when they visited. It was part of our family鈥檚 heritage.

As I recall, my mom blanched the herring eggs while they were still attached to the branches. I devoured those eggs off the twigs, picking the hemlock needles from my teeth as my mom and aunties talked, laughed, and drank tea.

According to , subsistence herring eggs cannot be bought or sold. They can only be shared, gifted, or bartered. Free from the taint of money, they take on a spiritual quality for most Tlingit people. I intuitively understood as a boy that eating herring eggs is being loved.

So when I heard in December 2023 that the Sitka Tribe of Alaska had against the state of Alaska for mismanagement of the herring fishery, I traveled to Sitka to attend the annual Herring Honoring Ceremony put on by the group Herring Protectors. On Saturday, April 6, 2024, I stood with my Tlingit brothers and sisters in Totem Square on the shores of Sitka Sound and sang鈥攐r tried to sing鈥攁 song in Tlingit honoring the herring people, the Yaaw. One verse went:

Aa hei Yaaw hei Yaaw hei
Aa hei Yaaw hei Yaaw hei
Yee xhatulatseen (We cherish you)
Hei Yaaw hei Yaaw hei Yaaw
Hei Yaaw hei Yaaw hei Yaaw

A line of people wearing beautiful with form line depictions of the herring and of the mythical Herring Woman on them turned to the water and sang the song to the herring while waving little hemlock branches. They then turned around and sang the same song to the people gathered.

The singing, the robes, and the branches became a liminal space between the Tlingit and the herring, where the two groups of relatives blended. The boundary between us dissolved as our identities flowed back and forth.

Brady, a member of the Kiks.adi clan and the main coordinator of the Herring Protectors, told the story of the Herring Woman, Kax谩tjaashaa, who would sit on a large rock on the shoreline and sing to the herring. The little fish came and danced in the water before her. Kax谩tjaashaa then lowered her hair into the water and the herring laid their eggs in it, thus forming the bond between the two tribes.

Later, about 50 of us boarded a catamaran and traveled to two pieces of land that had recently been by allies Rachel Myron and Stephen Lewis. On the way we sang Tlingit songs, offered tobacco to our ancestors, and blessed the land by offering a sacred copper Tlingit shield, a 迟颈苍谩补, into the waters offshore of it.

A young man offered me a bowl of herring egg salad, and for the first time in years I felt the eggs crunch silently in my mouth. Suddenly, I was 10 years old again, back at our old kitchen table listening to my mom and aunts talking. They occasionally used Tlingit words when they didn鈥檛 want me to understand something. Then they would cover their mouths and burst out laughing.

I was roused from this memory by a Tlingit elder named Harriet, who was in her 90s. She came and sat by me and asked if I was related to so-and-so, because I looked just like him. She told me about her family鈥檚 past and about the history of our tribe. When the group sang, she joined in and danced, bouncing and rocking back and forth, still full of the joy of life and of being Tlingit.

That鈥檚 when I saw that being Tlingit isn鈥檛 something that can be taken away. I have been separated from my homeland, but part of it is always with me. I never lost it. My father never took it from me. The herring kept hold of me. Across all the years and all the miles, they held onto me.

As the catamaran filled with us Tlingit people zoomed through the waters of Sitka Sound, I felt like a herring swimming with my school to a spawning ground.

The herring do not have voices. That鈥檚 why people like Khasheechtlaa Louise Brady and the Herring Protectors must speak for them. All the herring can do is wiggle and jiggle when they spawn, creating a vibration that harvesters can sometimes feel, that speaks in an ancient language, a vibration that we Tlingit from Sitka carry and feel in our hearts.

Harris has and should be critiqued. However, there will be critiques grounded in questions of her actual political r茅sum茅 and those grounded in misogynoir; distinguishing between the two is essential for those who want to make an informed decision when voting in November.

Misogynoir, as I wrote in my 2021 book, is the hate speech and negative media representations that malign Black women (and people read as Black women). The portmanteau describes the anti-Black racism and misogyny that sickly and synergistically creates a destructive force greater than the sum of its parts, shaping how Black women are viewed and subsequently treated in the world.

Memes and rhetoric that target Black women鈥檚 appearance; paint Black women as insufficiently feminine or unattractive; endow Black women with superhuman strength, tenacity, and childrearing capability while also marking us as hypersexual; and suggest that Black women are less intelligent and more aggressive than their white-woman counterparts all contribute to a view of Black women that has real material impacts on their lives. The vitriol already being directed at Harris is a harbinger for the misogynoir we鈥檒l see in political media in the coming months.

The misogynoir Harris will face is , coming from purported allies before she ever became the presumptive nominee. When Harris appeared on The Drew Barrymore Show in April, Barrymore looked deep into her eyes and said, 鈥淚鈥檝e been thinking that we really all need a tremendous hug in the world right now. But in our country, we need you to be 鈥楳omala鈥� of the country.鈥�

Though Barrymore may have been attempting to compliment Harris, her patronizing and comment reduced the tactically skilled, politically savvy vice president to the nation鈥檚 鈥淢omala,鈥� an honorific given to her by her stepdaughters. Barrymore鈥檚 sentiments reflect an antiquated idea that Black women should be caretakers and domestics, tasked with cleaning up and setting right what鈥檚 wrong with the world.

Barrymore鈥檚 recasting of Harris has its own less laudatory counterpoint on the right. Despite having an extensive political record, , Harris has been referred to as a 鈥�.鈥� Rep. Tim Burchett, R-TN,听补苍诲 some of his colleagues have also contributed to the right鈥檚 misogynoirist misinformation campaign, referring to the vice president as a 鈥�.鈥� Donald Trump is now calling her 鈥溾�� a yet unpronounced racist reimagining of her name. Megyn Kelly has even resurfaced the long-debunked accusations that Harris鈥� year-long relationship with former San Francisco mayor Willie Brown is akin to her having 鈥渟lept her way to the top.鈥�

In the weeks since Harris announced her candidacy, her family, her sex life, her Blackness, and her womanness have all made more headlines than the sobering truth of her political record. 

Make no mistake: Harris is more than competent for the office she seeks, but we should be worried about her willingness to carry the banner for a party that seems more concerned with maintaining power than actually using it.

Despite the right鈥檚 attempt to characterize Harris as 鈥溾�� member of the Democratic Party, her political positions line up neatly with centrists on both sides of the aisle. Republicans speculated鈥攚hile leftists hoped鈥攖hat her decision to skip Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu鈥檚 congressional address to receive honors from Zeta Phi Beta sorority signaled her plan to break rank with the current administration鈥檚 pro-Israel stance.

鈥淪he would rather address, in the summer, a sorority鈥攁 colored sorority鈥攍ike she can鈥檛 get out of that,鈥� Fox News host Brian Kilmeade said. 鈥淪o that鈥檚 her decision, and that鈥檚 her decision to back up the protesters.鈥� he said 鈥渃ollege鈥� and not 鈥渃olored,鈥� but the resulting dustup directed attention away from the goals of Harris鈥� eventual meeting with Netanyahu.

Harris further removed any doubt about her stance when who, along with the lone voice of dissent, Representative Rashida Tlaib, D-MI, wanted to make clear their opposition to the genocide still unfolding in Gaza. At a stump stop in Detroit, Harris even . 鈥淵ou know what? If you want Donald Trump to win, then say that,鈥� she said. 鈥淥therwise, I鈥檓 speaking.鈥� Her unwavering support for Israel amid its raises more questions than it answers about what the left can actually achieve under a Harris presidency.

If Harris鈥� political present doesn鈥檛 give pause, her political past should. As a former prosecutor and attorney general who prided herself on being 鈥�,鈥� Harris has more in common with those on the right than her marginalized identities would seem to imply. has rightfully made many progressives leery of her candidacy, as she increased the rate of conviction of drug sellers and supported a weakening of San Francisco鈥檚 sanctuary city policy. Her record shows us how she will move if elected president, and these critiques of her record can be leveraged without deploying misogynoir.

, Ph.D., reminded the audience of the limits and pitfalls of representation. 鈥淏lack faces in high places won鈥檛 save us,鈥� she said, before adding, 鈥渙ur Blackness and womanness are not in themselves trustworthy if we allow ourselves to be conscripted into positions of power that maintain the oppressive status quo.鈥� We must take a beat to think about who one has to be to even 鈥渁ccomplish鈥� the feat of being the first Black woman to be a serious candidate for president.

Pragmatic presidential voters may choose Harris, but that doesn鈥檛 mean that her positionality within the hierarchies of our world are automatically aligned with the most marginalized among us. We should remain critical of Harris, and we don鈥檛 have to insult her intelligence, make her the country鈥檚 mom, or discuss her romantic history or family configuration to do so.

Although the event begins at 1 p.m., dancing doesn鈥檛 usually begin until later. 鈥淪ee how it鈥檚 2:30?鈥� Ka鈥檒onji Escada says, wearing a red rose in her hair and seated with her DJ equipment. 鈥淚 put 1 to 5. Ballroom time. People get here on ballroom time.鈥�

When Escada, mother of the Kiki House of Moschino and member of the , attended her first ball in Dallas, Texas, in 2021, she insisted on being there promptly at 9 p.m. The event didn鈥檛 start until 3 a.m. It鈥檚 part of ballroom culture. 鈥淔emme queens [need] time to get ready,鈥� she says. 鈥泪迟 takes time. You can鈥檛 rush.鈥�

When the event officially begins, the room suddenly comes alive with movement, chanting, and snapping. 

鈥淚 call it gay church,鈥� Escada says. 鈥淭he stomping, the clapping, the pastor on the mic.鈥�

Ballroom Makes You Stronger

Recently, Diwa鈥檚 community helped save her life. On March 31, Trans Day of Visibility, Diwa and three of her Black trans friends were victims of a at a bar in Sacramento. In a video that has been shared online, individuals in the crowd can be heard remarking on the man鈥檚 transphobia and that he should鈥檝e 鈥済ot with the times.鈥� Yet nobody stepped in; the girls defended themselves. 

Though that moment was terrifying for Diwa, it also encouraged her to seek more protection for her community. Through Sacramento Pride Intersectional Community Empowerment (SPICE), Diwa hopes to provide physical, emotional, and spiritual empowerment for her community while centering the needs of Black trans women, who experience . 

SPICE is partnering with organizations in Sacramento to teach free self-defense classes, while also partnering with the L.A. Trans Defense Fund to provide self-defense kits complete with pepper spray, flashlights, stun guns, safety jabbers, and kitty knuckles, the latter of which Diwa used to defend herself during the attack. SPICE is building its own safe spaces, like open vogue sessions and trans and Two-Spirit healing circles. 

鈥淏efore, it was me taking care of myself and worrying about what I need to do for my future,鈥� Diwa reflects. 鈥淣ow, I feel like I鈥檓 in a place where I can also have space to take care of others. It鈥檚 almost like passing the torch down. 鈥� 

Diwa says the stamina she鈥檚 gained through voguing helped her during the attack. In her youth, Diwa lifted weights, played football, and wrestled. After transitioning, those spaces no longer felt welcoming for her. Ballroom allowed Diwa to be active in a space where she feels safe and celebrated. 

鈥淪ometimes, I feel like ballroom is more challenging than football and wrestling,鈥� Diwa says. 鈥淚 can say that because I鈥檝e done [it].鈥�

Xo鈥橪ei Diaz, a ball commentator who has been in ballroom for around eight years, is a leader for Vogue Buffalo in New York, an entity that holds classes, hosts balls, and performs. She describes ballroom as a 鈥渜ueer competitive space.鈥� She says there should be a vogue workout class since it鈥檚 good on muscles, creates toning, and moves every piece of body. 

鈥淪ome people like football, some people like basketball,鈥� Diaz says. 鈥淚 like ballroom. Everybody has their sport. Voguing especially is a sport in itself, and it鈥檚 very competitive.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The competition within ballroom is beyond physical. 

鈥淥n the floor, you鈥檙e selling a fantasy,鈥� Escada says. 鈥淭hese larger-than-life characters and personas. If you can handle bitches in ballroom, you can handle everyday Joes. 鈥f you learn how to catch that shade and throw it back without making yourself look like a fool, on and off the floor, you can tackle anything out in the world.鈥�

Sean Anthony, a director of Vogue Buffalo, speaks to the mental growth that ballroom provides. 鈥淵ou have to be vulnerable and open to criticism in order to be in ballroom,鈥� Anthony says. 鈥淚f you鈥檙e not, you won鈥檛 succeed. In everyday life, people are forming opinions about us. So imagine standing in front of a panel of five judges and being judged by your appearance or how well you鈥檙e doing, dead to your face. You have to have a lot of courage and strength for that. It hurts when you first do it. You grow thick skin. Ballroom makes you stronger.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

As a young 17-year-old in 2008 with few gay friends, Anthony was 鈥済agged鈥� the first time he saw voguing and was introduced to ballroom culture. 

鈥淢y jaw was on the floor,鈥� Anthony says. 鈥淚 was in shock. I could not believe this existed. 鈥he flamboyancy that a man can convey was my favorite part. I just was like, 鈥楬e鈥檚 fagging out and I love it.鈥欌�� 

Now, Anthony, who is also known as Salsa Dior Gar莽on the Godmother of the Magnificent House of Christian Dior, has grown into a leader within the ballroom community in New York, offering support and resources to his children and friends. While tensions can be high during a ball, Anthony leaves it on the floor. He explains that the ballroom community can be integral in supporting one another emotionally, mentally, and physically, noting that for many trans people it can be a way to get connections to hormones. 

鈥淲别鈥檙e not welcomed everywhere,鈥� Anthony says. 鈥淭o be in a room where there鈥檚 people who walk the same path as you, there鈥檚 people who you can relate to on a different level 鈥� that鈥檚 important.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Though an outsider may look into a ball and just see a party, it鈥檚 clear to the community how significant the artform is. 

鈥淚 really believe ballroom is revolutionary,鈥� Diwa says. 鈥泪迟 can change the world.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

To advance equity, policymakers and educators often focus on boosting test scores and grades and making advanced courses more widely available. Through this lens, equity means all students and .

With more than as a researcher, math teacher, and teacher educator, I advocate for expanding what equity means in mathematics education. I believe policymakers and educators should focus less on test scores and grades and more on and ability to use math to make smart personal and professional decisions. This is mathematical power鈥攁nd true equity.

What Is 鈥淓quity鈥� in Math?

To understand the limitations of thinking about equity solely in terms of academic achievements, consider a student whom I interviewed during her freshman year of college.

Jasmine took Algebra 1 in ninth grade, followed by a summer online geometry course. This put her on a pathway to study calculus during her senior year in an AP class in which she earned an A. She graduated high school in the top 20% of her class and went to a highly selective liberal arts college. Now in her first year, she plans to study psychology.

Did Jasmine receive an equitable mathematics education? From an equity-as-achievement perspective, yes. But let鈥檚 take a closer look.

Jasmine experienced anxiety in her math classes during her junior and senior years in high school. Despite strong grades, she found herself 鈥渋n a little bit of a panic鈥� when faced with situations that require mathematical analysis. This included deciding the best loan options.

In college, Jasmine鈥檚 major required statistics. Her counselor and family encouraged her to take calculus over statistics in high school because calculus 鈥渓ooked better鈥� for college applications. She wishes now she had studied statistics as a foundation for her major and for its usefulness outside of school. In her psychology classes, knowledge of statistics helps her better understand the landscape of disorders and to ask questions like, 鈥淗ow does gender impact this disorder?鈥�

These outcomes suggest Jasmine did not receive an equitable mathematics education, because she did not develop mathematical power. Mathematical power is the know-how and confidence to use math to inform decisions and navigate the demands of daily life鈥攚hether personal, professional, or civic. An equitable education would help her develop the confidence to use mathematics to make decisions in her personal life and realize her professional goals. Jasmine deserved more from her mathematics education.

The Prevalence of Inequitable Math Education

Experiences like Jasmine鈥檚 are unfortunately common. According to one large-scale study, only that are useful for making routine financial and medical decisions.

A National Council on Education and the Economy report found that coursework for nine common majors, including nursing, taught in most high schools. A recent study found that teachers and parents perceive math education as 鈥�.鈥�

Looking at student experiences, national survey results show that large proportions of students experience , in math, or both. Students from historically marginalized groups experience this anxiety at higher rates than their peers. This can frustrate their postsecondary pursuits and negatively affect their lives.

How to Make Math Education More Equitable

In 2023, I collaborated with other educators from Connecticut鈥檚 professional math education associations to author an . The position statement, which was endorsed by the Connecticut State Board of Education, outlines three commitments to transform mathematics education.

1. Foster positive math identities.

The first commitment is to foster positive math identities, which includes students鈥� confidence levels and their beliefs about math and their ability to learn it. Many students have a very negative relationship with mathematics. This commitment is particularly important for students of color and those new to the English language to about who can be successful in mathematics.

A growing body of material exists to help teachers and schools promote positive math identities. For example, can help students see the role of math in their lives. They can also reflect on their identity as a 鈥渕ath person.鈥� Teachers should also acknowledge students鈥� strengths and as a way to empower them.

2. Modernize math content.

The second commitment is to that school districts offer to students. For example, a high school mathematics for students interested in might include algebra, math for medical professionals, and advanced statistics. With these skills, students will be to calculate drug dosages, communicate results and risk factors to patients, interpret reports and research, and catch potentially life-threatening errors.

3. Align state policies and requirements.

The third commitment is to align state policies and school districts in their definition of mathematical proficiency and the requirements for achieving it. In 2018, for instance, had a high school math graduation requirement insufficient for admission to the public universities in the same state. Other states鈥� requirements exceed the admission requirements. Aligning state and district definitions of math proficiency clears up confusion for students and eliminates unnecessary barriers.

What鈥檚 Next?

As long as educators and policymakers focus solely on equalizing test scores and enrollment in advanced courses, I believe true equity will remain elusive. Mathematical power鈥攖he ability and confidence to use math to make smart personal and professional decisions鈥攏eeds to be the goal.

No one adjustment to the U.S. math education system will immediately result in students gaining mathematical power. But by focusing on students鈥� identities and designing math courses that align with their career and life goals, I believe schools, universities, and state leaders can create a more expansive and equitable math education system.

This article is republished from under a Creative Commons license. Read the .

Today mothers in Gaza are writing children鈥檚 names on their small bodies, so that if they are killed, someone will know who they are. For others, relief workers use the initials to indicate 鈥淲ounded Child, No Surviving Family.鈥� 

Rewind to July 1989: While watching a play about a Jewish nurse鈥檚 letter, written as she was caring for Palestinian children dying after the 1982 Sabra and Shatila refugee camps massacre鈥擨 broke down. had committed the murders, but Israeli soldiers allowed the Phalangists into the camps. Tears streaming, I wondered, How do I stretch myself enough to treasure my Jewishness, and also face the Israeli army鈥檚 inhumanity to Palestinians?

Months later I was traveling to Palestine/Israel, to witness the First Intifada and participate in an Israeli women鈥檚 peace conference. I stayed in Palestinian homes in villages and refugee camps in the West Bank and Gaza. I also lived in Jewish homes and marched for an end to the Occupation with Israeli women activists, many of them lesbians. That 1989 trip changed my life. I鈥檝e now been back seven times, including as co-leader of four Middle East Children鈥檚 Alliance women鈥檚 peace delegations.

WATCH: Penny Rosenwasser on Why She Stands With Palestine

I鈥檝e visited grieving Palestinian parents whose children were shot and killed by Israeli soldiers. In Rafah camp in Gaza, our host Ali showed us where 20 homes had just been demolished by Israeli bulldozers鈥攁n area the size of a football field鈥攍eaving 100 people without shelter overnight. In one home that was left standing, where the children鈥檚 bedroom wall bore fist-sized artillery holes from Israeli army shelling, I met Deeah. Two years old, he had bright brown eyes and was wearing pajamas with elephants on them. His mother told us that he was so frightened from the constant bombardment, he still didn鈥檛 speak. He cried most of the time.

In Gaza City, our host Ali introduced our group: 鈥淭hese are Jews, and they are standing with us for peace.鈥� I saw scrawled on a Khan Younis camp wall: 鈥淚f you destroy our houses, you will not destroy our souls.鈥�

Afterward, I published an op-ed in the San Francisco Chronicle about my experiences. I received many heartwarming messages in response. There was one message, though, on my voicemail: 鈥淗ave you ever heard of the Holocaust? Too bad they missed you.鈥�

I am a white, queer Ashkenazi Jewish feminist, born four years to the day after the last death march left Auschwitz. One can鈥檛 talk about Palestine/Israel without talking about antisemitism鈥攂ecause it was the systematic slaughter, 78 years ago, of one-third of world Jewry that drove many terrified Jews to escape Europe to what we now call Palestine/Israel. Most other countries, including the United States, allowed very few Jewish refugees in.

Then, in 1948, it was armed Jewish militias who drove out 750,000 Palestinians, confiscating their land and homes, 鈥攌nown as the Nakba (鈥渃atastrophe鈥�). This forcing people off their land, with no chance to return, was and is ethnic cleansing.

Israeli Jewish journalist Amira Hass, whose parents survived Auschwitz, said recently in an interview that 鈥溾�� Because they have never been allowed to leave Gaza.

I鈥檓 honored to have been a founding national board member of . JVP started in Berkeley in 1996, meeting in members鈥� living rooms; then, during the Second Intifada (2000鈥�2005), a feisty band of Jews began building JVP鈥檚 organizational infrastructure. Through both turmoil and triumphs, in 2007 we boosted ourselves onto the national stage. JVP now has and a . 

Organizing a grassroots, multiracial, intergenerational movement of U.S. Jews in solidarity with Palestine, today JVP is the largest progressive Jewish anti-Zionist organization worldwide. We also speak out against antisemitism. It is no more antisemitic to criticize Israeli government policies than it is anti-American to criticize U.S. policies. It would only be antisemitic if you were criticizing Jews as Jews.

Since Oct. 7, JVP members have led or co-led the majority of the high-profile U.S. actions in solidarity with Gaza and in demanding a ceasefire: sit-ins at the , , and the and 鈥攑lus actions in Oakland, California; Los Angeles; Chicago; Boston; Albuquerque, New Mexico; Seattle; on campuses; and more鈥攁 total of 70 actions to date. One day after JVP and IfNotNow activists , the L.A. Times became the first major paper to .

Over 2,000 have been arrested, including rabbis. In Sacramento, California, JVP helped lead protests at the California Democratic Party Fall Endorsing Convention, placing 500 pairs of children鈥檚 shoes to represent Gazan children killed. , from JVP鈥檚 Rabbinical Council, said, 鈥淲hen I see what is happening in Gaza, I think about what I wanted people to do for my ancestors 鈥� and that is what I鈥檓 called to do.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

I鈥檓 horrified that my hard-earned U.S. tax dollars are sent to the Israeli military, that the $3.8 billion in U.S. aid to Israel actually goes to U.S. weapons manufacturers. Along with all American taxpayers, I am directly implicated in the deaths of more than 6,000 children in Gaza.

Gazan has related how 鈥渉undreds of people 鈥� [are] still under the rubble. 鈥� This is what could happen to us any moment.鈥� In a for the , where she is on staff, she said, 鈥淭he psychological impact is unbearable. 鈥� Our brains cannot absorb it. 鈥� When we sleep we try to choose the places that might give us a chance to survive if the house is bombed. 鈥� We think about it all the time.鈥� I try to imagine living like this; it feels unbearable. My culpability in this horror drives me to do all I can to end it.

On Nov. 13, I was among 700 Jews and allies, including rabbis, led by JVP and , who for seven hours. Our shirts read 鈥淛ews say Ceasefire Now!鈥� and 鈥淣ot in My Name鈥�; and 472 of us were arrested in . 

As a song leader that day, I was pouring my grief and my outrage out of my body and into the songs, and hundreds were right there with me. Leading the Israeli anthem 鈥淟o Yisa Goy鈥濃�斺�渁nd everyone 鈥檔eath a vine and fig tree, shall live in peace and unafraid鈥濃�擨 felt the tears. I kept remembering those Palestinian babies trying to survive without an incubator. I wonder, with a , if all of our Jewish, Palestinian, and related actions could stop the genocide even one day or one hour earlier, how many lives could we save?

Palestinian American, Muslim, and interfaith groups, 鈥攁lso students, legislative aides, health workers, more鈥攁re blocking bridges and highways, staging die-ins and walkouts, interrupting legislators, and passing resolutions calling for a permanent ceasefire. To date, have called for a ceasefire. , and , despite intense repression inside Israel. 

I ask us to hold several truths simultaneously, to let our hearts break for all of it. The war crimes committed by Hamas were a hideous, brutal massacre鈥攁nd the revenge that the Israeli government is inflicting on Gaza is genocide.

I am a racial justice leader in my Oakland synagogue: Ethnic cleansing and genocide are not part of my Judaism. I am committed to a future where every Palestinian life and every Israeli life is seen as equally precious, a future where both peoples live in freedom, equality, and safety. This means ending the Israeli occupation of the West Bank, ending the siege of Gaza, and ending the system of apartheid, in which Palestinians are denied the rights given to Jewish Israelis.

I saw a heartbreaking story on television, of an Israeli Jewish mother desperately trying to learn if her daughter Adi, who was at the music festival that Hamas attacked, was being held captive or was dead. This mother asked, how could human beings do such a thing? Her pain went right to my heart. And it made me wonder, does she not know how IDF soldiers have killed innocent Palestinian children for decades?

Queer Jewish philosopher Judith Butler calls this the 鈥溾��: Whose suffering gets attention? Jewish author : 鈥淢y question is, if you were more shaken by the Israeli lives lost in one day than 75 years of killing 鈥� of Palestinians, why is that?鈥�

I鈥檓 trying every day to keep my heart open鈥攖o hold on to my humanity. JVP knows that Palestinian safety and liberation, and Jewish safety and liberation, go hand in hand. Years ago, the wrote: 鈥淲别 refuse to knowingly oppress others. 鈥� We will not carry the legacy of terror. 鈥� We won鈥檛 buy the logic that slaughter means safety. 鈥� We commit to equality, solidarity, and integrity. 鈥� We seek breathing room and dignity for all people.鈥� I feel this in my bones.

U.S. media and politicians keep framing this struggle with divisive rhetoric. But I keep remembering the words of my host Amal, in Deheisheh refugee camp in 2002鈥攐f the common thread connecting us as Jews, as Palestinians, as human beings. After pouring us tea, Amal looked up at me, saying, 鈥淲别 don鈥檛 want to push the Jews into the sea. All we want is food on the table, no Israeli soldiers in the street, a safe place for our children to play. A chance for them to have a future.鈥�

The Harlem Renaissance transformed Black identity and self-conception, not just in the United States, but throughout Black spaces, globally. The depth of this reach was not only a result of the movement鈥檚 impact, but also a testament to new patterns of Black migration.

Millions of African Americans formed the , escaping the racial terror and plantations of the Jim Crow South in search of new opportunities in the urban North. Simultaneously, a small but significant wave of Black immigrants began coming to the U.S. from the Caribbean and the rest of the Americas, later to be joined by immigrants from the African continent.

The arrival of Black immigrants was driven in large part by many of the same forces that brought other waves of immigrants to this country鈥攑ursuing education, safety, economic opportunity, fleeing the impact of U.S. policy, or following the path of family members who came before them. And all these groups would live alongside each other in established Black northern communities and, perhaps, for the first time, the African diaspora encountered itself in a new way. 

鈥淭he Harlem Renaissance kind of represents that moment in which you have these varying groups of people coming together, working out their differences and trying to work out the meaning of their relationship to the United States and to the British empire and so forth鈥︹�� says Dr. Michael Gomez, New York University鈥檚 . He鈥檚 also founder of Diaspora. And, he adds, 鈥渙ut of that moment comes this cultural efflorescence where people, Black people, are beginning to see themselves very differently.鈥�

Whether drawn by force, choice, or necessity, Black immigrants have strong, rich roots in this country. And their over the past two decades add to its growing diversity overall and that of the Black population in particular. The African American experience in this country becomes the experience of all Black people鈥攊ncluding the current uprising after the killing of George Floyd by police in Minneapolis.

Patrice Lawrence, a Jamaican American who is interim co-director of , an advocacy group of current and formerly undocumented Black people, says: 鈥泪迟鈥檚 not possible to talk about immigration in this country without acknowledging Black immigrants 鈥︹�� 

Immigrants such as Garfield Brown, who was 40 when he moved to New York City from Jamaica nearly 20 years ago. Leaving his job as a banker to pursue new opportunities in the States, he went on to establish his own construction company. Brown鈥檚 sister, who had immigrated earlier, encouraged him to start a new life with his family in New York, where, over the years, all of their siblings had relocated.

鈥淗aving been a professional in my country and having worked in my country for a long time, doing well, I wanted a different footing somewhere else, something in the first world that I could also do well 鈥︹�� he says. 鈥淚 became a small-business owner, and that has propelled me greatly into the American experience.鈥�

Brown believes it takes a certain kind of person to leave their home country to try to make a new life somewhere else. They are motivated differently, he believes, because in coming here they risk much and often feel a need to ensure the sacrifices are worth it. Success is imperative because failure could mean returning home empty-handed.

The 鈥淎merican鈥� experience

If Black identity in the United States, in general, experienced a rebirth in the Harlem Renaissance, Black immigrant identity can trace, at least in part, some of its modern origins to the period. Initially, many black immigrants, who today number about, resettled in New York and mostly northern states鈥攏ot exactly a beacon of racial harmony, but a perceived respite from the Jim Crow South in a post-World War I U.S.

This pattern didn鈥檛 change until the civil rights movement and the passing of , which ended the de facto discrimination in immigration policy on non-Northwestern Europeans. different parts of the world, including Afro-Caribbean and Black Latinx people who already had closer ties to the United States because of their proximity, but also, for the first time, a significant number of immigrants from the African continent.

A 2010 article in Smithsonian magazine on the shows that during the 1990s, some 900,000 Black immigrants came to the U.S. from the Caribbean. An added 400,000 came from Africa and still others came from Europe and the Pacific rim. 鈥淏y the beginning of the 21st century, more people had come from Africa to live in the United States than during the centuries of the slave trade,鈥� the article says. 鈥淎t that point, nearly one in ten Black Americans was an immigrant or the child of an immigrant.鈥�

All these new Black immigrants and those coming after would help shape our understanding of the community today鈥攈ow their stories fit into the larger immigration narrative, their experiences of Black life, and the unique challenges the community faces today.

For Nana Gyamfi, the U.S. immigration narrative emphasizes the Mayflower stories of White immigrants while excluding Black immigrants, framing their experience only within the African-American context.

鈥淎s Black immigrants coming to the country鈥� integration into the United States means that you鈥檙e integrated into that racial, political context,鈥� Gyamfi says. 鈥淎nd so you integrate into becoming basically, African American, Black American. And all of the anti-Blackness, the discrimination, the bigotry… all of the things that Black folks who are multigenerational in the United States experience, now become transferred over to you.鈥�

Gyamfi describes herself as an ABG, an American-born Ghanaian. Her father immigrated to the U.S in 1966, a year after passage of the immigration act, to pursue his graduate education in engineering at the University of California, Berkeley.

An attorney and organizer for 25 years, she also serves as executive director of the , the largest Black-led immigration rights organization in the country. Its goal, she says, is not just to educate, organize, and advocate on behalf of Black immigrants, but to 鈥渦nite Black immigrants and African Americans under the umbrella of racial justice 鈥� racial, political, and economic justice.鈥�

Some Black immigrants arrive in the U.S. having bought into its immigration narrative as a beacon of hope for the huddled masses, she says. Many are woefully unaware not just of its insidious racial politics and economic and social difficulties but the hard and important work by African Americans to gain some of the rights and benefits Black immigrants enjoy. 

鈥淚 think it鈥檚 no different than African Americans escaping racial terror from the South going North to Chicago and New York, or coming West to Los Angeles, [thinking] it was going to give them the same joyful future that it was giving their White counterparts, and [finding] out differently,鈥� Gyamfi says.

Education as a gateway

Elizabeth Okwirry Mitchell鈥檚 father, like Gyamfi鈥檚, also came to the U.S. to pursue an education, part of a wave of who arrived in the 1960s to prepare to lead a newly independent nation.

Mitchell was born in Kenya at the behest of a grandfather who insisted his first grandchild be born in the African country. She returned to the U.S and left several more times before returning permanently in the 1980s as a 20-year-old.

Though she returned then as a visitor, somewhat reluctantly and missing the comforts of home, Mitchell said her American godmother, a college professor, encouraged her to stay and enroll in college, switching her visa status from visitor to student.

While she ended up postponing college to start a family, education remained a deeply ingrained part of her experience. It鈥檚 a familiar path for many African immigrants鈥攅ven today. The result is an educated population that often exemplifies the African immigrant experience. Pew Research, for example, shows hold bachelor鈥檚 or advanced degrees鈥攄ouble that of the U.S. population overall. Less known are the legal hurdles African and all Black immigrants encounter, regardless of their immigration path.

Impact of immigration laws

Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, U.S immigration laws shifted drastically, and perhaps, with contrasting motivations. In the wake of the Refugee Act of 1980, as crises flared up across the world, the U.S. increased the number of refugees it would take in, leading to vibrant Somali communities in places such as Columbus, Ohio, and the Twin Cities of . At the same time, new laws established precedents that began to criminalize immigrants. The most notorious was the , which expanded the reasons for which immigrants, including those with permanent legal status, could be deported.

In the country鈥檚 imagination, Black immigrants are seldom envisioned among the surging waves of those moving from Central American to the southern U.S. border in 2018 and 2019. Or among the undocumented immigrants who live in the shadows of this country鈥攊ncluding 鈥渄reamers,鈥� who have emerged as the new face of that group. 

People such as Emmanuel Olawale Ajomale, known by his artist moniker, Mannywellz, who as a 9-year-old in 2003 came to the U.S. on a visitor鈥檚 visa from Nigeria with his mother and a sister. Having taken a similar immigration path, his father was already living and working in Maryland, without legal documents, as a musician in a church and then in real estate.

As a teenager, Ajomale saw his father deported, a possibility that he knew he was subject to from the time he understood that overstaying his visitor鈥檚 visa as he, his mother, and sister had done, also made them vulnerable to removal.

He applied for Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals shortly after the Obama administration passed the Act in 2012, protecting him from possible deportation and allowing him to legally work in the U.S. Last month, the Supreme Court ruled that the Trump administration can鈥檛 immediately end DACA as the administration had planned, a temporary but important win for immigration advocates.

Now, Ajomale uses his music not only to share his strong Christian faith, but to shine a light on issues like immigration, as in 鈥�,鈥� one of his most-streamed songs in which he chronicles his family鈥檚 undocumented experience.

鈥淓ven when you received that [DACA], a lot of us still lived in shadows 鈥︹�� he says. 鈥淚 just came to the realization that my story is really powerful, and my life could be a testament or testimony to encourage and push people.鈥�

The work of advocating for people such as Ajomale and other Black immigrants rendered virtually invisible in the nation鈥檚 immigration narrative falls to a growing number of Black immigrant-led groups. For example, the , a working group of the New York Immigration Coalition, worked alongside a number of organizations to advocate for the New York State Dream Act. Passed in 2019, the measure provides undocumented students access to state-administered grants and scholarships. The group also pushed for passage of Green Light New York, the campaign that allows New Yorkers to obtain drivers licenses, regardless of their immigration status.

Similarly, the UndocuBlack Network fights against the erasure of people whose stories are seldom told in the media, lobbying for long-term legal status for vulnerable Black communities, Lawrence says. Working alongside other organizations in 2019, for example, it helped secure for Liberian immigrants who qualified for Temporary Protected Status and Deferred Enforced Departure, a program that grants them work permits and temporary reprieve from deportation.

Another area where Black immigrants exist in the shadows is in U.S. detention, where they make up a disproportionate number of those facing deportation on criminal grounds, according to 2014 ICE analyzed by Black Immigration Engagement Initiative and New York University鈥檚 Immigrant Rights Clinic. The consequences of detention are particularly dire for Black transgender immigrants, who like other trans detainees, are often attacked, assigned to the wrong facility based on gender, or denied proper medication.

Roselyn Berry, an Afro-Latinx steering committee member of the , which advocates for Black queer and trans migrants, recalls the case of Udoka Nweke, a gay Nigerian who sought asylum on grounds that he faced potential violence at home because of his sexual identity. He was immediately detained upon arrival in the U.S in 2016 and subsequently held for 19 months.

鈥淗e was targeted and forced into detention, denied access to mental health services that he desperately needed because he had tried to commit suicide multiple times 鈥� while in ICE custody,鈥� Berry says. BLMP launched a campaign to win his release鈥攁nd won.  鈥淲别 were able to find him housing, get him access to a work permit, and just recently, he was actually granted asylum,鈥� Berry says, through tears.  

For some queer Black immigrants, choosing the United States over their home countries is a matter of safety and sheer survival鈥攊f at the cost of potentially facing a more racist country.

Gizelle, who asked to be identified only by her first name, is a queer Jamaican resident who lives in the Midwest and for whom home was out of the question. She originally came to the U.S. on a student visa, which she later parlayed into a green card after her maternal aunt filed a family-based green card petition for Gizelle鈥檚 mother.

The family-based immigration model is one that鈥檚 often used to reunite family members in the States鈥攁nd one that is by the current administration. Gizelle says she came within months of aging out of eligibility and facing the possibility of having to return to Jamaica.

鈥淚 got used to a certain freedom of expressing queerness 鈥� and that would not fly in Jamaica,鈥� she says.

The 鈥淎frica ban鈥�

While blame for the failing immigration system can be spread across all political parties and administrations, no presidency has done more to harm immigrants鈥攅specially Black immigrants鈥攖han the administration of Donald Trump. At the dawn of his presidency, Trump delivered on one of his campaign鈥檚 most contentious promises鈥攖o

Legal challenges went up and new executive orders were handed down and by the time the dust had settled, were facing severe restrictions for immigrant or travel visas to the U.S. Many, but not all, had Muslim-majority populations and six of them were African, including the continent鈥檚 largest, Nigeria. The 鈥淎frica ban鈥� had arrived. 

Trump鈥檚 handling of the migrant situation on the southern border is also among the most noteworthy of his immigration policies. Significant among the mandates that led to children being separated from their parents and put into cages is one that requires people seeking asylum in the U.S. to 鈥渞emain in Mexico鈥� and await a chance to make a claim before an immigration judge. Rarely highlighted in this discourse is the increase in Black immigrants traveling this south-to-north route, .

While some are from the Caribbean and Central America, notably Haiti and Honduras, many are also coming from African countries.

Gyamfi, of the Black Alliance for Just Immigration, visited southern Mexico in the summer of 2019, and what she found there underscores the anti-Blackness that Black migrants face in Mexico: teachers refusing to teach Black children, medical professionals turning away sick Black migrants, and families unable to acquire housing.

Some migrants themselves hold unrealistic views of what lies ahead. Gyamfi describes the conversation she had with an Angolan activist against femicide who was forced to flee that country with her husband and seven children. The nine flew to Ecuador and then traveled by foot, by car, even by horseback, crossing jungles, stepping over dead bodies to finally reach Mexico.

鈥淎nd when that woman looked at me in the face and said, 鈥業 can鈥檛 wait to get to America where my children can be safe.鈥�…  How do I explain to this woman that there鈥檚 a lot that you think is happening in the United States, or that you don’t know that鈥檚 happening, that is going to make your life complicated and difficult?鈥�

Looking Ahead

So much of the Black immigrant experience in the U.S. is caught between the country鈥檚 immigrant narrative of hope, and the sometimes severe realities of living a Black experience, and surviving a tedious immigration system. The Somali-British poet Warsan Shire writes that, 鈥渘o one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.鈥� The poem, which speaks to the refugee experience, seems also to be true of those with limited choices and capacity for a decent life, wherever they are coming from. Black immigrants, some searching for the American Dream, others simply escaping the nightmare of their homes, may have left the mouth of a shark but are not immune to the sharp edges of American society.

But just as 100 years ago when movement patterns reshaped Black life in a way that fashioned an era in the Harlem Renaissance, movement patterns around the world might do the same today. In spite of all their political challenges and obstacles, Black immigrants will likely do more than survive in this country鈥攖hey will continue to contribute greatly to American life, says New York University鈥檚 Gomez.

鈥淭his is your future leadership,鈥� he says, 鈥渁nd they are coming to the fore, and they are going to shape the politics and the sensibilities and the cultures of this place.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Run by neighborhood-based mutual aid groups called emergency response rooms, the kitchens are struggling with crippling funding gaps, security threats, and communications and electricity blackouts, volunteers told The New Humanitarian.

The wide-ranging challenges mean many kitchens only offer one meal per day. At the same time, some emergency response rooms have cut back to a single meal per week or have temporarily closed down even while their communities remain in desperate need.

鈥淭he service we gain from the kitchen is life-saving 鈥� but the food amount is not enough for everyone. Circumstances are very bad here,鈥� said Nisreen,* a woman from Umbada locality in Omdurman, a major city in the Greater Khartoum area. She said the Umbada kitchen can only offer one meal per week, usually beans or lentils. Still, people depend on that small amount, and a further reduction would be a 鈥渄isaster,鈥� she added.

Sudan鈥檚 war began in April 2023 and pitted the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF) against the regular army. It has produced the world鈥檚 largest displacement crisis, uprooting nearly 10 million people, and the biggest hunger crisis, too. 2.5 million starvation deaths by September, of the world鈥檚 worst famine in 40 years.

Some of the most extreme hunger levels are in Greater Khartoum, which includes the devastated capital and its adjoining sister cities鈥擝ahri and Omdurman. Most of the area is controlled by RSF fighters, who invaded people鈥檚 homes at the start of the conflict and stripped them of their possessions.

Most international aid groups evacuated Khartoum at the outset of the fighting and haven鈥檛 yet returned. Their efforts to bring in supplies have been scuppered by the army and aligned authorities, which seek to starve RSF-occupied territories of relief.

While volunteers are leading an aid response, the number of people depending on them is growing as people鈥檚 coping mechanisms erode and thousands of people return to the capital鈥攖o escape the attacks and suffering in the places they had previously fled to.

Volunteers said the local and diaspora funding that sustains the kitchens is reaching its limits. Support from international donors remains insufficient with emergency response rooms.

鈥淭he funding is nothing compared to what people need,鈥� said Mawada, a kitchen volunteer from Umbada. She said her group is committed to helping its community despite the mounting challenges: 鈥淭he two warring parties failed to help civilians, but we can do it, and we will continue to.鈥�

Saving Lives and Dignity: 鈥淓verybody Should Be Able to Eat and Not Feel Shame鈥�

Mutual aid groups established themselves across Sudan after the war erupted. They drew members from a vibrant pro-democracy movement and brought ideas rooted in a rich heritage of social solidarity, best represented in the tradition of nafeer (鈥渁 call to mobilize鈥�).

The Greater Khartoum kitchens follow two different models. Under the takaya system, religious and community leaders feed people on the streets, in houses, or under trees; however, more structured kitchens are run in defined spaces by the emergency response rooms.

Hassan, who helps coordinate assistance across Greater Khartoum, said over 350 communal kitchens have been set up, assisting 500,000 families with at least one meal a day. 鈥淲别 aim to save people鈥檚 dignity,鈥� he said. 鈥淓verybody should be able to eat and not feel shame. We, as Sudanese, are still helping each other. We survive together.鈥�

Volunteers said the kitchens run regular funding campaigns, using social media to request money from philanthropists and diaspora networks. They also receive disbursals from national and international NGOs, as well as from United Nations鈥搈anaged funds.

While international aid is blocked, the kitchens deal with local traders鈥攕ome affiliated with the RSF鈥攚ho are adept at navigating checkpoints and crossing front lines. Volunteers buy goods from them in markets or straight from traders鈥� houses.

The kitchens operate from relatively spacious places and are set up so that nobody has to travel too far to reach them. Besides offering food, they function as communal spaces where teachers run alternative education programs and women organize cooperatives.

While volunteers often work long hours preparing the food, they have time to participate in social activities and come 鈥渢ogether and chat鈥� as a group, said Jamal, a volunteer from Khartoum鈥檚 Al Jerief West locality.

Several volunteers said their public service helps them feel powerful and resilient, and that before joining the kitchens they had felt traumatized by war and sometimes too afraid to leave their houses.

鈥淭his is what keeps me staying in the conflict areas,鈥� said Ibrahim, a coordinator of the Maygoma kitchen in the Sharg Alneel area of east Khartoum. 鈥淚n my childhood, I used to pray to have enough money to help others, [but] I found out that it is not important to have money.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Low Funding, Increased Needs: 鈥淓ach Day We See New Faces鈥�

Despite their positive experiences, the half a dozen volunteers who spoke to The New Humanitarian said their kitchens lack adequate funding and resources, especially as the number of people in need balloons.

Ibrahim, from the Maygoma kitchen, said volunteers used to cook lunch and breakfast for their community, but they are now only offering just one meal a day. 鈥淭he number keeps increasing. Each day we see new faces,鈥� he said.

Mustafa, a kitchen coordinator in Al Kalakla locality in south Khartoum, said his group had observed a 鈥渉igh number of returnees鈥� who left the capital for the adjoining Gezira state last year but returned after the RSF invaded it in December. He also said that 10 kitchens in a part of Al Kalakla called Abu Adam have a budget of just $800 each per month and that he has seen people so hungry they were eating leaves from trees to survive.

Local philanthropists and benefactors in the diaspora have made critical contributions over the past year, but Ibrahim said funding 鈥渋s decreasing with time because they have other responsibilities.鈥�

Emergency response rooms have received only a fraction of the hundreds of millions of dollars that international donors have provided to humanitarian actors in Sudan.

The vast majority of donor money has gone to the UN and international NGOs鈥� financially鈥攄espite their limited access to the most conflict-affected areas and the restrictions warring parties place on them.

鈥淭his is a really important part of the humanitarian response that isn鈥檛 appropriately recognized or supported at the moment,鈥� Will Carter, the Norwegian Refugee Council鈥檚 country director in Sudan, told The New Humanitarian.

鈥淥ut of a total aid appeal of over $2 billion, it鈥檚 not that much to ask for between 2% and 5%, at least for all these brave frontline responders that are providing very critical services in very neglected and hard-to-reach areas,鈥� Carter added. He said one of the main problems is that donor governments have rigid policies and funding procedures that clash with how local response efforts are organized and with 鈥渨hat their priorities are and should be.鈥�

Some communal kitchens said they have reached out directly to international organizations for funding, but this approach can exclude groups with weak English skills or the ability to speak the language of international aid.

Blackouts, High Prices, and Security Threats

An internet blackout has 鈥攔eportedly imposed by the RSF鈥攖hat means volunteers cannot easily do media awareness campaigns.

The blackout is also challenging because it prevents emergency response rooms from accessing e-banking systems, which they use to receive and spend money amid cash shortages and bank closures, said Hassan, the coordinator for Greater Khartoum.

While funding for the kitchens is low, the prices of goods can be incredibly high, according to volunteers and traders. One businessman working in Al Kalakla said, 鈥淚nflation is digging into people,鈥� with sugar costing eight times its pre-war level.

Traders bringing food into RSF-held areas said they are sometimes denied access at army-controlled checkpoints, which chokes supply and hikes up prices. They also have to contend with paramilitary forces stealing their stocks in markets.

Electricity blackouts are another challenge, especially in areas where power is needed to pump water from the Nile. Ibrahim, the Sharg Alneel volunteer, said the lack of water has periodically suspended their kitchen work.

Other volunteers cited a lack of cooking gas as a problem, with too little supply and unaffordable prices. Some kitchens have been cutting down trees and using firewood as a substitute.

Volunteers also raised security as a critical challenge. Though RSF leaders have made statements supporting local humanitarian efforts, volunteers said they continue to be investigated and arrested based on spurious allegations that they are tied to the army.

A volunteer said the RSF closed down their kitchen鈥檚 operations after the kitchen published a statement condemning the paramilitary group鈥檚 violations against civilians. The volunteer said the kitchen is now keeping its activities 鈥渓ow profile鈥�: cooking inside people鈥檚 homes and only distributing food to the most vulnerable within its community.

Kitchens operating in areas held by the army and the de facto government also face security threats. These authorities see aid as a political and military resource, and are suspicious of volunteers receiving funds outside of a system they can control.

What Needs to Be Done

Going forward, Carter of the Norwegian Refugee Council called for donors to increase their financial flows to local response efforts and suggested they should adapt some of their policies so as not to drown volunteers in paperwork and processes.

鈥淚 think the point of this is not to require [mutual aid groups] to be NGOs but to find a model that supports them in delivering critical services in very difficult and dangerous parts of the country, [while] minimizing any bureaucracies or burden,鈥� he said.

With more resources, Hassan said the emergency response rooms would be able to set up local markets and bakeries across the region. For now, however, he said the groups are demanding that the warring parties allow volunteers to work safely, open humanitarian corridors for aid groups, and make progress on peace talks.

Saja, who receives support from the kitchens in Sharg Alneel鈥攐ne of the most populous parts of Khartoum鈥攕aid another meal a day would go a long way to improving people鈥檚 lives.

鈥淢any, many families are totally depending on the kitchens,鈥� she told The New Humanitarian. Without them, I could not even imagine what our lives in this conflict would look like.鈥�

*The names of all Sudanese sources quoted in this article have been changed because the warring parties threatened local volunteers.

Originally edited by Philip Kleinfeld. Global edition and Spanish translation by the Human Journalism Network team.

This story was (Switzerland) and is republished within the program, supported by the ICFJ, .