Tag Archives: nonprofit quarterly

Black migrants—asylum-seekers, refugees, and immigrants—are often neglected in funding conversations about immigrant justice. The Black Migrant Power Fund (BMPF) is a new community-led fund that aims to change this by connecting Black, migrant-led nonprofits with long-overdue resources.

Ola Osaze, lead advisor to the BMPF and Deputy Director of the Four Freedoms Fund at Neo Philanthropy—the funder intermediary that houses the fund—says that BMPF started to come together in October 2021 at a funder briefing on Centering Collective Black Power for Migrant and Racial Justice.

That meeting was organized and held one month after the circulation of photos of US Customs and Border Patrol agents’ violent removal of Haitian asylum-seekers at the border near Del Rio, Texas. The images recalled 18^th century slave patrols that were formed to catch escapees and quash Black revolt.

Discussions of the violence at Del Rio and the need to invest in Black migrant organizations and leadership led these groups to issue a call to action to funders: Raise $10 million to benefit Black-led migrant justice organizations in 2022. These organizations serve diverse communities of Black migrants and have partnered with each other to transform their organizations, the immigrant justice movement, and the philanthropic landscape.

Now, Osaze is working with these and other Black migrant organizational leaders to develop a community-led grantmaking process as part of the Black Power Migrant Fund. Thirteen Black, migrant, grassroots organizations operating at local, state, and national scales have joined this collective effort, namely: the African Bureau for Immigration and Social Affairs (ABISA), African Communities Together (ACT), Afroresistance, Black Alliance for Justice Immigration (BAJI), Black LGBTQIA+ Migrant Project (BLMP), Black Immigrant Collective, FANM, Haitian Bridge Alliance, Haitian Women for Haitian Refugees, Louisiana Organization for Refugees and Immigrants, PANA, UndocuBlack Network, and Women Watch Afrika (WWA).

In partnering with one another, these migrant justice groups prioritize the leadership of LGBTQIA+, undocumented, youth, women, and formerly incarcerated Black migrants to lead transformative change with their communities. Like many of BMPF’s community partners, Osaze, a former co-director of the BLMP, also brings lived experience of these intersectional identities to their organizing work.

Honoring Juneteenth and Struggles for Black Freedom

The BMPF campaign, launched in February 2022, hopes to meet its $10 million fundraising goal by Juneteenth—or June —2022. The day honors the ongoing Black freedom struggle by commemorating the emancipation of enslaved Black people in the US and celebrating the vitality of Black culture. Juneteenth marks the anniversary of General Order No. 3, which brought the Emancipation Proclamation to the last state of the confederacy with institutional slavery: Texas. Later that year, on December 6, 1865, the ratification of the Thirteenth Amendment abolished chattel slavery throughout the United States.

Juneteenth celebrations began the following year, in 1866, in Galveston, a gulf coast city in southeast Texas.  On June 2021, 155 years later, Black activist leadership and racial justice protests in defense of Black lives pushed the Biden administration to recognize Juneteenth as a national holiday. Two months later and 400 miles from Galveston, at the other end of Texas’ southern tip, border police on horseback whipped Black asylum-seekers. The Border Patrol’s actions made it clear how much and how little has changed in the past century and a half: A holiday to honor Black freedom now has national recognition, but Black people at the border and in the US continue to struggle for this freedom—for themselves and for everyone.

Advocates for funding immigrant justice are quick to point out that the violence at Del Rio was not an exception. Rini Chakraborty, Senior Director at FFF and Neo Philanthropy, emphasized this while discussing the multiple forms of structural, physical, and psychological violence that migrants face at the border and in the US. “This brutality is not an ‘aberration,’ and it is really important for immigration funders to understand this.”

This violence must be understood in the context of US interventions to destabilize the world’s first free Black . in 1915–1934 started a century-long cycle of crises and interventions—among them, US-backed dictatorships—that have impoverished Haitians, made them vulnerable to recent disasters, and propelled their migrationThe US government’s response to Haitian asylum-seeking since the 1970s has exacerbated this cycle and led to the creation of today’s immigration detention regime Now, as Haitians migrate to escape ongoing political unrest and structural violence, the US continues to mistreat and expel them.

Against this history, Haitians and other Black migrants contend with the intersecting violences of anti-Black racism and the US immigration system. They are at greater risk of detention and deportation due to what some activists call the prison-to-deportation pipeline. And during the COVID-19 , which has disproportionately impacted the health and well-being of Black and Brown communities, Black migrants face unique challenges. The service jobs they work do not provide health insurance or paid sick leave—but as undocumented immigrants, asylum-seekers, or temporary visa-holders, Black migrants have little-to-no access to a complex patchwork of state and federal public benefits, leaving them without health care or economic support.

Building Black Migrant Power

Osaze and Chakraborty cite recent research from Pew that shows that Black migrants are the fastest growing group among US migrants and within Black communities. According to a 2020 report from State of Black Immigrants, a research institute and initiative of the Black Alliance for Just Immigration (BAJI), one in 10 Black people in the US is a migrant. Pew reports that the increase in the US’s Black immigrant population accounts for 19 percent of the growth of the overall Black population in the past 40 years, and between 2020 and 2060, the US foreign-born Black population—people who advocates would identify as Black migrants—is expected to double.

As these communities grow, they have increasingly come together, building collective power to organize for rights and resources. Osaze shared with NPQ how different communities came together to defend Temporary Protected Status (TPS): Instead of waiting for government officials to act, Haitian, Cameroonian, and other Black migrants organized among themselves and rallied together to push for relief for TPS-holders so they could live and work without fear of deportation. Black migrant groups’ victories in defending TPS and ending Title 42 are just two of the many ways in which they are at the forefront of today’s movements for racial, economic, and immigrant justice.

BMPF’s leaders note that the fund is an intervention into a philanthropic landscape that has been historically steeped in anti-Black racism. As NPQ has written, the field of philanthropy has racist and colonial origins, a legacy that persists in funding practices—particularly in decisions about who gets funded, how much, and for what. Even though resourcing from philanthropy increased in 2020 in response to the pandemic and uprisings for racial justice, little of this money has gone toward racial justice efforts and only 4 percent has gone toward Black- and Latinx-led nonprofits.

Immigrant justice groups remain woefully underfunded, with less than two percent of philanthropic dollars going to all pro-immigration groups—including less than one percent to those that directly support immigrants, refugees, and asylum-seekers. Black migrant groups are also consistently excluded in immigrant justice and racial justice philanthropy. According to the National Committee for Responsive Philanthropy, they received only $23 million—or 0.006 percent—of $364 billion dollars in 2016­­–2020 foundation giving, approximately 1.4 percent of the $1.7 billion of foundation funding that explicitly benefited immigrants and refugees, and 0.04 percent of funding granted to Black communities during this time.

The Challenges of Black Migrant Fundraising

Given this landscape, it comes as no surprise to hear that Black migrant justice leaders have found fundraising to be challenging.

Part of the problem is that smaller nonprofits—particularly those that are local and engaged in service provision—are caught in a catch-22 around capacity building. Fatou-Seydi Sarr, founder of the African Bureau for Immigration and Social Affairs (ABISA), observes that funders look for organizations that have already proven their ability to scale up their work. ABISA, a Black, immigrant, women-led organization for Black migrants in Michigan, has served its community for more than a decade under the following mission: To bridge the gaps in resources, information, and access that limit Black migrants or render them invisible.

Despite this track record of community work, ABISA only received its first set of operational seed funding last year, in 2021. Sarr says, “It is very difficult to hear funders over and over tell you that they will only fund you If you can prove your capacity, but [they] are not willing to fund you to build that capacity. It is like asking us to make a cake without batter.”

Without sufficient funding for daily operations and capacity building, nonprofit migrant justice organizations and campaigns are faced with a dilemma: Use resources that have been made scarce to scale one effort—like providing preventive health care to community members without health insurance—or put their limited financial resources toward multiple projects for a holistic approach that serves fewer people.

Such difficult choices are familiar to all nonprofits, but Osaze, Chakraborty, and BMPF’s community leaders all agree: It is especially difficult for small, community-led organizations that are already doing so much with so little funding—even as they have less room to “break things and fail.” The demands that funders make of these small, migrant-led organizations also consumes additional time and resources that undermine the very efforts that funders claim to support. Observing that fundraising burdens land especially hard on grassroots organizations, BAJI’s fundraising and development manager, Olamide Goke-Pariola, says, “Whereas many organizations have several staff members for fundraising, we have only one, and thus we require flexibility from our funders in completing all the administrative work that goes along with fundraising.”

Toward Intersectional Migrant Justice

BMPF’s leaders also emphasized the need for an intersectional response to funding BIPOC-led movements for racial justice and immigrant justice. As ABISA’s Sarr put it, “Community-led initiatives are successful because they are run by community members that are impacted and live at the heart of the issue they work to solve.” BAJI’s Goke-Pariola added, “Our communities need advocacy, but they also need direct cash assistance and mutual aid.”

The organizations that came together to form BMPF understand the unique needs of Black migrants because many of their leaders are members of the communities they serve. Black migrant communities in the US are diverse in national origin and ethnicity, class, immigration status, ability, gender, sexuality, and more. As a result, Osaze notes that their needs range widely and include humanitarian aid at the border for asylum-seekers; basic survival needs like food, shelter, and health care; work authorization for those with documented status; and legal services at all stages of the immigration process—whether it’s deportation defense or filing for permanent residency and citizenship.

The desire to fund work led by impacted Black migrants was echoed by Glory Kilanko, Director and CEO of Women Watch Afrika (WWA), a Black, women-led nonprofit serving immigrants and refugees from 23 countries in the Metro Atlanta area. Kilanko urged funders to include refugees and immigrants in funding processes—in part, through direct, no-strings-attached giving. Of the BMPF, she said, “It is our hope that this fund will benefit Black-led migrant justice organizations by putting money directly in the hands of those impacted who are doing the work.”

In addition to serving their communities’ direct needs, Goke-Pariola also hopes the fund will support staff at these organizations. “At BAJI and other Black migrant organizations, the folks who are doing this work are members of the very community they serve; thus, it impacts us on a different level. The work is personal for us, and it can be very emotionally draining.”

Building Solidarity and Black Migrant Power

In seeding a community-led fund, Four Freedoms Fund and Neo Philanthropy found models in several funding organizations and networks. Osaze and Chakraborty highlighted the Democracy Frontlines Fund, which was launched with the help of the Libra Foundation to resource Black-led racial justice organizations by leveraging multi-year, unrestricted support; the Trans Justice Funding Project for BIPOC-led trans communities looking beyond the 501(c)3 model; and the Southern Power Fund for an example of an intersectional, community-led, no-strings-attached Black-led fund. They also pointed to mutual aid networks that were working on a grassroots level across the country to pull together resources for marginalized folks during the coronavirus pandemic.

The partners leading BMPF also found inspiration in other community-led organizations and funds and found opportunities for cross-racial and multiracial solidarity through collective action. As Kilanko of WWA noted, “Grassroots organizing is an expensive endeavor. [We] partner with other migrant organizations serving Latinx, AAPI, and other racialized communities because we strongly believe that what we cannot do individually, we can achieve collectively.” WWA organized recently with the Latino Community Fund to support workers who were laid off from factory farms and meat processing plants to keep their homes.

Even as they draw inspiration from other organizations and participate in multiracial coalitions, Black migrant justice leaders reiterate the need for building their own power. “While we work for the greater cause, issues affecting Black migrants specifically are often the last ones being addressed by such a coalition,” said Sarr of ABISA. “It can be taxing and tiring to always be an afterthought, so we continue to highlight that #ImmigrationIsABlackIssue to ensure that our migrant ecosystem decolonizes the way we all work together.”

In the meantime, they find strength and inspiration in one another and their organizing and advocacy for Black migrants. As Goke-Pariola said, “Coming together in this way… has been incredibly inspiring and powerful. We are proud to be a part of this collective movement.”

This article originally appeared in the Nonprofit Quarterly. See the original article here.

This is the second installment of the series, Protecting Protest: We Need All Hands on Deck, published in partnership with the Protect Dissent Network. Writers examine how the constitutional right to protest is being threatened and why we must fight to protect it. Analyzing what anti-protest legislation signals for the future of the country and our democracy, contributors address what we must do to defeat these attempts to repress our voices and reverse progress.

Growing up in Oakland, I went to Juneteenth festivals every year. These celebrations were full of joy, mouth-watering food, and community. We honored what freedom has meant and can mean for Black people.

For me, Juneteenth has always served as a reminder that there is no Black joy without healing as well as struggle. We continue to feel the legacy of chattel slavery today in anti-Blackness, and in white supremacist institutions and policies that continue to harm Black and other communities of color. I emphasize healing alongside struggle because we cannot access the fullness of our humanity without both—Black people have always had to fight for our rights and protections, and we need healing to process the historical and ongoing trauma we’ve experienced.

With Juneteenth now recognized and honored as a federal holiday, we must not forget that it is only through protest and advocacy that Black people have been able to win the rights that we long deserved. The fight to recognize this holiday took 156 years of struggle. And despite growing interest in and awareness of the day, Juneteenth’s recognition was not assured: The Biden administration’s decision to declare Juneteenth a national holiday was a direct outcome of the summer 2020 uprising in defense of Black lives after the brutal police murder of George Floyd. In remarks made while signing the Juneteenth National Independence Day Act, the president acknowledged that federal recognition of the holiday is no replacement for sustained action in our pursuit of racial justice: “To honor the true meaning of Juneteenth, we have to continue toward that promise [of equality] because we’ve not gotten there yet.”

To do that, we must be able to protest oppression. The great orator and abolitionist, Frederick Douglass, understood this. On the anniversary of the British West Indies’ emancipation, Douglass spoke passionately about the relationship between protest and social progress, concluding with his now-famous line: “Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never has and it never will.”

Because our communities’ emancipation and freedom have never come without a fight, white supremacist lawmakers are now attempting to rollback our hard-won right to protest by introducing anti-protest bills across the country. This wave of anti-democratic legislation has intensified since we demonstrated our power by taking to the streets in 2020, encouraging millions around the world to do the same.

That summer, more than 26 million people turned out to call for an end to police violence and an investment in Black life and Black futures. People from all corners of the country—from all neighborhoods, backgrounds, classes, and races—joined to defend Black lives and affirm that we do, indeed, matter.

More than two-thirds of Americans polled at the time said they supported the uprising, and a majority of American voters affirmed that Black lives matter. This enormous support spoke to the fact that the uprising was the largest social movement in US history.

Unfortunately, what we’ve observed in our states and communities since 2020 points to what happens when Black people are vocal and visible about our power and our right to thrive in a country that has long tried to silence us. Lawmakers in nearly every state have doubled down on the policies they began introducing in 2017 during the Trump administration to curtail our right to protest. In 2021 alone, nearly 100 anti-protest bills were introduced by elected officials who had been influenced by law enforcement and corporate lobbies and were threatened by the will of the people.

The attempt to silence protest is at the core of the anti-democratic backlash since 2020, and it extends to legislation designed to curb , and more. Most recently, these issues have collided, with members of Congress complaining that reproductive justice activists shouldn’t have the right to protest outside a Supreme Court justice’s residence.

The backlash against democratic protest is not new, nor is it surprising. Unfortunately, Black people have always understood the cost of standing up for ourselves. We’ve been organizing for our lives since our ancestors were enslaved. Every freedom we have was won through protest, from the . And with every win, there have been those who have tried to silence us in more ways than one.

In 2022, our organization, BlackOUT Collective, is building power and community to not only confront anti-Black racism and white supremacy, but to build the world of our collective dreams—and that includes fighting to protect our right to dissent. We are working with organizations and communities around the nation to maintain our presence in the streets while acknowledging the risks are higher now as we navigate anti-democratic policies and politics. We are working with organizations and communities around the nation to maintain our presence in the streets while acknowledging the risks are higher now as we navigate anti-democratic policies and politics.

As it gets harder and harder to civically engage and participate in collective action, our collective reminds ourselves and our community that we must not let fear win. We equip community advocates and leaders with information about anti-protest laws, but we also encourage them to continue to speak up. Those who have a vested interest in silencing us are not giving up their anti-democratic efforts, so we must not give up the fight to uphold our basic constitutional rights. , but we also encourage them to continue to speak up. Those who have a vested interest in silencing us are not giving up their anti-democratic efforts, so we must not give up the fight to uphold our basic constitutional rights.

Protecting protest is also about taking back our dignity while healing from generational trauma and injustice. When we put our bodies on the line to say that “business cannot and will not operate as usual,” we allow ourselves to collectively embody hope and transformation. We need this healing and action in our communities now more than ever.

I hope that the recognition of Juneteenth as a federal holiday will lead a wider group of Americans to consider their own histories, particularly those whose ancestors were involved in upholding the violent and extractive institution of chattel slavery. It is time for everyone to understand that true emancipation and freedom requires all of us to center Black and Native American liberation. Without liberation for these historically oppressed communities—the very people whose ancestors birthed and built this nation—we will not be able to experience a society free from violence and harm.

This is the only way for the United States to live up to its promised ideals. Protest is a cornerstone of our democratic freedoms; it is the primary lever by which we hold those in power accountable to our needs and priorities. By protecting protest and dissent, we honor Black freedom fighters and ensure a solid foundation for our movements, enabling us to continue to fight for radical change.

As we get educated and take action, it is also important for us to financially support groups that are on the frontlines of protecting protest—the local coalitions and community-based organizations that face the brunt of state and local anti-protest legislative attacks.

We don’t need Walmart ice cream or other attempts to commercialize Juneteenth. These efforts only serve to coopt and depoliticize a celebration born of Black struggle. What we need is a commitment to liberation and human dignity. This holiday must serve as a reminder—not just of our history, but also of important rights and freedoms that are now on the line. We want Juneteenth to continue to be about BBQs, joy, and community. But it must also be a time for us to recognize the power of our collective voice and commit ourselves to doing what it takes to guarantee that we don’t lose our right to use it.

This article originally appeared in the Nonprofit Quarterly. See the original article here.

The uprisings for racial justice in 2020 forced many in our society to reckon with the role they play in perpetuating the violent, destructive forces of racism and anti-Blackness.

As a Black woman who grew up in South Africa under the ravages of apartheid and who now works as a senior leader within a large, US-based, global philanthropic organization, I—Nicolette—had a moment of reckoning where I had to ask whether and in what ways my institutional role perpetuates anti-Blackness and a colonial mindset in relation to Black and Brown communities in Africa.

As a white, female executive director of a grantmaking organization that has only ever funded community organizations in Southern and Eastern Africa, I—Nina—wished that it hadn’t taken George Floyd’s murder to have my fellow funders and philanthropists wake up. I was also reminded again that the system of Global North philanthropy favors people who look like me. The very fact I was chosen for this role—having never lived on the African continent—was perpetuating neocolonialism, white supremacy and anti-Blackness.

Still, we were tentatively hopeful about philanthropy’s swift public response to calls for racial justice and the promises made by many organizations to do better through more funding, intentional reflection, and policy change.

Two years later, however, on the eve of Juneteenth 2022, with evidence that philanthropic pledges have largely been superficial and not matched with dollars, it remains to be seen whether philanthropy will meaningfully introspect on the role that colonialism, white saviorism, and paternalism—aspects of white supremacy—play in our work and how we spend our dollars.

This Juneteenth, Global North philanthropy needs to reflect on the legacies of imperialism and colonialism that allowed it to make and sequester wealth. It must also reflect on how this wealth is given away. We must not fool ourselves—philanthropy has its roots in colonial power dynamics; not just in terms of how wealth has been and continues to be acquired but also in the assumptions inherent in money being “given” by people who think they know what is best to “save” poor Black, Brown and Indigenous peoples across Sub-Saharan Africa, the US, and elsewhere.

In its crudest form—and regardless of any good intentions—this type of philanthropy is white saviorism. It follows frighteningly similar extractive models and the principles of white supremacy, which is characterized by the same white dominance and power dynamics of slavery, apartheid, and the exploitation of peoples and territories.

For decades, problems and solutions have been defined and determined by those with a limited understanding of the community in question. For a long time, Black, Indigenous, and other people of color (BIPOC) community organizations have had to adopt ways of thinking about and framing their work to conform to how white funders characterize a problem and import a solution to obtain access to resources. And every five years, when the funder does a “strategy review,” these community organizations must reimagine themselves in the image of a new problem analysis to continue to receive funding.

This Juneteenth, we must interrogate how our histories continue to shape the present. We need to reckon with how past harmful practices continue to persist today—often masked by conversations around “strategic impact” and “results”—and the very real harm this does to communities around the world.

We’ve heard about how philanthropy is ready to meaningfully address white saviorism and colonial models of funding. We have even seen admirable and bold, large investments. However, we need to do more. We must change how these big, bold investments are structured and who they benefit if we are to build more equitable partnerships. Philanthropy needs to grapple with this holistically, but it’s especially important for those of us who explicitly frame our work in social justice. While we are increasingly updating our lexicon to include movement-aligned language and expanding who we fund to include more social justice oriented organizations, those of us who are truly interested in justice must also examine and interrogate our own power and histories, and how we move from performative statements and rhetoric to meaningful change. We must decenter ourselves and our theories of how to solve problems and center those we claim to want to serve by adopting their language and their theories of change.

At its core, a radical change in philanthropy means this: We need to cede power to people and get out of their way. We need to move towards connection, relationships, and trust our central operating principles. Our approaches need to be focused on justice, solidarity, and ultimately, economic redistribution. We need to do more than shifting money or coming up with “big, bold bets” that do little more than create seats at the colonial master’s table on the master’s terms. It’s time for us to step aside and support others to build a fundamentally different table.

So how can we do this? By confronting the underlying white supremacy that we (and our institutions) may espouse. We can start by asking—and answering—the following questions:

• Where did the money that we “give” come from?
• How do we understand our relationship to wealth, power, and whiteness?
• Why do we continue to privilege the experience, knowledge, and understanding of those (often white development workers, academics, and white-led nonprofits) who are far removed from the issues we say we want to solve?
• Why do we mistrust the capacity, strategies, and actions of BIPOC communities that we say we want to support, “amplify,” and “empower”?
• Do we ask those we fund what they want or are we the ones defining problems, opportunities, and measures of scale and impact? And who within our organizations really get to decide?
• What makes us think that our capacity, strategies, and actions are more likely to succeed than those of people who live the reality every day?
• Why do we trust some organizations over others, just because they are bigger, have more resources, or use English as their first language for operations and knowledge production?
• Are our strategies for greater localization reimagining agency and power, or are they reproducing unequal power dynamics in different ways?
• Are we moving substantial resources to BIPOC-led organizations and movements and enabling their freedom to use those resources as they see fit, or are we requiring them to follow our terms and mimic or mirror Global North models of capacity, scale, and impact?
• Are our funding processes infused with the same values and justice-orientation we see in our public communications? Do we appropriate the work of our grantees and their communities for our own aims or definitions of success?

Once we have taken the time to answer these questions, we need to do something about them. It’s not enough to say to BIPOC-led organizations and communities, “We see you.” Philanthropy must move beyond navel-gazing and simply recognizing the systems and structures that have created and maintained the conditions of instability and scarcity experienced by many around the world, but especially in the Global South. We need to act. We need to:

1. Treat BIPOC communities and BIPOC-led organizations with respect for their own agency and expertise, not as vehicles to carry out our own predetermined agendas. Support them to decide what success might look like and how best to measure it.
2. Listen to communities, treat their perspectives as evidence, and center their decision making to actually change the way we work, in the same way we do with “evidence” generated in Ivy League universities and other academic institutions. Not all evidence is academic. Not all experts are white or from the Global North. “Best practices” does not only come from a small proportion of the world.
3. Think long-term and systemically, sticking with organizations or an issue for the decades will require us to unpick and dismantle systems of oppression. Resist the temptation to support short-term fixes focused on symptoms just because they’re on-trend, quick to show results, or fit neatly into our funding cycle.
4. Critically examine how our grantmaking practices perpetuate white supremacy and re-imagine and rebuild our systems and approaches so they are deeply rooted in trust, mutual accountability, and a sense of the redistributive power of our money.
5. Know that trusting communities and shifting power is not the opposite of impact. Impact means centering the power of those we serve to create change within and among themselves.

And for those who don’t fund organizations rooted in community, it is time for us to ask our grantees the same critical questions we asked ourselves earlier—and in response, potentially rethink not only how but who we fund.

None of us set out to be harmful. Many of us in philanthropy inherited unjust and unequal systems and institutional structures that we did not build. But we need to be honest that these systems and structures continue to privilege those of us who are born in the Global North and especially those who are white.

This Juneteenth, our message to you is that we in philanthropy are not trapped: We have the power of money and can—and must—free ourselves from the systemic barriers that hinder our imaginations and contributions to meaningful impact and change. If you fund community organizations, it’s time to free them as well—so that they may truly realize their own visions and goals—by stepping out of the way and being more deliberate about working together to build a more just, collective, and participatory system of partnership.

We have the will and learning from others to fuel such radically transformative change, but we must remember: good intentions are not a substitute for justice.

This article originally appeared in the Nonprofit Quarterly. See the original article here.

Jeremie Greer: Toni Morrison once said, “racism will end when it is no longer profitable and no longer psychologically useful.” What I think that speaks to is the reality that in our structure and system, in our economic systems and our political systems and our cultural systems and a lot of that, there is a real value to whiteness.

There is value that exists for being white. It is not imagined. It is not philosophical. it is tangible. It is real, and it is material. We know Black schools with almost all Black students, or even multiracial schools, get less resources than predominantly white schools—and this often cuts across class distinctions of the students.

When there’s a backlash to integrating schools, it is because people feel and perceive a direct threat to the value that their whiteness brings them to have better performing schools than Black students. And the reaction is often to a feeling that—and I’d say in many cases, the reality that—in order to get to equity, something is being taken away.

I don’t want to live in a world of zero sum. But in some cases, some privilege that comes with whiteness has to be taken away in order to get to a place where you have racial equity. That’s just something I believe. Is that the case in all things? Hopefully not. But in a lot of things, I think it is. And we have to deal with that reality. We have to deal with that truth.

I think at the fundamental end of it, it’s not an issue of cajoling or convincing. It’s about building power to change the structures and systems so that that value for whiteness is diminished and goes away and becomes something that is no longer profitable or psychologically convenient anymore.

This article originally appeared in the Nonprofit Quarterly. See the original article here.

Anne Price: When we look at the wealth holdings of the Black middle class—well, let me just say this, which I think really does startle people to hear—that when we think about wealth, there perhaps has never been a Black middle class. And we can see that through even current data. When you think about that the Black middle class, in terms of wealth by income, have the same amount of wealth as white folks in the lowest income quintile, then you know that there’s something there that’s amiss.

We look at this in terms of education, that a Black person who’s graduated from college has less wealth than a white person who dropped out of high school. And it seems counterintuitive, but as education increases, those differences get wider and wider.

I call it the million-dollar problem. When we look at people with the highest levels of education—those with a doctorate, with an MD, a JD—you’re talking about a million-dollar difference in wealth holdings. So, we need to have a much more nuanced understanding of how class works when we think about wealth.

This article originally appeared in the Nonprofit Quarterly. See the original article here.