The Spaces That Hold Us

Equal access is often celebrated as progress. The argument goes: if everyone can attend the same schools, live in the same neighborhoods, or worship in the same churches, why do separate Black institutions still matter? On the surface, it seems logical. But access is not the same as equity. Access is not the same as belonging. Access is not the same as home.

Being allowed in a room doesn’t mean the room was built for you. You can attend the school your parents didn’t, sit in the pews of a church that wasn’t designed with your culture in mind, or move into the neighborhood your grandparents couldn’t afford. You can do all of it and still feel like a guest. Safe? Maybe. Belonging? Rarely.

Inequity in access persists in ways that are often invisible. For example, during a year of budget cuts in Louisiana, LSU wasn’t going to get a new dorm built, while Southern University wasn’t going to get new boilers. Two public universities, both educating students and serving the state, yet one clearly received advantages in funding, maintenance, and infrastructure. Access existed in theory, but resources did not. That imbalance isn’t just a line in a budget—it shapes experiences, opportunities, and outcomes.

Black institutions were never just about access. They have always been about safety, belonging, leadership, and the preservation of culture in a world that systematically denied those things. Black churches offered sanctuary and guidance when no one else would. HBCUs created leaders and scholars in spaces where Black excellence was expected rather than exceptional. Neighborhoods, communities, and family networks provided support when larger systems actively withheld it. These spaces were—and remain—lifelines.

The same choices are framed differently depending on who makes them. When white families live in the neighborhoods they grew up in, send their children to the schools their parents attended, or worship at the churches of their ancestors, it is celebrated as tradition, loyalty, and roots. When Black families do the same, it is often labeled limiting, sentimental, or even backward. The decisions themselves do not change. Only the lens does.

Many traditions that persist in Black communities today have roots in slavery. Sunday church services, family gatherings, storytelling, soul food, quilting, dance, and communal child-rearing were originally acts of survival and resistance. Spirituals were sung under threat, often carrying hidden messages of hope and escape. Quilts were used to communicate routes to freedom. Families gathered wherever they could to reclaim connection after being torn apart. These practices were never optional—they were lifelines.

Even the painful, negative parts of history are important. Erasure of suffering is not progress. History matters in its entirety, just as a doctor relies on a patient’s full medical history to treat the present and prepare for the future. Understanding the oppression, stolen lives, and systemic barriers is essential to preserving Black spaces today. It teaches resilience, ingenuity, and community in ways that “equal access” alone cannot.

Black institutions are not relics; they are living proof that Black culture has endured, adapted, and thrived despite systemic barriers. They remind us that supporting these spaces is not about resisting integration—it is about protecting spaces that affirm identity, nurture belonging, and pass knowledge across generations.

Churches, HBCUs, neighborhoods, family traditions, and Black-led spaces exist because elsewhere was never designed to fully hold Black communities. They preserve culture, identity, and history, while teaching lessons from both the triumphs and the hardships of the past. Progress without understanding history is incomplete. Proximity without belonging is hollow.

Supporting Black institutions is not nostalgic—it is practical, cultural, and essential. Access may open doors, but belonging, culture, and home are cultivated. To abandon spaces built for Black communities in pursuit of systems that were never designed to fully sustain them is not progress—it is erasure.

Black institutions do more than preserve tradition—they preserve life, history, and the lessons that come from surviving and thriving in a world that didn’t design itself for Black people. That is why they still matter.

When YOUR Hospital Loses Funding, Things Don’t Get Better

Let’s be honest: a lot of people are celebrating Medicare and Medicaid cuts as if those programs are only for “other people.” But here’s the truth you might not want to hear—

When your hospital loses funding, things don’t get better.

Medicare and Medicaid aren’t just government programs. They’re part of the financial backbone that keeps hospitals open, ambulances running, and clinics staffed. They’re the reason some ERs even exist in rural towns and low-income neighborhoods. They pay for cancer screenings, physical therapy, home health visits, and checkups that catch serious illness before it becomes life-threatening. They support pediatric units, trauma centers, and hospice care.

Cut that funding, and we all feel it—whether we realize it or not.

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"But I don’t use Medicaid or Medicare..."

Okay. Maybe you don’t.

But here’s who might:

• Your child’s teacher, who uses Medicaid to afford her insulin

• The Uber driver who rushes you to the airport at 4 a.m.

• The barista making your latte who just had a baby and needed prenatal care

• The elderly veteran who lives on your block and shows up to every HOA meeting

• The school custodian who quietly makes sure your kid’s classroom is safe and clean

• The nurse at the hospital taking care of your loved one after a stroke

We are all connected. When they can’t access care, it doesn’t stay in their lane—it spills into yours.

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So what happens when that funding disappears?

Let’s break it down:

• Wait times increase. When clinics close, everyone goes to the ER. But the ER can’t turn people away—so you wait hours, even for broken bones or chest pain.

• Staff gets stretched thin. Nurses and doctors burn out and leave. The ones who stay get overworked. Care suffers. Mistakes happen.

• Specialty services disappear. No more mental health clinic. No more substance use counseling. No more dialysis center nearby.

• Local hospitals close. In rural areas, losing Medicaid dollars often means losing the only hospital within 50 miles. When someone has a heart attack, they now have to wait longer for help to arrive. Sometimes too long.

• Preventive care vanishes. Instead of catching high blood pressure or diabetes early, people end up in the ER with strokes and amputations.

And again—this doesn’t just affect “other people.” It affects you.

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People are so selfish, they’ll sabotage systems they use... just so others can’t.

It’s wild. Some folks would rather burn down the entire building just so someone else doesn’t get a room. That’s what’s happening when people applaud funding cuts to public services: they’re cheering while their own safety net unravels.

We’ve seen it happen before:

• Cuts to public schools didn’t just affect Black and Brown students. They affected everyone. Schools closed. Arts and music programs vanished. Counselors and librarians disappeared. Teachers started buying supplies out of pocket or walking away from the profession entirely.

• Cuts to transit services didn’t just hurt poor communities. They made commutes longer, roads more congested, and job access more difficult across entire cities.

When a system breaks, it doesn’t discriminate on the way down.

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When the safety net weakens, everyone falls faster.

So no—things don’t get better when Medicare and Medicaid are slashed. Not for you. Not for your family. Not for your neighbors. Not for the country.

This is more than policy. It’s about whether we want to live in a society that only protects the privileged few—or one that believes everyone deserves to live, thrive, and be cared for.

And if that bothers you? Maybe ask why.

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