The newly established Native Playwrights PDX, co-organized by director Amber Kay Ball, Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians, is providing Native theater makers a platform to accurately and respectfully tell the stories of modern Indigenous people. Support from this community funded arts project will combat the lack of Indigenous representation in media while amplifying the work of up-and-coming playwrights and directors.

Native Playwrights PDX was co-organized by Ball in 2024. After hosting a staged reading for their self-written play “Finding Bigfoot” in collaboration with the Fertile Ground Festival at Barbie’s Village last year, Ball, who uses the pronouns she/they, felt that it was more impactful and accessible to showcase work in a community space rather than a major theater.

“It felt more significant than presenting it in a theater to me at the moment when I could just showcase it with community,” Ball recalled.

Since that first staged reading, the idea has only grown.

The U.S. student movement in solidarity with Palestine is facing ferocious repression as the Trump administration revokes student visas en masse. Masked federal agents roam around looking to snatch students and faculty off the streets and send them to jail for their activism, including their mere beliefs. One of the students targeted is Momodou Taal, a graduate student at Cornell University who led pro-Palestine activism there and was suspended twice by the university. A dual citizen of the United Kingdom and the Gambia, he joined another graduate student and a faculty member in suing the Trump administration for allegedly violating their First and Fifth Amendment rights by punishing speech and quashing political dissent. On March 21, Taal’s lawyers were notified that the State Department had revoked Taal’s student visa after Immigration and Customs Enforcement condemned his “disruptive action” and ICE requested that he turn himself in. Instead, Taal left the country on his own terms, “free” and with his “head held high,” and continues his struggle on behalf of a free Palestine, upholding the Pan-Africanist tradition.

Taal and Hammer & Hope editor Olúfẹ́mi O. Táíwò spoke in April 2025.

On the walls of the gallery, Keni “Arts” Davis’s watercolors show Altadena before and after the fires. There is a local hardware store, a beloved diner, the quirky local Bunny Museum, which held tens of thousands of rabbit-related items.

Then, in gentle strokes of paint, there is the wreckage of each place: rubble, charred beams, burnt-out cars. Davis labels each of these images “BFA”, beauty from ashes.

Those post-fire ruins are gone now, too: Altadena, a historic Black community in Los Angeles that lost nearly 10,000 structures, including more than 6,000 homes, in January’s Eaton fire, is slowly being prepared for rebuilding.

“Now all the rubble is gone, and it’s just flattened out,” said Dominique Clayton, the curator of Ode to ’Dena: Black Artistic Legacies of Altadena, a long-running exhibit at the California African American Museum. “I’m so glad he painted the before and after. Now those buildings have been demolished.”

Ode to ’Dena aims to capture the rich creative legacy of Altadena, a community that for decades nourished Black artists, performers, writers and activists, from Eldridge Cleaver and Sidney Poitier to Octavia Butler. The small town, nestled in the hills to the north of Los Angeles, offered Black families an early chance at home ownership in a region long defined by racial segregation and redlining.

Locals immediately feared that the gentrification of Altadena would be accelerated by the destruction, and that the pre-fire community would be pushed out and longtime Black residents scattered, while the town was rebuilt for wealthier newcomers.

But Altadena’s close-knit community immediately rallied to prevent this double destruction, drawing on a wide range of allies and supporters. While Donald Trump chose not to visit fire survivors in Altadena, limiting his presidential tour to the destruction in the wealthier Pacific Palisades, organizations such as the NAACP and BET Media raised funds, and multiple arts institutions, including Frieze LA, stepped up to document the effects of the fires and highlight the work of artists who had lost their homes and studios.

The California African American Museum exhibit, which runs through October, is part of this broader effort. The show highlights not only the prominent Black visual artists with connections to Altadena, but also the deep connections among them. Several of the artists have multiple generations of their family in the show, including textile, performance and portraiture artist Kenturah Davis, whose father’s watercolors and mother Mildred “Peggy” Davis’s quilt work are both included. The oldest artist on display, the assemblage artist and printmaker Betye Saar, is 98 years old. The youngest, Kenturah Davis’s son Micah Zuri, is two years old.

Mayor Monroe Nichols said the Greenwood Trust will consist of three components: a $24 million fund aimed at securing housing and homeownership for descendants, a $60 million fund for cultural preservation that will consist of fixing up buildings, revitalization and clearing blight, and a $21 million “legacy” fund for small business grants, scholarships and land acquisition.

Nichols said the goal is to obtain $105 million in assets by June 1 of next year. Over the next 12 months, the trust will be focused on raising private capital, setting up the programs and appointing a Board of Trustees.

Octavia’s Bookshelf is an independent bookstore in Pasadena focused on authors of color. The store is named after Butler, whom High said has been a consistent source of inspiration for her.

When the Palisades and Eaton Fires hit Los Angeles, many people found themselves grieving the loss of their homes and communities, just as the characters do in Parable of the Sower. The descriptions of fire-ravaged landscapes became more real to readers who had now seen them firsthand.

Octavia’s Bookshelf was just blocks from the fireline. Overnight, it, like so many other places, transformed into a community relief hub. High, other employees and volunteers took all of the books off the shelves and replaced them with stacks of donated blankets, diapers, clothing and household goods for survivors of the fire.

Emergency supplies were piled high where copies of Parable of the Sower once stood.

“Many of the ways that we’ve come to support each other are based in that book for me,” said High. “I’m constantly referring to those texts and I’m always thinking about Earthseed and how I can be a better steward of our community. And a lot of that has to do with Octavia Butler.”

For most of these Black people, the only thing better than getting a ticket to see Sinners in IMAX these last few weeks, was seeing a place where their ancestors were held captive, beaten, humiliated, sexually assaulted, and murdered be reduced to ashes, and without the culprit getting caught (if there even is a culprit to catch).

[...]there are people who are convinced that one of the best places to have a perfect wedding on their perfect day is at a plantation house, a decision that rarely if ever takes the history of slavery into consideration, but instead focuses on how plantation houses are a beautiful example of Southern heritage on display for all to see and appreciate.

If you were engaged to be married, and you announced to family, friends, and strangers that your wedding will be held at Auschwitz or Dachau, they would hopefully and rightfully judge the absolute f-ck out of you for making such a horrible and inappropriate decision. They would take turns calling you out and knocking some sense into you for thinking that partying and getting married at a concentration camp where pain, suffering, and death were inflicted on millions of Jewish people is anything resembling a good idea. So why is it that this same approach isn’t usually taken when someone decides that a plantation is the ideal place for their wedding, besides the fact that absolutely nothing about a concentration camp can be seen as romantic or beautiful or welcoming?

Because when it comes to anything regarding Black people, especially their pain and suffering, it’s easier and preferable for a lot of white people to whitewash and sweep it all under the rug for their personal gain and satisfaction, and because it ensures that they keep feeling good about themselves, and not have to worry about their feelings getting hurt by being reminded of their very own history. (Remember when we couldn’t stop seeing headlines and news stories about Critical Race Theory, and how most of the people who were furious about its existence were as articulate and thoughtful in explaining what it is, as they are about defining “woke” as a slang term? Same thing.)

Tyler Yarbrough didn’t see Sinners once, but twice.

The film, which has made more than $200 million at the box office, is authentically Mississippi Delta through and through, he said. From the Chinese Delta history to the Black businesses, residents say director and filmmaker Ryan Coogler, who has Mississippi roots, did his homework.

On both visits to the movies, Yarbrough, who is from Clarksdale, Mississippi, had to drive nearly 80 miles to see the film, a luxury not afforded to many. There’s limited public transportation in the area and many lack the financial resources to afford a car in the majority Black town of 14,000 where the median income is $35,000.

There’s no active movie theater in the small town.

The 26-year-old community activist jumped into action.

He started a petition in hopes of hosting a public screening and extending an invitation to Coogler, the cast, and the creative team “to walk the streets your vision reimagined, to meet the people whose real stories echo through every frame, and to experience firsthand the living, breathing legacy that inspired your work and the people who are sustaining and reimagining its future.”

In the week since Yarbrough started the petition, more than 5,500 people have signed it.

Hammer & Hope asked Black organizers, academics, and writers to consider the state of Black politics five years after the 2020 uprisings and with the re-election of Donald Trump. Their responses, some written before Trump’s inauguration, offer ideas for where we go from here.

A knotted tangle of bureaucracy, infrastructure, and tax impediments have held back tribes’ ability to harness the bountiful renewable energy potential on their lands.

Among the non-governmental organizations that have worked to empower tribes to build their own clean energy projects is the Oakland, California-based non-profit GRID Alternatives. GRID’s National Tribal Program dates to 2010, with the installation of its first tribal project in California.

Earlier this month, GRID announced it had spun off its tribal program as an independent entity called Tribal Energy Alternatives (TEA). The new organization is GRID’s first Native-led affiliate.

I recently spoke with Tanksi Clairmont, TEA’s co-executive director, about the launch of the new organization and its plans for the coming months.

Manoomin, the Ojibwe word for wild rice, is a hearty species. Every year, the plant grows from seeds, surviving months of muzzling by sheets of ice brought by intense Upper Midwest winters, fending off hungry waterfowl in the spring, and thriving in heat and aquatic habitats all summer long. Manoomin is sensitive and growing increasingly vulnerable to the dual forces of habitat destruction and climate change.

For millennia, manoomin has grown in the Great Lakes region, thriving in freshwater lakes found in and around what’s now known as Minnesota and Michigan. Its significance is fundamental to Ojibwe identity, drawing back to the creation story that instructed ancestors to migrate to the land where food grew on water. For generations, Ojibwe elders passed on the traditions of ricing: how to harvest the “good berry,” how to practice ceremonies that incorporate manoomin, and how to cook the grain that is as much food as it is medicine.

But since the 1990s, manoomin has experienced devastating losses in the region, by as much as 50% according to some accounts. The culprit is manifold. Land loss dating back to the first contact with settlers in the mid-1800s prevented peoples of the 11 Ojibwe tribes from unencumbered access to ancestral territories, obstructing traditional stewardship and care. The annexation of land to create Midwestern American territories led to further ecosystem destruction from logging, wetland drainage, and housing development. Since the 1990s, manoomin has also experienced its steepest drop-off, likely due to the accelerating consequences of climate change. Shorter, warmer winters, coupled with increased precipitation, have rendered manoomin a fraction of its once abundant growth.

That’s why Leanna Goose, a mother, educator, and enrolled member of the Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe, helped draft a bill to enshrine manoomin’s right to thrive in Minnesota. The Wild Rice Act, the first of its kind, recognizes manoomin’s cultural significance, its role in providing habitat and food for dozens of other species, and the economic impact for those who sell it for income.

In early April, language from the Wild Rice Act was incorporated into the state Senate’s environmental omnibus bill. Some phrases, like “inherent rights” were replaced with “innate significance.” Other provisions were excluded, such as protecting rice through enforcing stricter permitting standards and preventing boating on uncultivated wild rice beds.

As the United States grapples with political instability, economic precarity, and social unraveling, Black communities are turning to something deceptively simple yet deeply profound: the line dance. These choreographed movements—passed from phone screens to cookouts to community centers—are more than a pastime. They are rituals of survival, resistance, and joy. This story explores how, in a nation that often feels like it’s falling apart, Black Americans are finding grounding and togetherness through the beat—moving in step with history, each other, and the pulse of a culture that refuses to stand still.

Line dancing feels like muscle memory passed down through fried fish dinners and wedding receptions, through Soul Train reruns and HBCU homecomings. It is ubiquitous and almost invisible in its significance. Nobody really talks about it, the way nobody explains how to make a plate at a cookout—you just learn. You show up, you feel the beat, and you follow.

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Some moments in history feel like a long-overdue shift toward progress, and Anne Collins Smith being named as Chief Curator at the New Orleans Museum of Art is a groundbreaking step toward a more inclusive and representative art world. Now, she has not only reached the pinnacle of a career she has meticulously built but also made history. As the first Black American and the first Black native New Orleanian to hold a full curatorial role at NOMA, this is more than a personal achievement—it is a testament to the power of perseverance, community, and cultural stewardship.

“This is an opportunity of a lifetime,” Smith said, reflecting on her long journey in the art world. That journey began with a deep foundation in African American art, nurtured at Spelman College, where she earned her undergraduate degree before going on to complete an MA in visual arts administration at New York University. Over the years, she has held influential positions at institutions including the Spelman College Museum of Fine Art, the Davis Museum at Wellesley College, and the Saint Louis Art Museum. Through these experiences, she honed her commitment to making art both accessible and resonant across diverse audiences.

Yet, her new endeavor at NOMA holds a significance that extends beyond her impressive resume. It is deeply personal—a homecoming and a duty that carries weight. “It means that I’ve done the work, and I can be a representative of all that’s great about New Orleans,” she said. “It means that I get to represent a plethora of communities that help to shape me.”

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.ca/post/38825764

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Whenever Nikki Williams’ feet touch the soil on Sapelo Island, Georgia, memories of her youth flood back vividly.

Every fall, her grandfather had her work at the drink booth during Cultural Day, where hundreds gathered to celebrate “the heart and soul of Gullah Geechee culture” through arts and live entertainment. It’s a time to “touch the soil, hear the stories, and smell the food.”

This annual gathering is a living testament to the centuries of resilience and strength of Gullah Geechee folk on Sapelo Island, the last intact Gullah Geechee community on the Georgia coast. But, the recent tragedy, coupled with continued threats of displacement and erasure, forces descendants back into a state of high alert. For years, they’ve endured government neglect, property tax hikes, and white developers eyeing the land, known for its beaches and climate, as a place to build luxury resorts and golf courses.

Williams’ lineage to Sapelo Island dates back more than a century. She is a descendant of two of the 44 formerly enslaved families that settled here after the Civil War. There were several Black settlements, but the first Black-owned land purchased by freedmen was in 1871 at Raccoon Bluff, according to the Sapelo Island Cultural and Revitalization Society. However, by 1965, landowner Richard J. Reynolds consolidated the remaining Black settlements into one: Hogg Hammock.

Once Williams arrived at her grandparents’ trailer, they’d unload groceries. Then, they’d meet cousins at Aunt Jo and Uncle Earl’s house — they were cousins, too, but they called them “Aunt” and “Uncle” because they were much older. While Earl fired up the grill outside, the delicious aroma of traditional Gullah food lingered in the air, drifting from the kitchen. Jo, short for Josephine, served red rice, hoppin’ john, or collard greens, along with a three-layered cake in a domed glass stand.

Today, there’s fewer than 30 original descendants who live on the island.

As an adult, she now understands the struggles.

“I would hear the elders talking about preserving the land and people moving in, but when you’re young, you’re not thinking about that,” she said. “But when I saw it, that’s when I was like, ‘The things that they have been talking about are happening, and I’m looking at this with adult eyes, and I see it now.”