There are stories this country tells loudly, and there are stories it has too often asked Black people to carry in silence.
The story of Black American soldiers is one of courage, sacrifice, contradiction, and unfinished justice. Across generations, Black men and women have served a nation that did not always serve them back.
As we commemorate the 250th anniversary of the American Revolution, we often overlook the significance of a place central to our ongoing struggle for liberty and justice. That place, the Boston Common, has been revolutionary since its establishment nearly 400 years ago.
Each May, Jewish American Heritage Month invites Jews to pause and tell stories from our shared history. But history, at its best, is not only about what came before us. It is a guide for how we show up today and how we imagine the future we are building together.
This past week, Boston’s Haitian community celebrated Haitian Heritage Month with flag-raisings at Boston City Hall and parades down Blue Hill Avenue. But what Greater Boston’s vast Haitian diaspora honored is more than a flag or a country of origin.
We have now lived through multiple pandemics—and each time, the outcome has been the same. Black and Brown communities are hit first, suffer more, and recover last.
This is what the Court has often done when our freedom got out ahead of the country’s appetite for it. It reaches back. It calls our undoing a vindication of principle.
Sociologist Ray Oldenburg popularized the term “third place” in his 1989 book The Great Good Place, arguing that informal gathering spaces are essential to civic life and healthy communities. A third space is what exists beyond home and work: the places where people gather, build trust, exchange ideas, and create culture in real time. It is where community stops being abstract and becomes something lived.
For Twin Cities residents, the upheaval is just the latest trauma to hit Minneapolis and St. Paul, which also witnessed and protested the murders of Philando Castile and George Floyd in the last 10 years.
That’s why one, a father of two, refuses to be silent—both in calling out injustice and creating the community he wants for himself and his family—not matter what it costs.
There are seasons when a nation mistakes speed for clarity. When information multiplies but wisdom thins. And when outrage travels faster than understanding. This feels like one of those seasons. We are awash in data. We can measure almost anything. We can predict markets, track storms, map genomes, and automate memory.
A population stuck in survival mode cannot organize, cannot protest, and cannot imagine an alternative. When hunger becomes normalized, it becomes far more insidious.
