People love to say “budget better” or “cut back,” as if we haven’t already cut everything down to the bare minimum. As if we aren’t already stretching dollars like they’re made of elastic. As if we aren’t already choosing between what the house needs and what we need. And the hardest part is when you have to borrow from loved ones. Not because you want to, but because you don’t have another option. You’re doing your best, but you can feel the judgment in the air. You can hear it in the tone. You can see it in the hesitation before they hand you the money. You can feel it in the silence afterward.

And even when they don’t say anything, you say it to yourself. You replay every decision. You question your worth. You wonder why you can’t seem to get ahead. You wonder why adulthood feels like a treadmill you can’t step off of.

Then there’s the part that hurts the most — parenting through financial struggle. There’s a special kind of heartbreak that comes from wanting to give your children everything they deserve and realizing you can barely meet their needs. You want to sign them up for activities, but the fees are too high. You want to buy them the shoes they want, but the light bill is due. You want to take them on trips, but gas alone feels like a luxury. You want to say yes more often, but your bank account keeps saying no.

And even when you’re in a solid relationship, even when both of you are working hard, even when you’re doing everything “right,” the money still comes up short. Two incomes and still struggling. Two adults grinding and still not enough. It’s a different kind of stress when you and your partner are both tired, both stretched thin, both trying to figure out how to make a dollar do the work of three. Love is strong, but financial pressure will test the edges of even the healthiest bond.

So what do we do? We hustle. We pick up extra shifts. We take on side jobs. We work late. We work early. We work through exhaustion. We work through tears. We work because the house needs it. We work because the kids need it. We work because the bills don’t care how tired we are.

And then, here comes the commentary from people who mean well but don’t fully understand: “You need to rest.” “You’re doing too much.” “You should take care of yourself.” “You’re going to burn out.”

But these are the same people who judged you when you didn’t have enough. The same people who questioned your decisions. The same people who whispered about your struggles. It’s funny how folks want you to work less but also want you to magically have more. They want you to protect your peace, but they don’t want to acknowledge that sometimes a paycheck is a form of peace. Stability is peace. Groceries without anxiety is peace. A paid bill is peace. A little cushion in the bank is peace.

We know money isn’t everything. We know joy can’t be bought. We know love matters more. But we also know that financial stress can choke the joy out of a home. It can steal sleep. It can trigger anxiety. It can make you feel like you’re failing even when you’re fighting with everything you have.

So let me speak to you directly, sis. You are not lazy. You are not irresponsible. You are not less than. You are not failing. You are navigating a system that was not built with your well‑being in mind. You are carrying responsibilities that many people will never understand. You are doing the best you can with what you have, and that is enough.

But I also want to gently remind you to keep looking for avenues that can bring you closer to balance. Not because you’re doing something wrong, but because you deserve a life that doesn’t drain you. Keep your eyes open for opportunities that align with your skills. Explore jobs that pay more for less stress. Look into training or certifications that could open new doors. Consider remote work, flexible work, creative work, entrepreneurial work. You don’t have to leap today, but you can start planting seeds.

And while you grind, don’t lose sight of yourself. Even if your self‑care is small right now — a quiet moment, a long shower, a walk outside, a deep breath — take it. You deserve softness even in the struggle.

This season is hard, but it is not permanent. You are not stuck. You are not alone. You are not invisible.

Black woman, you are powerful even when you’re tired. You are worthy even when your bank account is low. You are enough even when life feels heavy.

Keep going. Keep pushing. Keep believing that better is possible. Because it is — and you deserve every bit of it.

This isn’t about blaming or attacking anyone. It’s about naming a pattern that Black women have lived with for generations — a pattern we see up close in our friendships, workplaces, communities, and even in the so‑called “sisterhoods” we’re invited into. Because the truth is, the solidarity we extend is not always the solidarity we receive.

Many of us have had relationships with other women of color and white women where we showed up fully — emotionally, intellectually, spiritually — only to realize later that the connection wasn’t mutual. We’ve been the friend who listens deeply, supports consistently, and holds space generously. We’ve been the one who helps raise children that aren’t ours, who advocates for fairness at work, who steps in to mediate conflict, who brings cultural understanding and emotional labor to the table without being asked. And yet, when we need that same care, that same protection, that same energy returned, the room gets quiet.

Black women are not a weapon to be used in someone else’s fight. We are not a shield for other people’s battles. We are not a costume for others to slip into when they want to feel bold, edgy, or “empowered.”

Our culture is not an accessory. Our pain is not a rallying cry only when it’s convenient. Our strength is not a resource for others to drain.

And yet, we’ve seen it happen. We’ve watched people adopt our slang, our style, our confidence, our rhythm — the very things we were once mocked or punished for — and wear them like a trend. We’ve watched people celebrate our culture while distancing themselves from our struggles. We’ve watched people call us “strong” as a way to avoid offering us softness, care, or protection. We’ve watched people praise our resilience while ignoring the conditions that forced us to be resilient in the first place.

And we’ve watched people call us “sisters” when they need our voices, our votes, our labor — but not when we need their courage, their accountability, or their willingness to stand beside us when the climate gets uncomfortable.

This is not imagination. This is lived experience.

But here’s the part we must hold with clarity and caution: the political and social climate in this country is shifting in ways that require us to be more discerning than ever. Not fearful — discerning. Not closed off — intentional. Not isolated — wise.

We cannot afford to give our energy away carelessly. We cannot afford to assume solidarity where it has not been proven. We cannot afford to let people borrow our voice while silencing our needs.

Black women have always been powerful, but that power must be protected, not exploited.

This doesn’t mean we stop building bridges. It doesn’t mean we shut ourselves off from community. It doesn’t mean we refuse connection with other groups of women. What it does mean is that we move with awareness. We pay attention to patterns. We notice who shows up when the conversation centers us. We observe who stands firmly when our issues are on the table. We watch who listens, who learns, who unlearns, who advocates, who stays consistent when the world isn’t watching.

Because sisterhood is not a title — it’s a practice. Allyship is not a claim — it’s a commitment. Solidarity is not a moment — it’s a pattern of behavior.

And Black women deserve relationships, across all communities, that honor us fully, not selectively.

So to every Black woman reading this:

You are not here to carry the world on your back. You are not here to be the emotional anchor for everyone else. You are not here to be the fixer, the fighter, the nurturer, the translator, the cultural guide, and the moral compass for people who do not pour back into you.

You deserve reciprocity. You deserve rest. You deserve protection. You deserve joy that isn’t earned through labor. You deserve community that doesn’t collapse when you need it most.

Move with caution, yes but also move with confidence. Move with boundaries, but also with pride. Move with awareness, but also with the knowledge that you are worthy of genuine connection, real sisterhood, and relationships that honor your humanity, not just your usefulness.

And above all, remember this: Black woman, you are not alone. You have a whole lineage behind you, a whole community beside you, and a whole future ahead of you that is richer when you protect your spirit and honor your worth.

We deserve better, and we are allowed to demand it.

Far to often we do not realize the gravity of this mistake until what we could do for self is threatened or no longer an option. Reality hits us when we can’t move…when those we love leave us here, and when we become faced with out own mortality. All of a sudden, the “maybe another time” box comes to the forefront of our mind. We realize we are not living…we’re just here. We’re just here moving from one day to the next until we are no more. No matter what is happening sometimes you must stop and tell yourself…don’t forget to live.

I have lived with debilitating health conditions for the majority of my adult life. I decided I never wanted to marry because I felt it was wrong to burden someone else with my health challenges, and I knew having children was not an option. I would find ways to try to justify my existence by giving all I could to those I loved. I tried to show up to everything that my body would allow. However, I never allowed myself to think about the things I wanted…places I wanted to see and things I would like to accomplish. The only thing I never gave up was writing…but even that became more of a necessity than the joy it had always been. Before my last aunt passed away, she asked me a very profound question, “Chelle do you want up with the intention of living, or dying”? At the time I couldn’t really process what she was asking, and once she passed the time for asking for clarity was gone. I continued in the way I had been…active in my family, my neighborhood, my church, just making my body move past its limits like this was my penance. If I am limited by illness this is the least I can do to justify my being alive. You see, I never understood my existence was enough. I deserved a chance at happiness because I was alive. I didn’t understand that I had a right to truly live as much as possible.

Those dear to me tried to help me live some, tried to introduce me to different things but I didn’t feel I deserved it so I blew it off. Well, just when I thought life couldn’t get any more challenging it did. My body started shutting down. I was admitted to the hospital and for the first time in a long time I thought I was on my way to the other side. As I laid in the hospital bed, I remembered my aunt’s question. I understood in that moment that I was not living with the intention…I was just existing and waiting to die. I was moving through life like I just didn’t want anyone to come to my funeral and say she never worked, never tried, and never helped. What was missing was I didn’t realize…she had not lived. Here I was laying in the hospital bed, and I had not seen anything outside of my city, I had not written the books I wanted to, I had not played the video games on my list, and there were many different foods I wanted to taste. More importantly, I wanted to taste life. Even if I had to have an abridged version due to my health, I needed to do more than just exist. I promised myself if I made through this health scare I would life with intention, and I would take care of myself…my whole being.

Life is difficult, and being a Black woman adds to the challenges. However, take the time to live. Move the ideas and dreams from your “maybe later box” and move them to a vision board. Live with intention, not just for others, but also for you. When it’s over you deserve to say, I have no regrets. Only you can make that a reality, and your every existence is deserving of such. No matter what is going on…do not forget to Live.

Staff Writer; Chelle’ St James

May also connect with this sister via Twitter; ChelleStJames.

The church has been influential in the foundation of education for our people, and they have helped to put thousands of our people through college. Denominations like the A.M.E are rooted not only in the Word, but in activism, and education. Because of our history of intelligence having a strong place in church…anti-intellectualism in the church is damaging. The minds that need to be in the church back away, because they are scolded and judged for studying the word and applying it to the world around them. They respect tradition but that does not rank higher than righteousness.

In congregations with Elders that look down on the intelligence in those younger that ask questions they tend to remind of the men and women of God in the Bible that were not scholars. They focus on the leaders in the bible that were “everyday people” and hype up the importance of their humility and their being led by the Spirit which is what made them successful in ministry. No one can argue against being led by the Spirit, but everyone used by God was not uneducated.

Some of the greatest names in the book were not only intellectuals but formally educated. Moses, Soloman, and the Apostle Paul are just a few of the lives God would use to lead and teach his people. Why then are we judging and scolding intellectuals in the church. This is dangerous, and it seems to be sweeping congregations silencing men and women of God who dare to speak up regarding the word, and things going on in the world. When one doesn’t just bow to tradition and title here is a fight coming that should not be. What is unfortunate is one can also have the same fight in family where the elders of the family are clergy. Younger people find themselves in battles at church and amongst family simply because they are critical thinkers around their belief system and speak up about it.

This is not the origins of our church according to our history in this country. Anti-intellectualism in the church can divide congregations, and even harm members spiritually. We should all be working together to edify each other in Christ. Just as Peter had a place in the church, so did Paul. If we continue down this path, we are asking for our thinkers to walk away from any calling God may have on their life in terms of ministry because they may feel they value their peace. The hypocrisy is just too loud in this area. The inferior and insecure behavior that causes this must be addressed especially when it comes from those in leadership. God qualifies the called, and that includes the intellectual. Being a critical thinker and studying deeply does not mean you are not led by the Spirit. That is something that must be stated and understood because nothing feels worse than having your salvation questioned because you are an intellectual in the church.

Lastly, we must be mindful not to do to each other what has been and is still done to our people in this country. Black people have had to fight for their minds to be respected and are still fighting. We have created, invented, and built a nation that calls us intellectually inferior. Our credentials are always questioned as though our ethnicity is an invisible asterisk. We have managed to rise despite, but there are still challenges created to slow us down. Knowing this, how can we sit back and do this to each other in the most sacred space we have? How is it that we can disregard the minds God have given our congregation and communities because they often call us to account? These minds are calling us to dig deeper in our understanding of God, faith, and each other. Just as every regular mind is not devoted, every intellectual mind is not disrespectful and without Spiritual guidance. We must remember there is a place for all in the House of God as he gifts us as he sees fit, and those gifts should be valued.

Staff Writer; Christian Starr

May connect with this sister over at Facebook; https://www.facebook.com/christian.pierre.9809 and also Twitter; http://twitter.com/MrzZeta.

Nothing is more upsetting than realizing there is an issue, you decide to seek help, and the mental healthcare professional is horrible to you. Negative experiences can lead you to feel the outcome of mental health care is not in your favor. Yes, you have a diagnosis, but you don’t trust the provider to prescribe treatment that involves medication.  You don’t know what the overall lasting effects will be if you are medicated; you also wonder how it will affect your interaction with the ones you love. There is nothing wrong with any of us seeking mental healthcare and choosing to medicate according to one’s diagnosis from a healthcare professional. We are about to look at navigating mental health unmedicated.

One reason some are unmedicated is simply because there is no diagnosis. For various reasons there has not been an appointment for a mental health professional so one may try to self-treat for what is assumed to be going on. One may start with diet, supplements, environment, managing stress as best as possible and paying attention to triggers. This is also how one might decide to see a doctor; when all of this fails it leads to something else being an issue. Furthermore, everyone is not capable of working through their own mental. Taking the step to make an appointment to get an understanding of what’s happening is taking control of your health.

Some of us are unmedicated out of fear of how we will be seen by those we love. Family and friends within our community are not always supportive of getting treated for mental health challenges. Even if the intention is one of concern, too many find themselves being talked down to, gaslit, and ridiculed. There is a constant use of the word crazy, and in those moments, one may feel the need to defend self or prove a point. Proving the point to your detriment is never wise. There are times when we must decide that one’s own wellbeing and sanity is more important than the words of others. It is important to center those that center you in a positive way. Mental health challenges are tough, and it helps to have supportive positive people with you as you navigate uncharted territory.

Lastly, for some navigating mental health challenges unmedicated is a conscious decision made after much research, thought, and mediation. Navigating without medication tends to mean one lives a very structured life with discipline the setup, and they have a support system that helps them navigate. I personally made that decision as a writer. I weighed what I was faced with against the side effects of the medications suggested for my diagnosis. I was concerned about how the medication would affect my cogitation, I had seen horror stories up close, and I wanted to be in control of myself as much as possible. I never discouraged anyone else from medication, nor did I suggest the path I chose to anyone else. I am so grateful for my village, primarily my parents and grandmother who helped me create the routine and boundaries that keep me functioning to this day. Yes, at times I adjust as life happens, but the foundation of how I navigate has not changed. There had to be an understanding of diagnosis and a commitment to life as organized as possible. I compartmentalize most things. As everything has a place in my home the same can be said for my mental. I have accountability partners, and they are truly a blessing. Environment and boundaries are key for me to function well. So, I tend to remove myself as much as possible from triggering situations, and I am adamant about my boundaries. Understanding when things begin to slip is important and I have learned to be vocal when I need help so that I don’t get to a far-gone space whereby I can not function.

Trust me, this is not as easy as it sounds, but with discipline, consistency, and communication it has been manageable. Navigating mental health unmedicated is not always a choice. However, either way you must weigh the pros and cons for yourself based on you and what challenges you face specifically. There is no right or wrong answer. Just know if one chooses to navigate unmedicated, within reason, it’s hard work but it can be done.

Staff Writer; Christian Starr

May connect with this sister over at Facebook; https://www.facebook.com/christian.pierre.9809 and also Twitter; http://twitter.com/MrzZeta.

It is wonderful to want to see a Sistah win. It is a beautiful thing when we get out and support other Black women in both the private and public sector. We are giving care to our sistahs when we sit when them and comfort them in their time of need and sorrow. In like fashion we must also love them enough to say, you were wrong about that. To remind them, “Sis if that was don’t to you we’d be ready to fight so lets not do the same to another.” It is out responsibility to say no this has to stop, you can’t abuse other sistahs, you should not hit this man, you shouldn’t project trauma onto your kids…or sis please don’t embarrass yourself or us in public. None of this is shaming each other. This is holding each other as accountable as we hold others. This is a part of what love looks like. If you say, I’m more of an address it behind closed doors…that’s fine however, the problem is we are not addressing it.

I sat in a gathering of just Black women behind a closed door and watched us cape for a sistah that was completely out of pocket in a way that could affect us down the line. When anyone tried to mention, maybe next time we should address this differently…or sis how you handled this matter was wrong and the consequences are costly most of the room attacked her. Other sistahs insisted we support the one in the wrong, called for her not to be shamed, brought up the actions and men that had nothing to do with the situation, and accused anyone speaking up is shaming, gaslighting, and not supporting their own. Luckily, none of that swayed me as I calmly ran down the reasons, in love, that the sistah would want to re-evaluate her behavior in their situations. I expressed this isn’t about shame, it’s about not allowing her to be shamed any further as the matter had become public. It literally took two hours to get the room to understand this was about growing and not being hypocrites.

Iron sharpens iron, that is what I was always taught. Sharpening is friction and confrontation; none of this has to be disrespectful as it can all be done in love…but it has to be done if we are to all be sharp together.  If we can’t tell the truth when the door is closed, we have no right to demand that truth from anyone else. We are not the “Karens” of the world; shunning accountability is damaging to our person, witness, and community. It is damaging to each other. We are not white women…our mistakes are blown up and there is no grace for us.

It isn’t right but it is the world we live in, and to be honest regardless of the state of the world we ought not want to live in a way by which we are unaccountable, can’t be told anything, and can’t be taught anything. We are quick to ask Black men did they check their boys on the disrespect, the absentee father behavior, the mistreatment and violence against women, and of the state of our youth. Too many, not all, of us ask these questions but will overlook, ignore, or justify the damaging behaviors in each other from the private space to the public and political space. We are better than this. Before we can firmly continue to hold everyone else to a standard, we must continue to help each other maintain said standards by holding our sistahs accountable in love. There is no way we can continue to grow community without this part of sisterhood.

Staff Writer; Christian Starr

May connect with this sister over at Facebook; https://www.facebook.com/christian.pierre.9809 and also Twitter; http://twitter.com/MrzZeta.

For me, anxiety shows up quietly at first. A tightness in my chest. A thought that loops a little too long. A feeling that I’m supposed to be doing something even when I’m already doing everything. Nothing seems to be enough, so there is no rest. Eventually a shutdown of sorts happens, but not in a way that is noticeable to others. And being Black adds its own layer, because half the time, I’m not just worried about life, I’m worried about how I’m being perceived while living it. It’s like carrying two backpacks: one filled with normal human stress, and another stuffed with the weight of being watched, judged, targeted and misunderstood. Through it all I am expected to be functional, and “grateful” in the mist of blatant oppression.

This year especially, it feels like the world is moving faster than anyone can keep up with. Technology is changing, politics are loud, and every time you open your phone, there’s another headline that makes your stomach drop. And while everyone feels that pressure, being Black means you’re also navigating the subtle and not‑so‑subtle reminders that your safety, your voice, and your peace aren’t guaranteed. That alone can make your nervous system feel like it’s running a marathon.

I’ve noticed that a lot of us carry anxiety in silence because we were raised to push through. We come from families that survived things far heavier than panic attacks, so we tell ourselves we should be able to handle it. But survival mode isn’t the same as peace. And pretending you’re not anxious doesn’t make the anxiety disappear, it just makes it louder when it finally breaks through.

What’s helped me is admitting that anxiety doesn’t make me weak. It makes me human. And honestly, it makes sense. When you grow up hearing stories about what could happen if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, or if you speak too boldly, or if you don’t speak at all, your body learns to stay alert. Even when you’re safe, your mind doesn’t always believe it. That’s not paranoia. That’s conditioning.

In 2026, therapy is more normalized in our community than it used to be, but there’s still hesitation. Some of us don’t trust the system feeling that what we share will be weaponized in some way. Some don’t want to open up to a stranger. Some don’t want to revisit things they’ve spent years trying to bury. I get that. But I’ve learned that talking to someone who understands—whether it’s a therapist, a friend, or even a journal—can feel like finally loosening a knot you didn’t realize had been there for years.

I’ve also had to learn that rest is not a reward. It’s a requirement. Black people are often expected to be strong, productive, unbothered, and endlessly resilient. But resilience without rest turns into exhaustion. And exhaustion turns into anxiety. So I’ve been practicing small things: stepping outside for air, putting my phone down when the news gets too heavy, letting myself say no without guilt, and reminding myself that I don’t have to earn calm.

Another thing that helps is community. There’s something healing about being around other Black people who just get it without you having to explain. The laughter hits different. The silence hits different. The understanding hits different. Sometimes managing anxiety isn’t about fixing anything, it’s about not feeling alone in it.

And honestly, joy is medicine too. Not the forced kind, not the “smile through the pain” kind, but the real moments that remind you your life is bigger than your stress. Cooking a meal you love. Listening to music that makes your shoulders drop. Watching something silly. Dancing in your living room. Letting yourself feel good without apologizing for it.

Being Black and anxious in 2026 is complicated, but it’s not hopeless. We’re learning to name what we feel, to ask for help, to rest without shame, and to build spaces where our nervous systems can finally unclench. We deserve that. We always have. And maybe that’s the quiet revolution happening right now—not just surviving but learning how to breathe again.

Staff Writer; Christian Starr

May connect with this sister over at Facebook; https://www.facebook.com/christian.pierre.9809 and also Twitter; http://twitter.com/MrzZeta.

The bottom line is this “doing you’ without consequence is nonexistent for our people. That is like playing Russian roulette with life. Some young people began to understand the lesson I was trying to impart. The problem is too many of them learned the lesson, as my grandfather used to say, in blood. They saw their friends killed, experienced wrongful arrest, experienced assault, and very other kinds of trauma. This was heartbreaking as they were just teenagers.  The problem is why are we fighting with adults now over the same thing?

This idea of I’m going to “do me” is running rampant in our community. As with the young people I understand the sentiment, but the problem is the ones leading the cry now are adults. They have some experience, some understanding, and they know the price that is on the line…or they should. The time we are living in is just as perilous, some would argue, as those that came before us and we are getting closer to their reality. This is not a history book, this is 2026, and the evil in power is trying to turn back time to redefine our understanding of oppression. When some of us think of ICE we think of our brothers and sisters from different places, but do we not understand our people have been harassed, and unlawfully detained too? As adults, how we process the world around us, and how we respond to it will affect our children. We can’t tell them to practice caution in what they wear and where they go, and we can’t do the same. Disciple and control will have to come together in us so that we are not impulsive, and so that we don’t become so fed up with everything we are seeing that we just say to heck with it, I’m “doing me”.

The truth is there are events we may get a gut feeling it won’t be wise to attend. There are times we might decide it is best to stay home. Sometimes the small family gathering will have to be enough. We might not want to venture out into places we don’t know in our state and in various parts of the country. Many of us may have unplugged after the elections not caring about being bothered by the stress of knowing specifically what’s going on in the country. We may be telling ourselves we will just rest for the rest of this admiration’s term. However, the truth is any of these positions at this time might be the ultimate undoing of our people. We want to rest, live, breath, and “do us”. This has a price, and it’s not one we want to endure.

We are an innovative people. We can find ways to express ourselves, be ourselves, have out balance of peace and still be mindful of the reality around us. We may have to redefine what it means to “do you”, so that it doesn’t get us killed. Teaching the youth will mean checking back in. I’m not saying we must march and be everywhere, as I truly believe we will need to find a different way to protect ourselves and our future. But we can’t just walk around like madness is not happening and move haphazardly in spite. As I stated, I have the saying “ignorance is bliss”. In these times I’d prefer, “Just because you can do a thing doesn’t mean you should”.

Staff Writer; Chelle’ St James

May also connect with this sister via Twitter; ChelleStJames.

The problem of racism in Mardi Gras run deep. Long before the parades became tourist attractions, the city’s krewes were exclusive social clubs that openly excluded Black people from membership. Some of the oldest krewes refused to integrate well into the 1990s, choosing to stop parading rather than accept Black riders. In 2026 the hierarchy of who gets to ride, who gets to lead, and who gets to be celebrated still reflects old lines of racist power. At the same time, Black New Orleanians have always shaped Mardi Gras—from the Baby Dolls to the Skull and Bone Gangs to the Mardi Gras Indians—yet our contributions were historically dismissed or treated as exotic side attractions rather than central pillars of the culture.

This year, those tensions resurfaced in ways that felt both familiar and exhausting. One of the most disturbing incidents happened during the Krewe of Tucks parade; photos circulated showing Black dolls hanging by their necks from bead ropes attached to a float. The images spread quickly and sparked outrage across the city. Officials, including Mayor Helena Moreno, condemned the display as deeply offensive and demanded accountability from the krewe’s leadership. The Louisiana Attorney General even launched a state-level investigation into how such imagery made it onto the parade route at all, and whether any civil rights violations were involved. The problem is those in leadership know how the imagery made it to the parade route. They know the history of the hatred on those routes, and the sad part is we do not expect the matter to be handled. We hear the words, but we have been hearing them forever without adequate change.

Seeing those photos hit me harder than I expected. It wasn’t just the dolls—it was the reminder that even in 2026, even in a city where Black culture defines the rhythm of daily life, someone still thought that kind of imagery was funny, or edgy, or acceptable. It made me think about how often Black people in New Orleans are expected to perform joy while swallowing disrespect.

Hanging Black dolls is not ambiguous. It’s not a misunderstanding. It’s a reminder of lynching, of dehumanization, of the violence that Black communities have endured for generations. And to see it rolling down St. Charles Avenue, in broad daylight, during a celebration that claims to represent the whole city, felt like a slap. Many of us understand the old ways…we don’t need to be on St, Charles. It is sad that we must feel that way, but to truly enjoy Mardi Gra may of us stick to spaces that have always been for us. No one is saying any one has to stick to a certain part of New Orleans for Mardi Gras, but natives know some spaces are uncomfortable for us.

Still, I can’t help but feel conflicted. I love Mardi Gras. I love the music, the food, and the way the city feels alive in a way no other place can match. But I also carry the knowledge that the celebration has always been layered joy on top of struggle, tradition on top of exclusion. This year just made those layers more visible.

Maybe that visibility is a step forward. Maybe calling out these incidents, loudly and publicly, is part of how the city grows. But it’s hard not to wish that the burden didn’t always fall on Black people to explain why something is hurtful, or to push for accountability, or to remind others that Mardi Gras belongs to us too. There is a part of me that wants the change to truly begin.

As the season wrapped up, the parades still rolled, the beads still flew, and the crowds still danced. But for many of us, the celebration came with a heaviness that’s hard to shake. Mardi Gras will always be a mix of beauty and contradiction. This year just reminded me that the work of confronting its past—and its present—is far from over.

Staff Writer; Chelle’ St James

May also connect with this sister via Twitter; ChelleStJames.

As a writer and advent reader, I’ve spent years learning about how our stories move through generations, and I’ve learned that storytelling has always been one of our greatest tools for survival and joy. Long before we had libraries or classrooms, we had porches, living rooms, and laps. We had elders who could turn a simple moment into a lesson. We had tales that carried our history, our humor, our warnings, and our dreams. And even now, with tablets and apps and AI reading assistants everywhere, nothing replaces the feeling of a book in a child’s hands.

Physical books slow the world down just enough for a child to breathe. They give the mind room to wander, to imagine, to question. When a child flips a page, they’re not just moving through a story—they’re practicing patience, curiosity, and focus. And for Black children especially, books become mirrors and windows. Mirrors that show them they matter. Windows that show them what’s possible.

In our community, storytelling has always been more than entertainment. It’s how we’ve kept our culture alive. It’s how we’ve passed down traditions, values, and identity. When a Black child reads a book about characters who look like them, speak like them, or come from families like theirs, something powerful happens. They see themselves as heroes. As thinkers. As creators. They learn that their voice belongs in the world.

And when those stories are shared out loud—when a parent reads to a child, or a grandparent tells a tale from their own childhood—that’s when the magic deepens. That’s when storytelling becomes a bridge between generations. I’ve seen children sit at the feet of elders, listening with their whole bodies, absorbing not just the words but the rhythm, the emotion, the love behind them. Those moments strengthen family bonds in ways no screen ever could.

In 2026, our children are growing up in a world that moves fast and doesn’t always make space for them to simply be children. They’re exposed to news, images, and pressures that can weigh on their spirits before they even understand what they’re feeling. Books offer a kind of refuge. A place where they can explore big emotions safely. A place where they can practice problem‑solving through characters who face challenges and find their way through.

I’ve watched children learn empathy from stories. I’ve watched them learn courage. I’ve watched them learn how to ask questions, how to imagine new worlds, how to dream beyond what they see. And I’ve watched families grow closer when they make reading a shared ritual—bedtime stories, Saturday morning library trips, or even just ten quiet minutes together on the couch.

There’s also something deeply cultural about holding onto physical books. They become heirlooms. A book signed by a parent. A book passed down from an older sibling. A book with worn edges because it was loved so much. These objects carry memory. They remind our children that they come from a lineage of storytellers, thinkers, and dreamers.

And yes, technology has its place. Digital tools can support learning, open access, and spark interest. But they should never replace the intimacy of reading a book together or the grounding presence of a story told face‑to‑face. Our children need both, but they especially need the kind of storytelling that roots them in who they are.

In a time when the world often tries to define Black children before they can define themselves, storytelling becomes a form of protection. A way of saying, “Here is who you are. Here is where you come from. Here is what you can become.” And physical books become the vessels that carry those truths.

So yes, in 2026, our children still need books they can hold. They need stories that honor their culture, spark their imagination, challenge their minds, and strengthen their spirits. They need the sound of our voices reading to them. They need the warmth of our presence beside them. They need the stories that remind them they are part of something bigger—something beautiful, something powerful, something deeply Black.

And as a community, we need to keep telling those stories. We need to keep passing them down. Because when we strengthen the imagination of our children, we strengthen the future of our people.

Staff Writer; Christian Starr

May connect with this sister over at Facebook; https://www.facebook.com/christian.pierre.9809 and also Twitter; http://twitter.com/MrzZeta.