As the holidays draw near, many of us turn our attention to preparing our homes for cleaning, decorating, and making space for family and friends. In my household, that preparation came with an unexpected lesson. We were being pestered, nagged, and flat-out intruded upon by what we thought were harmless fruit flies. You know the kind those little nuisances that dance around your kitchen like Muhammad Ali, jabbing left and right while your guests pretend not to see them.
Browsing: Editorials
Welcome to Giving Tuesday, that special time of year when every organization, every acquaintance, and possibly even your old high school gym teacher pops out of retirement to remind you that your wallet hasn’t suffered enough.
There comes a time when we must speak plainly, especially when the winds of accusation begin to blow unevenly across our political landscape. Today, I stand in support of confronting double standards —not to dismiss the seriousness of the charges brought against her, but to demand a level of scrutiny, fairness, and consistency that our nation seems increasingly unwilling to apply equally.
Travel has a way of disrupting your comfort, resetting your compass, and confronting you with truths you can’t unsee. While moving through parts of South Africa from Johannesburg’s dense townships to the sprawling informal settlements that stretch farther than the eye can see, I witnessed poverty on a scale that wounds the soul. Abject conditions, tin-roof shacks pieced together with determination, children navigating dirt paths barefoot with laughter still somehow intact.
For such a time as this, when truth seems to have been traded for convenience and justice pawned off for political survival, we find ourselves watching history repeat itself only this time, it’s wearing a red tie and a presidential seal.
It’s hard to enjoy your vacation when, even as you try to escape politics, the shadow of your country’s turmoil finds you on foreign maternal soil. When you see how the rest of the world perceives the United States not as the “shining city on a hill,” but as a place stumbling over its own arrogance, its racism, its widening political divide and its falling from grace you begin to understand how deep the wound has become.
There are some journeys that begin long before the plane leaves the ground. My recent travels across Africa from the shores of Senegal and The Gambia, through the rhythmic heartbeat of Ghana’s Accra, and finally to the modern pulse of Johannesburg, South Africa have reminded me that home is not just where we are from, but where we are connected.
While vacationing in Africa, I find myself surrounded by more opportunities than I can possibly see my way through this week. From the Door of No Return to the Spirit of Never Again, I find myself stripped down yet clothed in new garments — garments woven from history, hope, and a renewed sense of purpose. This journey has been more than travel; it has been transformation. Until next week, I’ll be gathering reflections, stories, and inspiration to share with you — all born from the motherland.
In recent months, a troubling and heartbreaking pattern has emerged: shootings and acts of violence are invading the very places meant to be sanctuaries of learning, growth, and hope our historically Black colleges and universities (HBCUs) and the surrounding communities that have long nourished them.
I had the opportunity to visit Israel shortly after the October 7 attacks to walk through the shattered streets, to see the homes turned to rubble, to stand in places where laughter had been replaced by silence. I spoke with mothers who had lost their sons, fathers who still waited for words about their daughters, and children whose eyes carried stories no child should have to tell. It was not just newsprint; it was human agony made visible, an entire people crying out beneath the weight of hate and history.