Feeding Black America: The Resilience of Black Farmers in Tennessee

​The story of Black farmers in Tennessee is a profound narrative of resilience, a "long walk" from the forced labor of the plantation to the hard-won independence of the family farm. It is a story not just of agriculture, but of food sovereignty—the right of a people to define their own food and agriculture systems. For over a century, Black farmers in the Volunteer State have fought to feed their communities while simultaneously battling systemic exclusion, land loss, and economic disenfranchisement.

​The Roots of Independence: 1865–1920
​Following Emancipation, the transition from enslaved labor to land ownership was the primary vehicle for Black freedom. In Tennessee, this journey was slightly different than in the Deep South. Because parts of the Upper South had more diversified economies and a less entrenched history of massive cotton plantations, some African Americans found white landowners more willing to sell land.
​By 1910, the progress was staggering. Black Americans across the country held title to roughly 16 million acres of farmland. In Tennessee, "Century Farms" like the Black Family Farm in Dover (founded over 100 years ago) began to take root. These farmers did more than just grow crops like tobacco, corn, and strawberries; they built the economic foundations of Black middle-class life. A Black farmer who owned his land was his "own boss," making him harder to intimidate during the burgeoning era of Jim Crow.

​The Era of "Farmland Blues" and Discrimination
​The mid-20th century brought a devastating reversal. A combination of the Great Migration and systemic discrimination led to a massive decline in Black land ownership. Between 1920 and today, the number of Black farmers in Tennessee plummeted from tens of thousands to fewer than 1,400.
​The primary culprit was often the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA). Local committees, often dominated by segregationists, systematically denied Black farmers the loans and disaster relief they were legally entitled to. Loans were often granted too late in the season to be useful, or were structured in ways that led to inevitable foreclosure. This "slow squeeze" resulted in the loss of millions of acres—land that represented not just a livelihood, but a legacy for future generations.

​The Fight for Justice: Memphis and Beyond
​Tennessee became a central battleground in the fight to reclaim this lost heritage. In 1997, the Black Farmers and Agriculturalists Association (BFAA) was established in Memphis. Led by Thomas Burrell, the BFAA spearheaded the awareness campaign for the historic Pigford v. Glickman class-action lawsuit. This suit eventually resulted in billions of dollars in settlements, acknowledging decades of USDA discrimination.
​While the settlement could never truly replace the lost land, it signaled a turning point. It brought the struggle of the Black farmer into the national spotlight and birthed a new movement focused on food justice.

​A New Renaissance: Feeding the Future
​Today, a new generation of Black farmers and activists in Tennessee is redefining what it means to "feed Black America." In urban centers like Nashville, Memphis, and Knoxville, the focus has shifted toward hyper-local food systems to combat "food apartheid"—areas where fresh, healthy food is intentionally made inaccessible.
• ​Rooted East (Knoxville): This organization uses ancestral wisdom and "reparative agriculture" to teach community members how to grow their own food, fostering self-sufficiency.
• ​Black Family Farms (Dover): Now operated by three generations, they have expanded from traditional crops like tobacco to agritourism and pick-your-own strawberries, keeping the family legacy alive in a modern market.
•
​ The history of Black farmers in Tennessee is a testament to the belief that land is the basis of all freedom. From the pioneers who bought their first 40 acres in the 1880s to the urban gardeners of the 2020s, these individuals have remained the stewards of their communities' health and heritage. To feed Black America is not just to provide calories, but to restore the connection between a people and the land that sustains them.


​

The Call To Free Cuba, What does this Really Mean ?

​The Miami exile community’s relentless cry for a "Free Cuba" is often wrapped in the noble language of democracy, but look closely at the nostalgia, and a much grittier picture emerges. When they talk about "the good old days," they aren't talking about the Cuba that exists today—the one that boasts one of the highest literacy rates in the Western Hemisphere and exports world-class medical doctors to every corner of the globe.
​No, the "Free Cuba" they pine for looks a lot more like a grainy, black-and-white noir film, where the air is thick with cigar smoke, cheap perfume, and the heavy hand of the American Mafia.
​The "Pearl" of the Mob
​Before 1959, Havana wasn't a sovereign nation so much as it was a mid-Atlantic subsidiary of the Syndicate. Under the watchful, paid-off eye of the dictator Fulgencio Batista, the island was handed over to Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano on a silver platter.
​The "freedom" the exiles seem to miss was the freedom to run an economy built on the "three pillars" of 1950s Havana:
​The Syndicate’s Casino: Where the American Mob laundered millions while the local population (Afro-Cubans) lived in tin-roofed shacks just miles away.
​Unchecked Prostitution: A "tourist industry" that essentially commodified the Cuban people for the amusement of visiting American businessmen.
​A Pipeline of Drugs: Serving as the primary transit point for the Mob's narcotics trade, long before Medellín or Cali were names on a map.
​The Reality They Ignore
​The exile narrative conveniently glosses over what has been achieved since the "glory days" of gambling ended. Today’s Cuba—despite the crushing weight of a decades-long embargo—has achieved a 99.7% literacy rate. Their education system is a model for the developing world, and their doctors are consistently on the front lines of global health crises, from Ebola in Africa to COVID-19 in Italy.
​Furthermore, the "Free Cuba" of the 1950s was a playground for the white elite. It is no coincidence that Afro-Cubans, who were largely excluded from the swanky casinos and private clubs of the Batista era, have largely embraced a system that, for all its flaws, offered them dignity and social mobility that the "Latin Las Vegas" never could.
​A Yearning for a Gilded Cage
​When the exile community demands a return to the pre-Castro era, they are essentially asking to tear down the schools and clinics to make room for more baccarat tables. They want the neon back, but they forget that the neon only lit up the faces of the tourists and the mobsters.
​The dream of a "Free Cuba" in Miami isn't about progress; it’s a desperate, condescending longing for a time when Cuba was "fun"—at least for the people who held the chips.

Black People Don’t Work Together” — The Lie That Protects Theft

Let’s stop pretending this is about culture.The myth that Black people don’t work together exists for one reason: it excuses organized theft carried out through policy, bureaucracy, and capital. It turns displacement into a moral failure instead of what it actually is — a business strategy.

Neighborhoods don’t collapse on their own. They are starved.Police protection quietly pulls back before the headlines change. City services fade. Infrastructure rots. Banks disappear. Insurance becomes unaffordable. The area gets labeled a “slum” only after the damage is already done — and that label becomes justification for more neglect.Then the same system points at the wreckage and says, See? They couldn’t manage it.That’s phase one.

Phase two is where investors smell opportunity.Once property values are crushed low enough, outside capital floods in — not to help residents, but to replace them. Suddenly, the same streets that “weren’t worth fixing” are worth millions. Suddenly, police are everywhere. Suddenly, permits get approved. Suddenly, trash gets picked up on time. Funny how efficiency shows up right when money does.The people who survived the worst years — the ones who endured red tape, harassment, underfunded schools, and predatory fines — become the final obstacle.

So the pressure increases.
Property taxes spike overnight. Code violations appear out of nowhere. Rent jumps just enough to force a move. Developers “accidentally” buy the house next door. Investors offer cash, then intimidation.This isn’t revitalization. It’s removal.The same neighborhood that was called a “dangerous slum” gets rebranded as “up-and-coming” the moment Black residents are priced out. Coffee shops replace corner stores. Luxury condos rise where families once lived. And suddenly, the crime narrative disappears — because the people were never the problem.But here comes the insult on top of the injury.

After the displacement is complete, the same voices ask: Why didn’t the community build generational wealth?Because every time it tried, the rules changed. Because every time it endured long enough to matter, the land became valuable. Because survival was punished, not rewarded.Black people didn’t fail to work together. They worked together long enough for someone else to profit from it.Gentrification is not accidental progress. It is the final phase of a process that begins with neglect and ends with eviction — all while pretending it’s improvement.

So no, this isn’t about responsibility. It’s about who gets protected, who gets pushed out, and who gets paid.
And the lie that Black people don’t work together? That’s just the story told to make displacement sound deserved.

Six Seven: What’s the Problem?

There was a time when kids pulled harmless internet pranks and the consequences were mostly verbal—a warning from a teacher, a call home, maybe a reminder about appropriate behavior. Today, however, we live in a viral culture where even the most innocent trends can spiral into something far bigger than they deserve. The latest example is the so-called “six seven” meme.

The trend itself is almost laughably simple. Someone says “six seven,” kids laugh, shout, and flash a quick hand gesture. That’s it. On the surface, it’s nothing more than children being goofy—made-up nonsense with no obvious meaning. But as with many viral moments, adults quickly began asking: What does it really mean?

Mathematically, the answer is straightforward. Six plus seven equals thirteen. From there, speculation takes over. The number thirteen has carried symbolic meaning far beyond arithmetic for centuries. In numerology, it represents transformation—endings that lead to new beginnings, change brought through disruption. It isn’t inherently negative; it’s simply powerful.

Historically, however, thirteen became associated with bad luck through religious and mythological stories. The Last Supper placed Judas as the thirteenth guest. Norse legends describe Loki arriving as the thirteenth guest and bringing chaos. Over time, these narratives fused with cultural anxiety and cemented thirteen’s reputation as a number to fear.part of that unease comes from contrast. Twelve is widely seen as a “complete” number: twelve months, twelve zodiac signs, twelve disciples. Thirteen breaks that pattern. It disrupts the order. What began as symbolic discomfort slowly turned into superstition. So deeply ingrained is this belief that many buildings skip the 13th floor entirely, jumping from twelve to fourteen as if avoiding the number itself can prevent misfortune.

The irony, of course, is obvious. Removing the number doesn’t remove the idea.

The “six seven” meme isn’t a threat. It’s an example of how young people play with language, rhythm, and shared humor in digital spaces. Punishing students for repeating a viral math phrase says far more about adult anxiety than student misconduct.

If schools are handing out discipline over “six seven,” it may be time to reconsider where discipline ends and superstition begins. Not every viral trend is a challenge to authority. Sometimes it’s just math—filtered through culture, history, and humor.

And perhaps the real lesson here isn’t about six or seven at all, but about how society reacts when old fears collide with new forms of expression—and how we respond when confronted with something we don’t fully understand.

Chicago: The “Black America's Media Powerhouse

For more than a century, Chicago has stood as one of the most powerful centers of Black media in the United States, earning a reputation as the “Black New York of media.” While New York is widely considered the capital of white mainstream American media, Chicago has served as the beating heart of African American journalism, broadcasting, and cultural storytelling—shaping national identity, politics, and culture for generations.

The story begins with the Great Migration. As millions of Black Americans moved north in the early 20th century, Chicago became a hub of Black life, talent, and ambition. Communities on the South and West Sides weren’t just neighborhoods; they became incubators of political power, cultural expression, and media innovation. The growing Black population created both an audience and a workforce ready to build institutions of their own.

Few institutions symbolize that better than the city’s legendary Black press. The Chicago Defender, founded in 1905, rose to become the most influential Black newspaper of the 20th century—widely credited with encouraging and shaping the Great Migration itself. Other publications, including the Chicago Crusader and The Chicago Reporter, followed in its footsteps, establishing Chicago as a center of Black journalistic authority.

That legacy extended into magazines with the rise of Johnson Publishing Company. From its headquarters on Michigan Avenue, Johnson Publishing launched Ebony and Jet—two publications that would define Black beauty, style, politics, and celebrity culture worldwide. For decades, Chicago wasn’t just reporting Black life—it was curating and shaping it.

Chicago also became a powerhouse in broadcasting. Radio station WVON—known as “The Voice of the Negro”—became one of the most important platforms for community news, activism, and music. Black radio personalities in Chicago didn’t merely entertain; they mobilized voters, informed neighborhoods, and amplified the struggles and triumphs of Black America.

Television and entertainment added another layer. Chicago produced some of the most influential Black journalists, talk show hosts, comedians, and television personalities in the country. It is also the city where Oprah Winfrey chose to build her media empire—not by accident, but because Chicago’s Black media was a powerhouse there. Chicago didn’t just host Oprah; it helped elevate her into a global icon.

Chicago’s influence has always been strengthened by its politics. With powerful Black political leadership and activism deeply woven into the city’s history, media outlets were not just storytellers but instruments of empowerment. From civil rights battles to modern struggles over policing, housing, and inequality, Chicago’s Black media consistently led conversations long before national outlets paid attention.

Today, the phrase “Black New York of media” captures more than a nickname. It reflects Chicago’s unrivaled role as the black media capital of the world. For generations, the city has not only reported the news—it has shaped how Black America sees itself, and how the world sees Black America.

Remembering Helen B. Bentley: The Nurse and Activist Who Built a Health Legacy in Coconut Grove

The name Helen B. Bentley resonates not only as a distinguished resident of Coconut Grove but as the powerful force behind some of the community’s most vital institutions. As a dedicated Public Health Nurse and tireless community activist, Mrs. Bentley spent her life ensuring that the historic Grove—particularly its Black Bahamian population—had access to the fundamental resources of health and education.
​Her legacy is etched into the very fabric of Miami-Dade County, defined by two major pillars: healthcare and civic service.

 A Vision for Accessible Healthcare
​Helen B. Bentley's most enduring monument is the Helen B. Bentley Family Health Center, which she founded to serve the poor, medically needy, and underserved people of Coconut Grove, Coral Gables, and South Miami.
​At a time when quality healthcare was often inaccessible, Mrs. Bentley stepped forward, demonstrating a deep conviction that "patient care comes first." Under her visionary leadership, the center grew to become a founding member of the Health Choice Network, a collaborative effort among community health centers to improve access and reduce health disparities.
​"She was someone that Thelma Gibson deeply admired. We heard that when she wasn't nursing, Nurse Bentley was also a community activist," noted a local historian, recalling her presence in the community.

​While the original center has since closed, its mission lives on through the efforts of Community Health of South Florida, Inc. (CHI), which operates health centers in the area and continues to honor the commitment Mrs. Bentley forged.

 Shaping Future Generations
​Beyond the clinic walls, Mrs. Bentley was a pillar of the community's social and educational life. In 1957, she co-founded the Coconut Grove Negro Women's Club, Inc. (CGNWC), alongside a group of extraordinary women.
​The club was dedicated to the core principle of service, primarily focusing on providing scholarships to young ladies and rendering service to the broader Grove community. Through this organization, Mrs. Bentley helped cultivate the next generation of leaders, echoing the spirit of other community pioneers like E.W.F. Stirrup who encouraged residents to build a lasting financial and social legacy.

 The Enduring Tribute
​Helen B. Bentley's commitment to the nursing profession is honored annually through the Helen B. Bentley Family Health Centers/CHI Foundation Nursing Scholarship Fund. The fund awards scholarships to aspiring nurses from the Coconut Grove area, ensuring that her vision of compassionate, skilled healthcare is carried forward by new community leaders.
​A true local legend, Helen B. Bentley was not only known for her professional dedication but for her active role in nearly every aspect of civic life—from being a great worker in the community to diligently keeping the local cemetery clean. Her life serves as a powerful reminder that the greatest legacies are built through selfless service and an unwavering commitment to one's neighbors.
​

Meet Dr. Nashlie Sephus of Black Silicon Valley

​Jackson, MS – In a city brimming with history and heart, a visionary is quietly yet powerfully shaping its future, one line of code and one aspiring mind at a time. Dr. Nashlie Sephus, a proud daughter of Jackson, Mississippi, is not just a leading figure in the world of artificial intelligence; she's the architect of a burgeoning "Black Silicon Valley" right here in her hometown.

​From the halls of Murrah High School to the cutting-edge labs of Amazon Web Services (AWS), Dr. Sephus has forged a remarkable path. Armed with a Bachelor's in Computer Engineering from Mississippi State University and advanced degrees from the Georgia Institute of Technology, her expertise in machine learning and a keen focus on identifying algorithmic bias have made her a sought-after voice in the tech industry.
​Many will remember her as the brilliant CTO behind Partpic, a visual recognition startup that caught the eye of Amazon and was subsequently acquired in 2016. This pivotal moment brought her immense recognition, but for Dr. Sephus, success was never solely about personal achievement. It was about impact, especially for the community that nurtured her.

​This deep-seated commitmentl manifested in the creation of The Bean Path, a non-profit organization that has become a beacon of technological empowerment in Jackson. "We wanted to provide a place where people could come for technical advice and guidance, where they didn't feel intimidated by the world of tech," Dr. Sephus explains. "It's about bridging that digital divide and showing folks that technology isn't just for Silicon Valley; it's for everyone, everywhere."
​The Bean Path is a vibrant hub offering a range of services: a crucial Tech Help Desk, insightful Tech Talks, and engaging engineering and coding programs designed to spark interest in younger generations. It provides scholarships and grants, actively dismantling barriers to entry into the tech landscape.
​But Dr. Sephus's vision extends beyond individual support. She is the driving force behind the ambitious Jackson Tech District, a transformative initiative aimed at revitalizing downtown Jackson into a thriving innovative and technological hub. This district, an expansion of The Bean Path's mission, envisions a community where tech education, entrepreneurship, and innovation flourish, creating jobs and opportunities for local residents.

​Imagine a future where state-of-the-art tech companies rub shoulders with bustling community spaces, all powered by local talent. That's the future Dr. Nashlie Sephus is meticulously building, piece by innovative piece

​Dr. Sephus embodies the spirit of resilience, intelligence, and unwavering dedication to community upliftment. Her work at AWS tackles complex issues like AI ethics, while her passion project, The Bean Path and the Jackson Tech District, addresses fundamental needs on the ground. She is proving that the next wave of technological innovation and inclusion isn't confined to traditional tech capitals but can be cultivated and championed from anywhere, especially in places rich with untapped potential like Jackson, Mississippi.

​As the Jackson Tech District takes shape, Dr. Nashlie Sephus stands as a testament to what's possible when brilliance meets purpose. She's not just building a district; she's cultivating a dream – a true Black Silicon Valley – that promises to inspire generations to come.