Atlanta, Respect the Leadership of Black Women.
I once dipped into personal savings, without hesitation, to cover expenses for a project at work. I believed so much in the work of the organization that when promised funding didn’t materialize, I did what many Black women in the social sector do: I figured it out.
In December of 2019, I was the founding Executive Director of the Georgia Farmers Market Association (GFMA). I hosted the national Community Food Systems Conference in my hometown of Savannah that featured powerful leaders such as Michael Twitty, Sallie Ann Robinson, and Rachel Willis. The reviews from the hundreds of diverse attendees consistently showed tremendous value for the space my team and I created. The sessions were carefully curated to build on the collective skills and talents of each participant. Facilitators and speakers were selected based on their knowledge, experience, and brilliance.
Michael Twitty with Sagdrina Jalal at the 2019 Community Food Systems Conference in Savannah, Georgia.
Despite the tremendous success of the conference, I struggled to pay the bills. I used my personal savings to pay the hotel fees of our speakers while I waited for donations that had been promised months prior. Saddened and in shock by the lack of support by the very institutions that are supposed to support organizations like GFMA, I ended up leaving the organization to join the Center for Civic Innovation.
Leaving GFMA broke my heart. Leaving knowing that the work was far from finished was devastating. Leaving with almost $25,000 due to me personally (with no clear repayment plan in sight) was incomprehensible.
How did this happen to me? Because philanthropy doesn’t trust Black women.
Periodt.
Not even to do work in our own communities.
Not even to do work that we’ve been doing successfully without support from traditional funding sources.
Not even when we have personally funded the work all along.
I say this because it’s not only the truth, my truth, but the collective truth of many Black women in the social sector in Atlanta. Over the last year, I have been working with a group of incredible Black women leaders from diverse backgrounds, bodies of work and experience: the Inequality in Philanthropy Advisory Group. We have been laser-focused on studying funding trends in Atlanta and around the country. We’ve examined empty promises made and opportunities missed. We’ve also taken a close look at what is actually working in philanthropy, as there are places that are thriving because of their bold moves to support the work led by Black women.
Our goal in the Inequality in Philanthropy Advisory Group is to provide space for philanthropy to reflect on its wrongs as an institutional body and repair, restore and evolve. Practices rooted in white dominance create power imbalances and therefore cause significant harm. We not only seek spaces to heal; we expect atonement.
Our intense research and collective experience has evolved into five recommendations. Over the next few weeks, we will begin sharing a pathway to the liberation of Atlanta’s philanthropic community. I know one thing for sure: together, we are a force of change.
Prior to the official work of the advisory group, Atlanta was experiencing an “awakening” that started with everyday citizens using their cell phones to capture the dehumanization of Black people. This wasn’t new, the dehumanization -- it was just being captured and shared widely for the first time. We collectively witnessed Black people being denied and refused basic rights like food, shelter, and safety at the hands of those tasked with protecting our communities. We also saw a thread of the 'picnic patrol’ woven throughout the fabric of neighborhoods across the country. Vigilantes made it their mission to police the behaviors of Black folk who were literally minding their own business; sometimes with devastating consequences. Enter the COVID-19 global pandemic and tensions flared across our city, country, and in most of the world.
As with every crisis in recent history, the pandemic put pressure on the social sector. It highlighted the disparities that already existed in Atlanta’s philanthropic community, a burden largely carried by Black-led leaders and organizations that have been functioning in overdrive for years. The difference this time was the simultaneous fight for racial equity that continued to play out across the country. And, like many times before, Black women stepped in and stepped up for our communities despite the daily, bone-chilling truths playing out before our very eyes: the despicable fact that we were having to defend whether our lives matter.
I remember when I first relocated to the Kirkwood neighborhood in Atlanta after living in Gwinnett County for many years. Just about every house around me had a Black Lives Matter or Stacey Abrams for Governor sign; often both. I found it comforting to move into a community that appeared to share my values. But then Stacey lost her bid and the murder of Black people at the hands of the police continued.
I witnessed people expressing devastation at the defeat of their beloved candidate and horror at the slaughter of Black people. The lawn signs remained intact; however, the sentiments were at arm’s length; voyeuristic even. Folks essentially went back to their own business and their outrage became an (ineffective) hashtag campaign.
As the pandemic raged on, “getting back to work” meant distinctly different things for white women than it did for Black women. As platitudes, donations and funding rolled in, we literally saw white women hired and funded to do work that has been in progress for decades by Black women.
Organizations of all sizes brought on diversity, equity and inclusion experts and put out statements of solidarity with the Black community. The signs were still up, only now, folks were bunkered in; captive. Institutions with any level of decency and forethought were taking firm stances. Unfortunately, the “love of Blackness” that many organizations touted was essentially a wolf ticket – an empty sentiment and not backed by money.
During the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, 50+ corporations and foundations created a Greater Atlanta COVID-19 Response and Relief Fund. Only 10% of the $25 million dollars invested in that fund went to organizations led by Black women.
How is it that bold statements were made but the money failed to show up in the hands of Black women?
I’ve already said it: because Atlanta doesn’t trust us.
The leadership of organizations who grant or re-grant funds are typically made up of non-Black people. Despite their “Black Lives Matter” battle cry, when the time came to share their power, they chose to hoard it instead. In a recent conversation with a group of Black women philanthropic leaders, my colleague Odetta Macleish-White made a salient point: we need 21st century leadership, not leadership entrenched in outdated, white-dominated systems. Atlanta’s philanthropy is currently the latter.
Until we accept that the entire system must be dismantled, reimagined and re-created with Black folks in positions of power, backed with funding, communities will continue to suffer. Not just the Black people in the community. Everyone. To deny Black women the resources they need to build capacity in their organizations and care for themselves as leaders is to deny us all of their brilliance, ingenuity and creativity.
We need to do better.
Our goal in the Inequality in Philanthropy Advisory Group is to provide space for philanthropy to reflect on its wrongs as an institutional body and repair, restore and evolve. Practices rooted in white dominance create power imbalances and therefore cause significant harm. We not only seek spaces to heal; we expect atonement.
I invite you to follow our journey over the next few weeks and find your fit.
I think yard signs should stay put as they represent awareness; an important first step for many. It’s time to layer that understanding with collective disruption.
It’s time to leap.
Sagdrina Jalal is the Senior Director of Community Innovation for the Center for Civic Innovation.
Sagdrina Jalal
