The Black Panthers are arguably the most misunderstood social activist group in American history.
In the current American culture of heightened political violence, with two out of three Americans fearing that rhetoric is enhancing acts of violence, it is important to separate historic truth from misinformation.
Many identify the organization as a criminal hate group, but this is far from the truth. The Black Panthers served Black and low-income communities to fulfill the basic everyday needs of the people in those communities.
Their efforts are noted, and groups are replicating their efforts. A street in Chicago was recently named after Fred Hampton, the slain Black Panther Leader killed by police in 1969. The California Black Panther Party continues to organize community outreach today.
For decades, the Black Panthers developed community programs that included safety, healthcare, clothing, education, legal support, plumbing repair, pest control, prison busing, transportation services for senior citizens, and emergency medical services, among other initiatives.
The Black Panther Party developed these community programs out of necessity to combat the neglect of President Lyndon Johnson's War on Poverty to serve oppressed communities nationwide, impacted by systemic racism and white supremacy.
Of their community programs, the Black Panthers are most widely known for their free breakfast program for children. In 1969, this program was active in over two dozen cities and “fed over 20,000 children,” as reported in their newspaper the same year. This number only increased, propelling Jess Unruh, California State Assembly member, in 1969 to declare that the Black Panthers “have supplied more free breakfasts than the Federal Government.”
In addition to offering free breakfast for children, many may not be aware that the Black Panthers also established a free food program, providing groceries to the community at no cost. Addressing systemic concerns such as food insecurity, poverty, disenfranchisement, and structural violence was critical to the agenda of the Black Panther Party.
The Black Panthers understood that proper nutrition is essential for the body to function; therefore, access to adequate nourishment is a form of political empowerment. Life depends on it for optimal health—mentally, physically, psychologically, and spiritually. It is impossible to think if you are hungry.
The structural concerns that were the focus of the Black Panther Party still plague society in the political present. The cost increase of groceries, coupled with the recent implementation of tariffs, has made groceries unaffordable for many.
Like many urban cities, Detroit is plagued by the violent crisis of food deserts. Authority Health, a Detroit-based programmatic health promotion center, reports that “three in four residents” experience food insecurity due to limited grocery stores.”
As a result, Detroit food justice activists have reclaimed their community through the establishment of the Detroit People’s Food Co-Op, a grocery store founded on the principles of community care and mutual aid.
Launched in 2024, the Black-owned and community-driven business provides affordable, fresh food, job security, community events, and promotes health education to residents. Cooperative economics, member ownership, and a community space comprise its foundation. Membership costs $200 and grants the right to vote and participate in shaping the store's operations, including its products and customer service.
Some may argue that this grocery store and other initiatives across the country in their communal politics, health promotion, and accessibility standards are mobilizing in the spirit of the Black Panthers.
While many are newly learning about the positive legacy of the Black Panthers, dating back more than 50 years, efforts to repress that knowledge are in full bloom. Far-right political critics argue today that ethnic studies curricula that include history lessons on the Black Panther Party must be abolished.
In the era of political violence and cultural division, it is crucial to know and understand the truth and history, and to honor those who make a positive difference.
Mary Frances Phillips is an associate professor of African American Studies at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign and a Public Voices fellow with The OpEd Project. She is the author of Black Panther Woman: The Political and Spiritual Life of Ericka Huggins.
Demonstrators rally outside the U.S. Supreme Court as justices hear oral arguments on whether President Donald Trump can deny citizenship to children born to parents who are in the United States illegally or temporarily, on Capitol Hill, in Washington, Wednesday, April 1, 2026. (AP Photo/Mariam Zuhaib)
Luz Angela Nuñez with her daughter Aisha Quershi Nuñez at their home in College Point, Queens. Photo: Mia Anzalone for Documented.
Kimberly Alvarez, 25, with her daughter Evangeline and her husband John Alvarez in Medellin, Colombia. Photo courtesy of Kimberly Alvarez.Alvarez arrived in New York City in February 2024 with her husband John Alvarez as asylum seekers from Venezuela. In April 2025, Alvarez found out she was pregnant with her first child, a baby girl. Her first reaction, she said, was fear.“How am I going to keep her alive?” she said. “That’s what I was thinking. ‘How am I going to be able to take care of her?’”At the beginning of Alvarez’s pregnancy, she said she was aware of the immigration enforcement occurring around the country, but vowed not to let it deter her from showing up to her doctor’s appointments.“When you went out, you were always on alert because you didn’t know if [ICE] might be around. I never saw anything suspicious,” Alvarez said. “But of course, you feel scared.”In October, when Alvarez was six months pregnant, her husband was detained by ICE agents at 26 Federal Plaza. When the immediate shock wore off, she obsessively checked the Online Detainee Locator System to find out where her husband went. A day later, she discovered that he was being kept at Delaney Hall detention center in New Jersey. Alvarez quickly set up an account to pay for phone calls, and every two days, she would pay about $10 for a one-hour call, updating her husband about the baby, her appointments and how she was doing.“Crying was the only way for me to release the tension,” said Alvarez, who worried that her lack of sleep and bad diet were impacting her baby. “Crying was the only way for me to release the tension.”—Kimberly AlvarezThat tension built up day by day, week by week following her husband’s arrest. Alvarez had stopped her work as a cleaner in the neighborhood’s synagogues two weeks before her husband’s detention because of her pregnancy. The plan, she said, was to rely solely on his income as a maintenance worker for “the food, the rent, everything.” Left with few choices, Kimberley had to rely on her mother’s income as a cleaner. The older woman had moved to New York from North Carolina to assist with Alvarez’s pregnancy. “I feel like I’m supposed to help my mom, not the other way around,” Alvarez said. “I felt powerless because I couldn’t do anything.”On Dec. 9, Alvarez gave birth to a daughter, Evangeline. While her baby was healthy, Alvarez’s anxieties did not go away. While she returned to cleaning synagogues a few months after Evangeline’s birth to help make ends meet, Alvarez and her daughter rarely left home. Alvarez said she felt paralyzed, getting frequent alerts from a neighborhood WhatsApp group when ICE was spotted nearby. One day, she said, ICE arrested her friend’s husband in Sunset Park, in an area where she would sometimes take Evangeline for walks.“I’m so afraid that I’ll go out and run into one of them and that they’ll take her away from me,” Alvarez said. “That’s my biggest fear, that someone will take her away from me and I won’t know where my daughter is.”In March, her husband decided to voluntarily remove himself from the United States and move back to Colombia, where he is originally from. It was a family decision, but it was not a happy one — hiring immigration lawyers was too expensive, Alvarez said, adding that staying in the U.S. felt too uncertain. 
Sharice Davids, who is also Kansas’ first LGBTQ+ member of Congress, is in her fourth term. (Michael Brochstein/SIPA/AP)
Deb Haaland was the first Native American secretary of the Interior, and if elected in New Mexico this year, she would become the country’s first Native American woman governor. (Drew Angerer/Getty Images)