In this episode of the "Collage" podcast, Rev. F. Willis Johnson interviews Rev. Aaron Rogers, director of the St. Stephens Episcopal Church in Ferguson, Mo.. Their conversation acknowledges the forthcoming 10-year remembrance of Michael Brown's death and the Ferguson uprising. Johnson and Rogers discuss the "pilgrimage" that introduced them to one another and impacted their vocational endeavors.
When Charlie Kirk was tragically shot and killed on September 10th in Utah it sent shock waves through the country and raised a number of profound questions about his legacy and the views he spread through his Turning Point U.S.A. organization. Many went to the internet to find his quotes to perhaps hold a mirror up to his brand of white nationalism.
One quote should send chills down your spine. On a June 11th, 2024, episode of The Charlie Kirk Show, Kirk makes references to “stoning” and “putting gays to death” as the perfect law in response to Youtuber, Ms. Rachel who used the bible to suggest Pride month and support for it was an example of loving thy neighbor. While Kirk did not explicitly state or advocate the stoning of gays, his tongue and cheek usage of the passage described by some as a “joke” demonstrates a much longer history of gay hate in the United States and how the bible has been used to support anti-gay legislation.
Earlier this year Hillary Rodham Clinton remarked that the Supreme Court “will do to gay marriage what it did to abortion” sounding the alarm that marriage equality could be lost. In fact, recent calls for the overturning of gay marriage could soon be heard by the Supreme Court. If gay marriage falls many believe it could be a domino effect leading to a ban on interracial marriage as well.
For women, LGBTQ, African American, and American Indian people the 14th Amendment changed lives and gave many people protections to live free from legal discrimination and exclusion. The amendment to the U.S. Constitution formally granted U.S. citizenship to former slaves and contained three new limits on state power: “a state shall not violate a citizen’s privileges or immunities; shall not deprive any person of life liberty, or property without due process of law; and must guarantee all persons equal protection of the laws.”
What happens when states are allowed to discriminate?
If Obergfell v. Hodges (the case that made same-sex marriage legal) falls it could be yet another signal that our democracy is crumbling, not just for the LGBTQ community but for all Americans who seek equal treatment under the law. This includes religious freedom, fairness in employment practice, and a slew of other areas that impact white, Black, male, female, gay and heterosexual people alike.
Before the ratification of the 14th amendment on July 9th, 1868, Black people, American Indians, women and other ethnic and racial minorities did not have legal voting rights and other protection guarantees afforded to white citizens.
In 1875 for example, the Supreme denied women the right to vote in Minor v. Happersett. It would then be another 45 years before white women got the right to vote under the 19th amendment. Black women and other women of color still did not gain the full right to vote until 1965 just 60 years ago. In fact, American Indians, the first people of the United States, did not obtain citizenship until 1924 and could not vote in all states until 1957.
These rights were further extended by the Civil Rights and Voting Rights Acts. There is a growing risk that if Obergfell could fall (as Kim Davis a former county clerk who refused licenses to gay couples is appealing the decision which could go to the Supreme Court), and same sex marriage could once again become illegal many are opining that interracial marriage (also protected under the 14th Amendment) could follow in much the same way that Roe v. Wade was overturned in 2022 in the case of Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization.
While women, people of color and the LGBTQ community gained more rights, it would take nearly another 100 years for the Civil Rights Act (1964) and the Voting Rights Act (1965) to be passed and to provide more meaningful legal protections and equal rights. These acts are also under attack and would negatively impact all Americans.
So, if gay marriage falls so could voting rights for women. So could anti-discrimination laws that protect interracial marriage. Repealing gay marriage would lead to a repeal of protections for all Americans.
So let this be a call to all of us to protect Civil Rights for this and future generations. Let us stand united to defend the freedoms of us all. The alternative is a world where none of us is free.
Dr. Andrew Jolivétte is a Professor of Sociology and Afro-Indigenous Studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara, an Adjunct Professor of Ethnic Studies at UC San Diego, and a Public Voices Fellow of the OpEd Project at UCSB. His latest book, Research Justice: Methodologies for Change, was published earlier this year.
Conservative attacks on higher education and DEI reveal a deeper fear of diversity—and the racial roots of America’s “ivory tower.”
The Trump administration and conservative politicians have launched a broad-reaching and effective campaign against higher education and Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion efforts in particular. These attacks, often amplified by neo-conservative influencers, are not simply critiques of policy or spending. At their core, they reflect anxiety over the growing presence and visibility of marginalized students and scholars within institutions that were not historically designed for them.
The phrase ivory tower has become shorthand for everything critics dislike about higher education. It evokes images of professors lost in abstract theorizing, and administrators detached from real-world problems. But there is a deeper meaning, one rooted in the racial history of academia. Whether consciously or not, the term reinforces the idea that universities are–and should remain–spaces that uphold whiteness.
When critics lament the state of the ivory tower, they are often reacting not just to elitism, but to the changing demographics and priorities of colleges and universities. As enrollment by students of color and women have been making gains and new areas of study have emerged and gained traction–from ethnic studies to gender studies to critical race theory–we’ve seen a corresponding backlash: funding cuts, attacks on DEI, and growing calls to limit what can be taught.
The roots of exclusion in higher education run deep. The nation’s first colleges—Harvard, Yale, Princeton—were created for the sons of wealthy white elites. They were built, in part, by sweat generated through the Transatlantic Slave Trade. Higher education institutions were also constructed on land stolen from indigenous peoples, and for centuries, those in power within the ivory towers systematically excluded Black, indigenous, and other marginalized groups. Even today, that legacy persists.
Across the country, students from low-income families still struggle to access and complete college. The graduation gap between students from the lowest and highest income groups remains stark, and public universities face increasing pressure to cut programs that serve students pursuing social justice and public service careers.
“Ivory” has long been a symbol of purity and exclusivity–its colonial history tied to European extraction from Africa. When applied to the university, the metaphor suggests not only elitism but also racial exclusivity. In that light, the “ivory tower” becomes not just a metaphor for detachment but for a structure built to elevate whiteness.
As sociologists, we see how these dynamics play out. Black intellectuals are more likely to have their work dismissed as "activism." Women scholars are scrutinized more harshly when they challenge dominant paradigms. Indigenous knowledge systems are often viewed as less rigorous than Western models. And public attacks tend to target the very disciplines—African American studies, feminist theory, sociology—that question existing power structures.
When critics call for the dismantling of the ivory tower, we should ask: Which parts of the university do they want to dismantle, and which do they want to preserve? Who benefits from these changes?
Universities were built as sites of exclusion, designed to reinforce class, gender and racial hierarchies, and have long operated as gatekeeping institutions. And, perhaps these unsustainable features of our history are the very reasons they are vulnerable now. If universities had made themselves accessible to all decades ago, perhaps Americans would not have elected those who seek to destroy them now. If we are going to critique higher education, we must do so honestly.
Higher education is not without its problems. Tuition is rising, student debt is crushing, and too many students are taught by underpaid adjuncts. But the answer isn’t to reject higher education altogether. The answer is to transform it.
We need universities that are accessible, equitable, and publicly supported. We need institutions that recognize the value of diverse disciplines and diverse people. And we need to stop pretending that critiques of the "ivory tower" are always neutral. Too often, they mask a desire to return universities to a time when fewer voices were heard and fewer people had access.
If we are truly committed to equity in education, then we must be honest about the words we use and the histories they reflect. It’s time to reconsider the ivory tower–both as a metaphor and as a model for our institutions.
Yolanda Wiggins is an assistant professor of sociology at San José State University and a Public Voices Fellow at The OpEd Project.
Megan Thiele Strong is a professor of sociology at San José State University and a Public Voices Fellow at the The OpEd Project and a member of the Scholars Strategy Network.
A 2024 study showed that the life expectancy gap between white and Black Americans had doubled to 20.4 years by 2021, partially explained by COVID-19 deaths.
Raised on Chicago’s South Side, I’ve learned that survival is spiritual. My Creole and Trinidadian ancestors labored under systems that were never designed for their flourishing.
Today, as a healer and organizer, I see those same systems manifested in closed schools, subpar health clinics, vacant buildings, and a widening wealth gap. This is a truth in many cities around the country.
Research from 2025 shows that white Chicagoans still live almost a decade longer than Black Chicagoans. This is the reality in many areas of the country, as a 2024 study showed that the life expectancy gap between white and Black Americans had doubled to 20.4 years by 2021, partially explained by COVID-19 deaths. Chronic diseases such as heart disease, diabetes, and cancer, along with drug addiction, gun violence, and infant mortality, top the list of contributing factors.
Earlier research shows the COVID-19 pandemic delivered hard truths, including the stark reminder that inequitable conditions, such as homelessness, unemployment, and poor education, truly determine who lives and who dies.
The health gap and higher mortality rates begin at birth. Research shows that in major cities across the country, including New York, Detroit, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Philadelphia, Nashville, and Memphis, the Black infant mortality rate is 10.9 for every 1,000 infants, which is “two to three times larger than that of other racial and ethnic groups.”
Searching for root causes of disinvestment, death, and desolation in Black neighborhoods, many point fingers right back to the Black community and the social determinants of health.
As a former infectious disease epidemiologist, the state of life for Black residents of six major U.S. cities—including Chicago, where I live—is triggering. As a Black mother, the words of the late Margaret Burroughs, poet, artist, and organizer, crying, "What do I tell my children who are Black?" resonate deeply.
From 2007 to 2020, I rose before dawn and buckled my two children into the family car, carrying them 18 miles away to the Lakeview neighborhood from our disenfranchised block in Roseland—not because I wanted to but because I absolutely had to if I wanted my children to acquire a competitive education.
I was tracing the path my own mother blazed when she uprooted us from the city to the south suburbs in search of classrooms that didn’t simply enroll young Black bodies but gave them a better education.
Too many are forced into these impossible choices: affordable rent or decent schools; staying in your zip code or quietly borrowing someone else’s address because moving isn’t an option.
This is not a privilege that many white families living in more upscale zip codes must trade on. It is a stark truth: Black mothers shoulder the burden of navigating a system designed to deny their children the chance to thrive.
While gathering information for my self-care grant project that examined the disproportionate number of Black and Latine women who are on the frontlines of care in the most disinvested neighborhoods, it struck me how unexceptional my story was.
The education game was just one factor. Many Black and Latine women were jumping through similar hoops; holding up entire communities, heading community-based organizations, and leading initiatives while choosing between Zoom calls and parent-teacher meetings, doctor appointments, and board meetings.
The research findings pulled me back to some very hard truths. Inequitable conditions undergirded by systemic racism are alive and well. Also, the path of survival moving forward is a spiritual, uphill battle that requires tremendous support and investment.
Additionally, in almost every thriving society, women are the heartbeat, nurturing the children, tending to elders, and binding together the fragile threads of kinship and community.
When women are perpetually on the front lines of care, holding up entire communities and organizations with little support, working long hours while juggling household responsibilities, and absorbing the traumas of their communities, experience and research show exhaustion becomes endemic.
Burnout manifests not just as personal fatigue but as a systemic fracture: school meetings missed, meals skipped, relationships strained. A society that treats its women as disposable labor—rather than co-architects of its future—sows its own decline.
Investing in the wellness of women, and giving them the resources to heal and the space to lead, isn’t indulgence but the foundation of a loving, resilient community—and nation.
The questions that haunted me for years about the state of the most vulnerable communities of color galvanized me into action. For over 25 years, I’ve hosted sister circles and women’s gatherings, from bonfires to dinner parties to celebrate solidarity and healing. It is one person making her best attempt at change. More is needed.
Systemic change and direct investment that honors the labor of women of color is urgently needed—not just in cities and urban areas but everywhere disinvestment thrives. Philanthropists, advocates, and policymakers need to fund programs and initiatives that center wellbeing and leadership.
There must be equitable housing, quality schools within all urban neighborhoods, healthcare that heals rather than harms, and economic policies that close the wealth gap.
It is critical to share resources and power so that underserved communities are no longer forced to choose between survival and hope. Supporting the healers among us is not charity. It’s an investment in the resilience and future of the entire nation.
Pilar Audain is the Director of Truth, Racial Healing and Transformation Greater Chicago (TRHTGC) and holds a seat on Chicago’s Reparations Task Force. She is a Wellness Coach and founder of the nonprofit organization Wrap Your beYOUty Movement (WYBM) for women and girls.
"Names have meanings and shape our destinies. Research shows that they open doors and get your resume to the right eyes and you to the corner office—or not," writes Professor F. Tazeena Husain.
When our son, Naser, was six years old, he wanted to be called Kevin, a perfectly reasonable Midwestern name. This seems to be a rite of passage with children, to name and rename themselves.
But our son was not to know the agonies we went through to name him, honoring our respective South Asian and South American cultures and balancing the phonetics of multiple languages, and why Kevin was not on our short-list.
Names have meanings and shape our destinies. Research shows that they open doors and get your resume to the right eyes and you to the corner office—or not. Throughout my difficult and very longed-for pregnancy, my husband and I threw names up like confetti, sounding out what landed. We short-listed six names for baby girls and could agree on only one male name, his.
In the shadow of 9/11, it was difficult to come up with a Muslim or Arabic male first name that was also not that of a “bad guy,” whom then-President George W. Bush was warning us about. Later, we realized Americans would associate his name with the late President of Egypt, General Gamal Abdel Nasser, but still safely in the past.
Even perfectly ordinary names from the other side of the world can be exotic in a new place. Yet it seems the only reference people have with such names is via pictures of bearded men and repeated exhortations of "us vs. them," and we didn’t want to set our son up for school-yard bullying.
Even the most common name for boys—Mohammed (or its variants) can signal an alignment with "the bad guys."
During my first trimester in 2002, the citizens of Washington, D.C., as well as suburban Maryland and Virginia, were terrorized by the "Sniper." As I went to work on a crisp fall day, I only missed by minutes, driving by where a sniper shot his third victim, who was mowing a green strip median on Rockville Pike.
The public didn’t know the identity of the shooter until late October. After seven other shootings, the snipers were caught—a young man, Lee Boyd Malvo, and his “mentor,” John Allen Muhammad.
If the snipers were named Kevin, would it have tarnished all the Kevins in the U.S. or reflect poorly on the communities that they belonged to? Would terrorists like John Wayne Gacy or John Allen Muhammad signal to expectant parents not to name their children John?
There appeared to be no such problems with girl names, or so we thought. Research shows this is not always true–Black sounding girl names, such as Layla, which was on our shortlist, may lead to experiences of bias.
When newborns and their parents interact with each other in South Asia, after asking what is the name, people ask what does it mean? To have a name means to own the attributes of the name.
John means “God is gracious,” derived from the Hebrew Yohannes, and it appears in the Bible as John the Baptist. It is one of the other common names, appearing as Jean, Juan, Giovanni, Ivan, Sean, and in the Quran, as Yahya, a Prophet, re-telling the Biblical story.
Yahya was the 93rd most popular boy’s name in the United Kingdom in 2024, with 583 babies born that year given the name. This statistic was the focus of global media attention, and in Israel, with the claim that a baby being named Yahya signaled admiration of Yahya Sinwar, the leader of the military wing of Hamas.
I have grown up surrounded by many Yahyas in our family and neighborhood. Like you would distinguish between your uncle John and John Wayne Gacy, I would distinguish between my second cousin, Yahya, and Yahya Sinwar.
Following the recent assassination of Charlie Kirk, is the name Tyler now doomed as a result of the alleged shooter’s name, Tyler Robinson?
The U.S. is home to 4.5 million Muslims and 3.7 million Arabs, a great majority of whom are Christian.
The Pew Research Center predicts the number of Muslims in this country “will reach 8.1 million or 2.1% of the total population by 2050.”
Both Muslim and Arab cultures may choose to name their baby boys Yahya.
Our son is now 22 years old. Since his birth, after every major eruption of violence against American interests or a mass shooting, I hold my breath and wish the perpetrator does not share his name.
We chose his name for its meaning and for its ease of being pronounced by our older relatives who speak Urdu or Spanish. Naser means protector, guide, and also victory. Its homophone in Spanish, Nacer, means “be born” or, my favorite, “come into being.” I recently found that Naser in German means a prominent piece of land, derived from the root word of nose or “nase,” or a gourmand, which does fit our son.
Naser’s classmates and friends in the Midwest have struggled with saying his name. I hadn’t accounted for the fact that they would stress the second syllable and not the first or pronounce it closer to “nasal.”
Sometimes, our son has gone by his second name, Pablo (meaning humble), much easier to say, and importantly, more often associated with Picasso (the painter) than Escobar (the drug kingpin). It remains to be the name he tells the Starbucks barista when ordering his morning coffee.
F. Tazeena Husain is a professor at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign and a Public Voices Fellow through The OpEd Project, University of Illinois System.
