Did you miss me? After two weeks in my native Honolulu, I’m back in my Edgewater home. And I’m glad to be back. But after traveling across tribal lands on my way home, it got me thinking about our indigenous friends and the progress they’ve made, or rather erasure of progress.

The history of the 1968 Indian Civil Rights Act shows a pattern that is still happening today. In Washington and in statehouses across the country, decisions about Native nations are still being made without true Native involvement. The idea of sovereignty is often respected in name, but not in practice.

Today, this problem often appears as a failure of “tribal consultation.” The federal government is supposed to talk with tribal governments on a nation-to-nation basis before making decisions that affect tribal land, people, or resources. But too often, this consultation is just a quick check-off on a list. It becomes a meeting to inform tribes about a decision that is already final, not a chance to shape the policy from the beginning.

In recent years, especially under the Second Trump Administration, this problem has become much sharper. Policies that were meant to strengthen tribal self-governance and make it easier for Native people to get federal support have been reversed. For instance, the administration revoked a key executive order aimed at promoting tribal sovereignty and self-governance. The statement given for this reversal focused on ending what were called “wasteful regulations” and prioritizing “American citizens,” a way of speaking that treats tribal nations as less important than other governments.

One of the most clear examples of exclusion involves land and the environment. Many significant projects are pushed forward, such as those related to fossil fuel development or the reduction of protected public lands, often over the strong objections of Native communities.

We saw this approach during the first Trump Administration, which rapidly sped up projects like the Dakota Access and Keystone XL pipelines, largely ignoring the opposition from the tribes whose ancestral lands and water resources would be affected. That pattern of prioritizing energy extraction over Indigenous cultural heritage and environmental concerns continues to be a fear for tribal leaders today. The attempt to weaken key environmental laws during that time was seen by many as an attack on the ability of Native nations to have a voice in the future of the places they call home.

Another way Native voices are marginalized is through changes in the federal agencies themselves. Key leadership positions in the departments that deal directly with Indian Country, like the Department of the Interior, were often left empty or filled by people who were not closely connected to tribal issues. Formal events meant to bring tribal leaders and the President together, such as the annual White House Tribal Nations Conference, stopped completely in the previous administration.

This shrinking of the table—by removing high-level staff, cutting programs, or just failing to hold regular government-to-government meetings—sends a clear message: your input is not central to our plans. Even when new policies are proposed, like changes to Native education programs, the consultation periods given to tribes can be rushed, making it almost impossible for Native governments to properly review and respond.

Just like in 1968, when the law focused on restricting tribal governments instead of stopping discrimination against Native people, today’s policies often miss the real needs of communities. When Washington acts unilaterally, it shows a deep failure to treat Native nations as co-equal governments.

For me, the struggle for consultation and consent is the same struggle that was ignored when the ICRA was signed. It is about demanding that self-determination—the right to control your own destiny—is truly respected. It is the only safeguard that can stop decisions made about us from being made without us.

King David Kalakaua. Photo: Hawaii State Archives.

The moment is always the same. As the wheels of my Delta jetliner touch ground at Honolulu International Airport, my heart stops a moment. Flying into Honolulu is a sacred act for me, a spiritual experience returning to the land of my birth and personal culture. This physical connection to the aina, the land, is what reminds me, even as I pass the tourist resorts and military bases, of the shadows of empire, and the tragic story of the Kingdom of Hawaii. It is a story that echoes the betrayal of Chief Seattle, whose story I featured yesterday, where a proud, sovereign people were dismissed as uncivilized and unfit to govern themselves.

The Kingdom of Hawaii in the 19th century was no fledgling tribal council. It was a recognized nation with its own constitution, postal service, currency, and treaties with major world powers. For decades, the Hawaiian monarchs like King Kalakaua had worked to modernize the islands while navigating the treacherous waters of global politics. They balanced tradition with progress, committed to preserving their sovereignty.

But in the middle of the Pacific, this small kingdom represented an irresistible prize. For American sugar planters and ambitious businessmen, Hawaii was not a home or a sovereign state; it was merely a strategic military refueling stop and, more importantly, a sugar plantation. These foreign interests, driven by economic greed and a pervasive sense of white supremacy, grew impatient with the slow, diplomatic pace of the monarchy. They dismissed the native government, convinced in their colonial fervor that an uncivilized brown people could not truly govern themselves.

The turning point was 1887. The target was King David Kalakaua, often called the Merrie Monarch for his love of the arts and culture. A faction of armed, anti-monarchist businessmen, known as the Hawaiian League and the Honolulu Rifles, surrounded the palace and the King’s grounds, issuing their demands under duress.

The result of this armed intimidation was a document now infamously known as the Bayonet Constitution.

Imagine the trauma: the King of a sovereign nation, revered by his people, forced at gunpoint to sign away his authority. The Bayonet Constitution did more than just strip Kalakaua of his personal power; it dramatically reduced the rights of the native Hawaiian population through property and income qualifications for voting, effectively consolidating political power in the hands of the wealthy, foreign-descended businessmen who orchestrated the coup.

It was a betrayal built on an illusion of shared governance, much like Chief Seattle’s treaty. King Kalakaua believed he was signing a compromise to prevent bloodshed; he was actually signing the death warrant for his kingdom’s independent future. This act of violence and deceit laid the foundation for the eventual overthrow of his sister, Queen Liliuokalani, just six years later.

The tragedy of the Bayonet Constitution is a chilling illustration of how empire operates: not always through massive armies, but through economic pressure, calculated deception, and the chilling threat of force against a vulnerable people. It is the moment the Hawaiian Kingdom stopped being a nation and became a property.

Today, as I feel the sacred vibration of the land beneath the jet’s tires, I am reminded that this history is not past. The struggle for self-determination and recognition continues. The story of King Kalakaua, who was forced to choose between the immediate lives of his people and the slow, agonizing surrender of his crown, serves as a powerful testament to the enduring, depressing shadow of colonialism, a pattern that, in various forms, is tragically alive today.

If you’re looking for more information about this tragic history, I recommend an episode of the PBS documentary series American Experience entitled Hawaii’s Last Queen.

I’m spending my Tuesday in Seattle before getting on a Delta flight to visit my parents. Each time I fly over the vibrant city, with its coffee shops and skyscrapers, I am reminded, as someone who writes and podcasts about the shadows of empire, of the sad story of Chief Seattle.

His story is a profound betrayal that echoes the entire devastating history of American colonialism, a story of a man who extended his hand in friendship, only to have it slapped away, and his home taken.

The year is the mid-1800s. The place is Puget Sound. When American settlers began streaming into this pristine territory, they didn’t meet fierce, immediate resistance from everyone. They met Chief Seattle.

Seattle, or Si’ahl, was a towering, charismatic leader, a diplomat who commanded respect both among his own Duwamish and Suquamish peoples and the newcomers. He was a pragmatist. He saw the tide of colonization coming, and he made a deliberate, heartbreaking choice: coexistence.

He befriended David Swinson Maynard, a doctor and businessman. He helped the struggling settlers. He believed that cooperation, dialogue, and a shared future were the only way to preserve his community in the face of overwhelming change.

Imagine the scene: two cultures, standing on the edge of the continent, looking out at the vast wilderness. One sees the land as life itself, something to be shared, honored, and respected. The other sees a resource, a commodity to be surveyed, owned, and exploited. Chief Seattle tried to bridge that chasm with goodwill and trust.

That trust, of course, was his undoing. The great turning point came in 1855 with the signing of the Treaty of Point Elliott. Chief Seattle and other tribal leaders were convinced, coerced, and maneuvered into ceding a staggering amount of territory, an estimated 2.5 million acres of ancestral lands.

In the settlers’ minds, this was a transaction, a fair exchange of land for promises of reservations, goods, and protection. For Chief Seattle, it was an unimaginable loss, a tearing away of the soul of his people. He had cooperated, he had ceded what felt inevitable, believing that the future generations would at least have a protected place. He thought his friendship had earned a place for his people at the new table.

He was wrong.

The city that grew on that taken land, the city that thrives today, chose to immortalize his name: Seattle. But here lies the most brutal, crushing irony of colonialism. While the settlers were happy to use his name for their burgeoning metropolis, they were unwilling to share the space.

In the ensuing years, discriminatory laws and ordinances, backed by colonial power and racial prejudice, systematically banned Native Americans from living within the very limits of the city named in honor of their greatest leader. The very people who had lived there for millennia, whose chief’s name graced the maps, were forbidden entry.

Think of the psychological devastation. A man who sacrificed for peace, who bet on friendship, was rewarded with expulsion. The story of Chief Seattle is not just a historical footnote; it is a profound lesson in the depressing nature of colonial power: a system that honors the idea of the noble savage while systematically erasing the actual indigenous person. He sought a compromise that was impossible, because the colonial mindset is built on the premise of total dominance, not shared space. His friendship wasn’t seen as a partnership; it was seen as an opportunity.

And this tragic pattern is not relegated to the history books. We see echoes of this betrayal today in new forms of corporate land grabs, in indigenous communities fighting pipeline construction across their sacred lands, or in environmental justice movements where the land is poisoned and the original stewards are displaced. We see it in housing crises, where communities are pushed out of neighborhoods that are then rebranded and named for historical figures they share no connection with.

The story of Chief Seattle is a timeless warning: when you negotiate with a power that does not recognize your fundamental human and territorial rights, goodwill is not enough. You can be the kindest, most accommodating leader, but if the system is built on exploitation, your good intentions will only pave the road for your own people’s suffering.

Chief Seattle’s name lives on. Let the tragic irony of his story remind us that true reconciliation demands more than naming a city. It demands justice for the land and for the people who were betrayed on its soil.

Chief Seattle. Photo: Library of Congress via Wikimedia Commons.

Today everything stopped when the sandhill cranes arrived. Not on a nature preserve, not out in the suburbs, but right along the downtown Chicago lakefront.

Can you believe that?

Against the backdrop of our towering skyline, these ancient, graceful birds descended for their brief layover, pausing on their long, southbound journey ahead of the full moon. It felt like a scene ripped right out of a dream, or maybe a celestial instruction manual.

For so long, these cranes have been seen by Indigenous Americans as spiritual messengers, symbols of longevity and profound transformation. In some traditions, they represent leadership and the gift of powerful, skilled speaking.

And here I am, packing up for my own long distance flight for 10 days, heading westward over four thousand miles back to my native island of Oahu.

I’m standing right in the middle of one of the most significant turning points I’ve ever known, a true life overhaul. So, when I saw them, that sudden, rare appearance in our city, I could only interpret it as a great blessing.

It felt like the universe knew exactly what I needed to see, exactly when I needed to see it. It was the physical manifestation of the sign I think I’ve been waiting for all this time, a resounding “Yes, you know what, you’re on the right path. Take a deep breath. The universe has you.”

That need for a sign, that call for a breath, it doesn’t just come from my own personal uncertainty. It’s an anxiety we’ve all been breathing in here in Chicago for months now, because this incredible, resilient place has been under a heavy kind of pressure.

We’ve watched major companies announce layoffs affecting thousands of workers, creating a ripple of financial insecurity that stretches across neighborhoods and families.

Then you have the terrifying, brazen constitutional issues, like ICE and CBP occupying our streets, conducting sweeps and detaining individuals, including reports of US citizens being held. That’s a profound violation of safety and trust, shaking the core of what it means to be free here.

And if that weren’t enough, essential lifelines like SNAP benefits have been halted or drastically cut, forcing people who were already struggling into a crisis, relying more and more on community driven mutual aid groups just to put food on the table.

Every time you turn on the news, whether it’s on the TV or that little glowing rectangle in your hand, there’s another headline that just piles onto that collective weight, where the anxiety is not just a low hum, but a constant, insistent static that clogs the airwaves.

So, for me, this isn’t just a personal spiritual moment, this sighting of the sandhill cranes, with the light catching their wings against this troubled cityscape, is a powerful, collective message of endurance and renewal.

As an ordained kahu, albeit a Presbyterian one, this is not just coincidence, this is that God sent breath, that Ha, the divine breath of life, not just clearing my own vision, but maybe, just maybe, offering a moment of collective grace to this weary city.

It’s a reminder that even when the mist is dark and the ground feels uncertain, the long journey continues, and the capacity for soaring transformation remains.

I feel like I’ve been given permission, not just to go, but to soar, trusting that the path, for me and for the spirit of this city, is fundamentally sound.

It drives me crazy to hear the same tired arguments wheeled out every time we talk about social safety nets. You hear it constantly: people claiming there are too many SNAP beneficiaries, that they’re all lazy, and that they just need to get jobs to support themselves. It’s a simplistic view that ignores the reality of who actually relies on this crucial program.

The most vulnerable group, the one that loses the most when SNAP benefits are frozen, are the children, the elderly, and the disabled. These are the people who rely most heavily on the program for their daily nutrition. Nearly 80% of all SNAP households include at least one of these individuals, highlighting the program’s role as a fundamental safety net for those who are least able to support themselves.

Think about the sheer numbers of participants in these vulnerable categories. Approximately 39% of all SNAP participants are children under the age of 18, who rely on those benefits for their essential nutritional needs during their crucial developmental years. Another 20% are people over the age of 60, often subsisting on fixed incomes. These older adults do not have the flexibility to easily absorb the loss of their food budget, as many also rely on other vital but meager government support like Social Security or Supplemental Security Income (SSI). The ranks of recipients also include non-elderly adults with disabilities, for whom the loss of SNAP can be devastating to both their nutrition and their long-term health. For all these groups, SNAP is not an extra resource; it is, for many, the bedrock of their ability to eat. The sudden halt of funds forces them to make impossible and immediate choices, like choosing between paying the electricity bill and buying groceries for their family.

It’s also essential to directly address the widely circulated notion that SNAP recipients are simply lazy or unwilling to work. The official government data contradicts this claim by showing a much different reality. Once you exclude the children, the elderly, and the disabled—who, again, constitute the vast majority of all participants—you find that a huge number of working-age adults who remain are either already working or actively seeking employment. For example, nearly one-third of all SNAP households report having earned income from a job.

For SNAP households that include children, the rate of employment is even higher, with well over half (about 50% to 55%) having at least one working parent. These individuals are not sitting idle; they are low-wage workers—people employed in essential roles like grocery store clerks, fast-food employees, or daycare workers. Their full-time or nearly full-time paychecks are simply not enough to cover the rising costs of housing, transportation, and still afford to put food on the table for their families. SNAP therefore functions as a critical wage supplement for millions of the working poor. Losing these essential benefits does not incentivize them to work harder; rather, it rapidly pushes their working families straight into a food crisis.

Finally, the negative impact of a SNAP freeze is felt disproportionately across racial and ethnic lines. Studies consistently show that the halt of benefits most severely hurts Black and African American communities. While Black Americans make up about 14% of the overall U.S. population, they account for roughly 26% of the total SNAP participants. This significant overrepresentation means that the immediate pain and economic disruption caused by a SNAP freeze is felt more acutely and broadly within these communities than in others. Ultimately, when political gridlock prevents the release of contingency funds and this crucial social safety net vanishes, the people who suffer the most are those who are already at the very bottom of the economic ladder: working families with children, older adults, people with disabilities, and low-income workers of color. They are the ones who are forced to bear the immediate, severe consequences of a government funding lapse.

The statistics cited—including the participation rates of children (39%), older adults (20%), households with earned income (nearly one-third), and the racial breakdown of Black participants (26%)—are compiled from official data published by the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA). Specifically, these numbers come from annual reports produced by the USDA’s Food and Nutrition Service (FNS) and Economic Research Service (ERS) detailing the characteristics of Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program households, as well as analyses from non-partisan organizations like the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities (CBPP) and the Government Accountability Office (GAO).

Today, I wanted to talk about some unsung heroes working at food pantries, some makeshift pantries in particular, across the country.

The recent halt of Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) benefits, driven by political disputes over contingency funds during a government shutdown, has thrust the phrase “mutual aid” into the public spotlight.

For many, this concept of community support is entirely new. Yet, mutual aid groups have deep historical roots, often stepping in when the established structures—be they governmental or capitalistic—fail to meet the basic human needs for food, health, and financial stability. Groups like the Edgewater Mutual Aid Network (EMAN), founded during the tumultuous COVID-19 pandemic, exemplify this movement, organized primarily by younger generations seeking to build more resilient, equitable systems of care.

At its core, mutual aid is an ancient human principle that cooperation is necessary for survival. It is fundamentally built on the idea of solidarity, not charity. It’s about people working together to meet the needs of everyone in their community.

Organizations operating under this model function locally, relying on the direct participation of community members to share what they have—whether it’s food, money, skills, or time—with the expectation that they, too, will be supported when they need it. The underlying objective is the collective well-being of the community, ensuring that everyone’s basic needs are met without conditions.

The crucial difference between mutual aid and traditional charity lies in the power dynamic and the ultimate goals of the assistance.

Charity operates in a top-down manner, where resources flow from those who possess more—the wealthy, large institutions, or formal nonprofits—to those who possess less. This unidirectional flow can create a relationship of dependency.

The givers, or donors, often retain the power, dictating the terms of assistance, sometimes requiring extensive paperwork, setting conditions, or deciding who is “worthy” of receiving help.

While charity provides vital short-term relief, it often addresses only the symptoms of poverty and insecurity without challenging the foundational societal systems that created the need in the first place.

Mutual aid, in sharp contrast, is horizontal and reciprocal. It is defined as an exchange between peers where every participant is viewed as both a potential giver and a potential receiver.

The focus is not simply on alleviating immediate suffering but on transforming the conditions that cause systemic inequity.

Groups often embrace non-hierarchical or democratic structures where decisions about resources and operations are made collectively by the people involved—those both giving and receiving support. This shared governance gives everyone a voice and direct control over the shared resources.

For organizers, especially those from the Millennial and Gen Z generations, mutual aid is a form of direct action and political participation. It provides an immediate, tangible way to challenge what they view as the failures of a system that prioritizes profit over human needs.

By establishing networks of decentralized, non-bureaucratic community care, mutual aid groups create localized safety nets. These systems are designed to sustain people when official government programs, such as SNAP, are weakened, jeopardized, or shut down entirely, ensuring that the community remains resilient even when the broader institutional framework collapses.

Check out Chicago Food Sovereignty Coalition and the Love Fridge Chicago.

If you’ve ever looked at European politics and noticed how many parties have the word Christian in their names, you might wonder what’s going on. There are Christian Democrats, Christian Socialists, Christian People’s Parties, and more. It sounds like the churches decided to start their own political leagues. But really, it has more to do with history, values, and how faith shaped Europe after some of its darkest times.

After World War II, Europe was in ruins. Fascism had collapsed, communism was spreading, and people were desperate for a moral rebuilding. They wanted democracy, but they also wanted it to stand for something. Out of that moment came Christian Democracy. It was not about creating a religious state. It was about grounding democracy in moral values that came from Christian teaching: human dignity, family, community, and care for the poor.

The roots went back even further. In the late 1800s, both Catholic and Protestant thinkers were asking how faith could respond to the growing gap between rich and poor during the Industrial Revolution. They wanted to find a path between heartless capitalism and violent socialism. Papal writings like Rerum Novarum and Quadragesimo Anno called for fair wages, the right to organize, and the moral duty of employers. Protestant reformers were saying similar things about responsibility, stewardship, and fairness.

After the war, those ideas turned into political movements. In Germany, Italy, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, and Austria, new parties were formed to rebuild their countries with a moral foundation. They supported democracy, welfare programs, and cooperation between workers and business owners. The best known are the Christian Democratic Union in Germany and Democrazia Cristiana in Italy. These parties believed that democracy needed a moral compass and that freedom must be linked to community.

Each country shaped its version differently. In Germany, the CDU brought Catholics and Protestants together. In Italy, the DC was closely tied to the Catholic Church. In the Netherlands and Belgium, separate Catholic and Protestant parties later merged into broader Christian Democratic ones. By the 1970s, they joined forces across the continent to form the European People’s Party, which became the largest center-right group in the European Parliament.

Today, most Christian Democratic parties are less religious in tone. They still carry that heritage of social concern and moral stability. When Europeans vote for them, they are often voting for moderation, continuity, and a belief that society should still reflect some of its spiritual roots.

On the other side of the political spectrum, there is another family of movements known as Christian Socialists. They share the same starting point in faith, but they read the message of Jesus through a different lens. Christian Socialists see the Gospel as a call to justice and equality. They remember Jesus standing with the poor and challenging the rich. They look to the early church in the Book of Acts, where believers shared everything in common, as a model for society.

In the 1800s, people like F. D. Maurice and Charles Kingsley in Britain created the first Christian Socialist Movement. Across Europe, priests, ministers, and laypeople organized cooperatives and pushed for workers’ rights. They believed socialism could be an expression of Christian love and not an enemy of faith.

The difference between Christian Democrats and Christian Socialists is simple. Christian Democrats wanted to fix capitalism and make it more humane. Christian Socialists wanted to change it altogether. One side focused on balance and harmony. The other focused on justice and transformation.

During the 1900s, Christian Socialism inspired worker-priests in France, theologians like Paul Tillich in Germany, and later, in Latin America, the rise of Liberation Theology. These were movements of people who believed God stands with the poor and that faith must act for justice. Many church leaders were nervous about them, afraid they were too close to communism. As socialist parties became more secular, Christian Socialist movements lost influence, but their ideas live on in progressive Christian groups and in parts of the environmental and social justice movements.

So when you see the word “Christian” in a European party name, it does not always mean the party is religious. It is more like a reminder of where that party’s moral roots began. Some grew out of Catholic teaching. Others came from Protestant reform. All share a belief that politics should not be empty of moral vision.

That is the deal with all those Christian parties. They are not trying to prove who is more holy. They are the living reminders of Europe’s long effort to balance faith with democracy, justice with freedom, and moral conviction with the realities of modern life.

Texas Christian University, a private school, is closing its departments for Women and Gender Studies and Comparative Race and Ethnic Studies. They are combining these programs into the English department. While the school said it was due to low enrollment, this decision is happening as a clear political effort to shut down Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs across the country.

This is more than just a change in departments. It shows a huge step backward in how we approach ideas. You know, just this Monday, I was having lunch with John Dallas, founder and CEO of Enclave Academy, a not-for-profit focused on strengthening essential thinking skills for leaders. We were discussing this exact moment: the trending degradation of deep curiosity and inquiry—that intellectual fire that was the hallmark of American-brand enlightenment our Founding Fathers and Mothers used as the brick and mortar to build our country. When we start shutting down avenues of challenging thought, we lose the capacity for the kind of complex analysis leaders desperately need.

That’s why the political pressure is so concerning. State governments, and the atmosphere they create, are now using threats to funding to force public schools and even private ones like TCU to get rid of programs that focus on marginalized groups.

The systemic attack on critical inquiry

Let’s look at the scope. Since 2023, nearly two dozen states have seen anti-DEI legislation enacted into law. These laws do not just ask schools to be “neutral,” they are specifically designed to eliminate DEI offices, ban mandatory diversity training, and prohibit diversity statements in hiring. The main tool used is the budget. By threatening to pull essential state funding from major public universities, politicians ensure schools follow the new rules. Texas, for example, has been a leader in this political push.

The resulting effect is a powerful pressure that reaches beyond public campus gates and into places like TCU. When state leaders actively criticize curriculum and call programs “radical,” it creates a real problem for administrators. They feel they must act to protect their schools’ reputations and their ability to operate in that state. What follows is not an honest academic decision, but a forced step backward for learning.

The retreat from rigor

When you cut a Women’s Studies department or a Race Studies department, you are severing a pipeline of specialized knowledge. These fields, often wrongly dismissed as unnecessary, are key to understanding modern society, public policy, and global history. They train the legal experts, urban planners, public health researchers, and business leaders who need to analyze inequality, bias, and power structures.

The costs are immediate and serious. First, we face a “brain drain” and self-censorship. Research shows that faculty, especially LGBTQ scholars and scholars of color, are already considering moving from states with these bans. Furthermore, many academics are afraid to teach certain topics or are decreasing class discussions for fear of backlash.

You cannot maintain intellectual strength by pushing away your most diverse thinkers or forcing them to dilute their teaching.

Second, we lose crucial research. The academic studies that come out of these departments inform public policy on health disparities, income inequality, and corporate culture. By shutting down these specialized research centers, we hurt our ability to address the real-world problems facing a rapidly diversifying nation.

Third, we hurt the talent pipeline. DEI offices and centers are essential for student retention. They provide the support and sense of belonging that help underrepresented students, including students of color, veterans, and first-generation scholars, succeed and graduate. When those support systems vanish, these students are less likely to thrive, which limits the entire nation’s talent pool.

The long-term national setback

If the goal is truly intellectual and economic strength, dismantling DEI is a catastrophic error.

Diversity in thought and experience is an economic and intellectual advantage, not a liability. Historically, the convergence in wages and jobs for marginalized groups, driven largely by educational access, accounted for a massive 41.5% of the nation’s growth in GDP per capita between 1960 and 2010.

By limiting access to critical frameworks that address systemic issues, and by creating environments where diverse scholars and students are unwelcome, we are consciously choosing to limit our future innovation, creativity, and problem-solving capacity. We are trading long-term national strength for short-term political victory.

The ultimate price of these policies will be paid not in budget cuts today, but in the intellectual stagnation of the next fifty years.

The story of the 1936 penny auction in Michigan is not just history. It is a powerful blueprint for community resistance that resonates deeply with the struggles we face right here, right now, in Edgewater and across Chicago.

The Great Depression farmers resisted economic disparity. The banks held the power, threatening to strip families of their land and their very survival. The farmers’ response was one of radical, organized solidarity. They used collective action to disrupt the system that was destroying them.

Today, growing economic disparities feel just as oppressive. Housing costs soar while wages stagnate. The threat of displacement and economic devastation is carried not by the bank’s foreclosure sign, but by increasing rents, predatory lending, and systemic policies that privilege the wealthy.

In Chicago, we have organizations that embody the spirit of the penny auction, directly challenging economic power and building a safety net. The Edgewater Mutual Aid Network (EMAN), for instance, focuses on solidarity, not charity. EMAN works directly out of Edgewater Presbyterian Church, operating a free food distribution and a free store.

Their services keep growing as the need grows, directly addressing immediate necessities and building community power from the ground up. This collective care is a direct act of resistance against an economic system that fails to provide basic necessities.

This same spirit of organized, localized resistance is vital to our struggles against the occupation of our city. Here in Chicago, we have seen firsthand the deployment of federal agencies like ICE, CBP, and Homeland Security in our neighborhoods. These actions are often perceived by residents as an unwarranted militarization of our streets, targeting vulnerable communities and creating a climate of fear. The most disturbing incidents show how easily a community gathering can become a flashpoint for excessive force.

Federal agents have deployed tear gas against community members, including a shocking report of this happening near a children’s Halloween parade in a residential neighborhood. Picture that: an afternoon of costumes and candy disrupted by chemical weapons used without clear warning against innocent bystanders. This kind of heavy-handed policing, often without proper oversight or local consent, is viewed as an attack on the community’s right to safely exist in their own space.

Just as the 1936 farmers organized to protect their neighbors from an exploitative economic system, Chicago residents are actively organizing to resist this occupation. We have major players leading this fight. ONE Northside uses grassroots organizing to secure affordable housing and advocate for police accountability. Asian Americans Advancing Justice Chicago (Advancing Justice | Chicago) builds power through collective advocacy to achieve racial equity. They focus on immigrant justice, and have loudly condemned the escalated immigration enforcement and the deployment of federal agents. They empower their community through leadership development, legal advocacy, and multiracial coalition building to challenge systemic injustice.

The ultimate form of modern solidarity is direct action and support. If you’re listening from Edgewater or anywhere in Chicago, you can be part of this defiance. You can directly combat economic disparity by helping to ensure our neighbors are fed. Please consider donating to the Edgewater Mutual Aid Network or to local neighborhood food pantries like Care For Real. These funds and resources are critical for maintaining the community safety nets that are stressed by economic inequality.

You can also take direct action to protect our immigrant community from federal agents. Organizations like ONE Northside and Asian Americans Advancing Justice Chicago frequently offer free trainings on how to be an advocate bystander. These sessions teach you how to safely and legally step in when ICE and CBP agents harass and attempt abductions of our immigrant neighbors. By joining these trainings, you become a modern line of defense, embodying the spirit of the farmers who stood together to protect one another, one defiant act of unity at a time.

They displayed nooses at the penny auctions. A symbol we wouldn’t use today, they were a stark, terrifying sign of solidarity. Today, our solidarity is expressed through a network of phone calls, community meetings, shared legal resources, and the simple act of showing up for a neighbor under threat. It is the belief that a community should have the power to protect its own, whether that threat comes from economic devastation or from a federal agent deploying tear gas near a children’s parade.

The spirit of defiance lives on, adapting its methods, but never losing its focus: survival through unity.

Here at The Edgewater Podcast, I talk a lot about progressive politics and the history of colonization, which is really a history of power and who gets to eat.

Today, I want to talk about how a simple meal in a Chicago school cafeteria is a powerful act of justice and a smart investment in our future. It’s about the connection between feeding our kids and their ability to learn.

When kids go to school hungry, they can’t focus. It’s that simple. Their stomachs are growling, their energy is low, and the teacher’s lesson just sounds like a dull buzz. You can’t learn algebra or the truth about colonization when you’re worried about your next meal.

I know this firsthand. For a time, I was one of those kids. Growing up in Honolulu in the late 1980s into the 1990s, my family relied on free school breakfast and lunch programs. I got those meals in grade school, and they were a lifeline.

I was generally an A student, and I honestly believe a big part of that was because I was fed. That free meal meant my parents didn’t have to stretch their budget until it broke just to put another plate on the table. It meant I wasn’t distracted by hunger in class. It was the government simply saying, “We see you, we value you, and we will make sure you have the fuel to grow and learn.”

When we talk about programs like SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) for families in Chicago, we are talking about a foundation for educational success, because studies show a clear link: when children have access to consistent, healthy food, their test scores improve, their attendance goes up, and they have fewer behavioral issues in the classroom.

When food security rises, educational outcomes follow. But we can do even better than relying solely on individual SNAP benefits that families have to manage, and the most effective, truly progressive policy is providing free meals at school to every child, at no cost up front to their families.

The movement for universal free school meals is gaining ground, proving this is a practical, progressive policy that works across different parts of the country. This isn’t just theory; states like California, Colorado, Maine, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, New Mexico, New York, and Vermont have already implemented this vital policy, showing that the political will to invest in our children’s health and education can overcome the old, colonial idea that some people must be denied basic needs.

Minnesota is a powerful example of this commitment. In 2023, the state enacted the Free School Meals for Kids Act, which made free breakfast and lunch permanent for all K-12 students in participating public and charter schools. This was a direct decision by the state legislature and Gov. Tim Walz, who saw it as an investment in the future of their state’s children.

The way Minnesota made this happen is a perfect example of progressive policy in action. The state decided to fund the program using its general revenue fund, essentially covering the cost of meals for students who do not qualify for federal free or reduced-price meal assistance.

They chose to use their budget surplus to invest in human capital, estimating the initial cost at around $400 million for the first two years, an expense they were willing to bear because the payoff in student success, reduced stigma, and family savings is so much greater.

This policy means that every child in a Minnesota school cafeteria is served the same meal, removing the shame associated with poverty and creating a better, more focused learning environment.

Since the program began, the state has reported serving over 150 million meals in the first year alone, saving families approximately $1,000 per student and proving that a full belly is indeed the first step to a better education.

For Chicago, this is not a radical dream, but a practical, proven policy that other states are already using to fuel their next generation of scholars. We must support and expand these universal school meal programs. It’s an easy win for education, for equity, and for the progressive ideals we champion.

It’s time we made sure that every child in Chicago gets the same chance I got in Honolulu: the chance to learn on a full, focused stomach.