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Mariana
Mariana Barros-Titus

When Washington, DC was established as the capital of the United States by the Residency Act of 1790, the city’s framers aimed to build a beacon of democracy for all the world to see. In its role as the federal city, DC was meant to serve as the national symbol for democracy.

In many ways, their vision for the city to serve as a national manifestation of America’s democratic values has come to fruition; even if not exactly as they originally envisioned. Always, the local history of democracy in the District of Columbia has been a fractured one; its promise deeply warped by the nation’s struggle with systemic exclusion and racism.

In fact, if democracy is, at its core, about representation and voting rights, then today’s residents of the District continue to have woefully limited access to full democratic standing. Furthermore, one’s positionality dictates the degree to which individual Washingtonians experience the impacts of the lack of full representation. Depending on an individual’s unique identity, including racial and economic factors, access to democracy certainly looks different.

However, democracy is meant to be not just a form of government, but an accessible vehicle across social classes to achieve stability through choice. As detailed in NCRP’s Cracks in Foundation report and other materials, for Black Washingtonians, the experience of democracy and choice has historically been complicated and often interrupted.

TROUBLING EXCLUSION RIGHT FROM THE START

From the beginning of colonial contact with the native tribes that used to call this area their home, land and land ownership have been used to shape the development of the metropolitan city we know today. Its roots are firmly embedded into—and fueled by—the exploitation of cheap labor and resources.

The 17th century land grabs yielded tobacco exportation, which solidified the area’s early economic powerhouses. Local production of tobacco was very successful in the 18th century. However, it was a labor-intensive crop that also depleted the land’s nutrients.

Black and enslaved labor was used to create the high yields of the early tobacco industry, but by the turn of the 19th century, the crops yielded were fewer and fewer. This forced plantation enterprises to adopt new economic models away from crop production and toward extracting value from the exploitation of their enslaved labor. The economic dynamics of Washington’s early years, which baked enslavement and inequality into their foundations, created social and political systems in the area and the legacies of inequities that we are grappling with today.

BLACK PLACE-MAKING IN WASHINGTON

Prior to the turn of the 20th century, the federal city of Washington was limited to the original L’Enfant plan (L’Enfant-Ellicott Plan). Most of the land that had been donated to the federal government by the state of Maryland remained rural farmland into the late 1800s. This created rural enclaves of freedmen and women who were living in what was known as Washington County, often around the former sites of Civil War era forts.

 

Picture of Black children playing outside Washington, D.C.'s Barry Farms Housing Development in 1944.
Photo of Black children playing outside Washington, D.C.’s Barry Farms Housing Development in 1944

This was the case of the Pointer/Harris and Dorsey/Shorter families who lived on Broad Branch Road NW, in what is current-day Chevy Chase DC. Their ancestors, just a few generations back, had been born into enslavement and achieved their freedom through manumission prior to the Emancipation Proclamation.

The Black Broad Branch community [then known as Dry Meadows] preceded the establishment of the Chevy Chase Company by nearly 50 years. They began to form as an African American enclave that thrived on community support, entrepreneurship, and the relative freedom of living outside of the city’s imposition of the racial codes that dictated Black life in Washington.

In the build-up to the Civil War and in the years immediately following it, Washington’s population and federal presence saw a rapid spike. The friction between the economic interests behind the system of enslavement and the sovereignty of American democratic ideals came to a boil and brought people to Washington for different reasons.

In the 19th century, the population in Washington County grew quickly as formerly enslaved people sought freedom. For Black men, joining the military offered them an opportunity to gain the rights of citizenship. For those who did not have access to the military route, including many Black women, freedom petitions and the purchasing of one’s freedom became ways to achieve manumission. Whichever way it was achieved, relative freedom was possible for Black residents of Washington, DC before most anywhere else in the country.

Cover of NCRPs report, Cracks in the Foundation: Philanthropy's Role in Reparations for Black People in the DMV
Find Out More About NCRP’s report on Philanthropy and Reparations

For four generations, the Dry Meadows community thrived along Broad Branch Road NW and cultivated the land both for their own nutrition and to sell cash crops. The Dorsey-Shorter family also built an addition to their family farmhouse that housed the neighborhood’s first grocery store. The families also traveled to nearby Georgetown to sell their crops and goods in more densely populated markets.

Beginning in the 1890s, they watched as the neighborhood around them transformed from the rural farmland of Washington County to a developed residential neighborhood similar to what we know Chevy Chase DC to be today. This made their land plots much more appealing to the burgeoning white community that would increasingly find multiple ways to encroach on their lives — and land.

DESIGNED EXCLUSION

Like many other cities in the United States, today’s demographics and economic—and thus, political—distribution of power in Washington, DC have been shaped by the use of the process of eminent domain in the early 20th century. Eminent domain, coupled with racially restrictive covenants, was used to intentionally create segregated neighborhoods well into the 1960s.

In 1929, this practical cocktail was used to forcibly remove the Black Broad Branch families by the National Capital Planning Commission (NCPC). This is the same process that was used in the neighboring Reno City as it was enveloped into Tenleytown. The area surrounding the Dry Meadows community on Broad Branch Road NW became more densely populated and exclusively white. Large plantations in the upper Northwest, including the Belt estate and that of Horace Jones, were subdivided into single family lots that implemented racial covenants in their deeds.

 

As the developers attracted more white residents to their new enclaves, the new residents organized and lobbied through white citizens associations for segregated schools. Congress and the local Commission acquiesced and used the process of eminent domain to raze the lots inhabited by Black families on Broad Branch Road NW and developed Lafayette Elementary School, intended to be a white-only school. The interruption of Black place-making and the decoupling of Black communities from choice and self-sufficiency through racially exclusive political processes was repeated in the nation’s capital time after time throughout the 20th century.

In the Dry Meadows community, the Dorsey/Shorters were the last ones to give up their land to the NCPC. Subsequent generations of the Pointer/Harrises (who by then also had the surname Moten) ended up spread out across the rest of the city. Many of them, like the Scott family from the community displaced to make room for today’s Meridian Hill Park (also known as Malcolm X Park), were impacted by eminent domain yet again in future generations.

MAKING THE UNSEEN VISIBLE AGAIN

Current-day descendants from the Pointer/Harris and Dorsey/Shorter lineages have been traced down and interviewed by the Black Broad Branch Project, a public history project. The project collected 16 oral histories from 8 descendant-narrators and used those as a means to document the generational implications of being forcibly dislocated from their land, along with asking the descendants to define what redress would look like for them. Their definitions of redress were then used to create a strategic plan for reparations. Oral history, as a methodology and as a philosophy, can be a powerful tool to engage narratives and experiences of historically under-represented communities.

Written documents cannot capture the totality of someone’s experience. They are often limited in capturing the full details and nuances of quotidian life. In addition, documenting daily life in written form may not be part of a communities’ cultural traditions. As such, orality as a method of capturing life histories and experiences, allows for the democratization of cultural narrative-shaping. The oral history process allows such histories and perspectives to be included in repositories, where cultural institutions shape historical narratives. Such historical narratives deeply impact how individual people in Washington, DC navigate their spaces.

In the case of Black Broad Branch, oral histories allowed for descendants to illustrate the material and spiritual/intangible impacts that forced dislocation left in its wake. Their oral histories were used to capture generational outcomes that many Washingtonians have suffered from as a result of patterns  of land dispossession and the weaponization of policy and private equity partnerships in the 20th century.

BETTER UNDERSTANDING OUR SHARED HISTORY

The generational arc captured by projects like the Black Broad Branch Project, offers a case study in reflecting how wealth creation and land dispossession have shaped the conditions that predominantly Black communities in Washington navigate today.

The interruption of Black placemaking (and choice) is at the crux of how Washington, DC came to be the city we know today. Racialized social norms informed racially exclusive political policies that then created harmful material and economic dynamics in the lives of Black Washingtonians.

Understanding these processes and being transparent about the systems that have resulted from their legacies, is a necessary first step to uproot the inequities that the city is grappling with in the present. It also serves as a microcosm for exploring how the nation as a whole has come to be in the present.

If a shared goal for us is to create a more equitable future, what would it look like for this history to be shared widely and honestly? The end goal should not simply be to cast culpability on victors and declare victims, but rather to understand that regardless of lineage and ancestry, all of us have inherited this shared history. Grappling with it is our shared responsibility.

Mariana Barros-Titus is the Co-founder of Black Broad Branch Project.  She is a seasoned community organizer and public historian working at the intersection of public history and advocacy. 

Editor’s Note: This post is co-published as part of the #DisruptPhilanthropyNow campaign, being organized by The Within Our Lifetime (WOL) Network. Racial justice leaders and movement organizers are encouraged to submit their stories about racially inequitable practices in philanthropy and/or their ideas  on how to transform how resources are distributed here.

In April 2018 NCRP joined a new campaign to rally movement leaders to hold funders accountable who espouse racial equity values but whose actions harm communities, especially Black, Indigenous and people of color (BIPOC). The campaign has relaunched this summer and issued a new call for stories of funder hypocrisy:

#DisruptPhilanthropyNOW! is a loving invitation to our colleagues, friends, and comrades in the racial justice movement to say “enough!” We need to speak the truth about the impact of the current grantmaking system. We can no longer protect our own resources by being silent when we know one of our funder’s unjust practices has devastating effects on other organizations or in the communities where we work… We need to stand in solidarity. We must disrupt inequitable practices and radically transform the philanthropic sector, so we collectively end racism within our lifetime.

When the campaign first started, I wrote about #DisruptPhilanthropyNOW! in the context of NCRP’s own efforts to help nonprofits speak truth to power, and I acknowledged that this remained a challenge, because of ongoing fear of reprisals.

Fast forward, and the sector landscape seems very different today. Racial equity was already becoming a more central focus in philanthropic discourse, as evidenced by the popularity of our 2018 Power Moves guide. In 2020, COVID-19 and the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and so many others by police caused upheavals nationally and shook nonprofits and philanthropy. The differential racial impact of the pandemic magnified longstanding health disparities, and the murders starkly amplified the systemic racism of state sanctioned violence. As a result of these twin crises, hundreds of foundations pledged to ease their grant requirements or made funding commitments to benefit Black communities.

While more foundations are talking the talk on racial equity and trust-based philanthropy than three years ago, how many are thoughtfully walking the walk? Evidence suggests for many foundations that made pledges last year, those changes are temporary. According to the Center for Effective Philanthropy, “most foundations do not plan to undertake these new practices in the future to the degree they are doing so now,” and funders have generally not shown an interest in providing more multiyear general support or diversifying their mostly white boards. And a joint report from PolicyLink and Bridgespan found that only $1.5 billion of the $11.9 billion in 2020 racial equity funding pledges can be tracked to recipient organizations.

Are funders more receptive to critique from their grant partners and the communities they serve when racial equity efforts fall short? Many grantmakers have embarked on this journey with openness and humility, inviting feedback and sharing their missteps and lessons learned. Yet too often, funders still take a defensive posture. When NCRP released publicly-available data on funding for the explicit benefit of Black communities among 25 community foundations, at the request of our nonprofit members, the knee-jerk response from many was to critique the numbers, without providing similar grant-level data of their own. Nor did many wish to admit that even with more accurate data, there is still a wide chasm between funding levels for Black communities and what those communities need and deserve to thrive (or even in proportion with their population size).

This type of defensive stance can inhibit dialogue and make some community leaders skittish about speaking. Thankfully,  we are beginning to see some funders responding with humility and openness and even more BIPOC leaders successfully calling funders to account In May 2020, Black artists publicly criticized the Community Foundation for Greater Atlanta for perennially funding almost exclusively white-led arts organizations. After much organizing by local community leaders, the foundation took the critique seriously, met with the arts groups to study the problem, and hosted a town hall. It then changed its eligibility criteria and application process and prioritized Black-led organizations for the next round of grants, in which 85% of arts funding went to Black groups.

Meanwhile, in Washington State, a group of BIPOC executive directors issued a call to action to grantmakers to increase their payout, provide multiyear general support, and invest in BIPOC organizations and their systems-change efforts in response to the pandemic. At least 8 foundations have signed the pledge.

It’s past time for movement leaders and funders to engage in honest conversations. The danger of philanthropic complacency and a return to business as usual is ever present. Even grantmakers with the best intentions and equity commitments will make mistakes and need to hear from their constituents. And if those dialogues don’t go anywhere, then a public accountability action may be the best next step. We’ve seen how it can result in meaningful action.

NCRP didn’t join #DisruptPhilanthropyNOW! just to be a signatory; we are an ally to movements and to our nonprofit members. If justice organizations and other nonprofits want help understanding philanthropy or speaking out about harmful funder practices, please reach out to NCRP and #DisruptPhilanthropyNOW!

We also stand with funders who build, share and wield power with racial justice movements. We encourage these leaders to share their stories of philanthropic hypocrisy to hold up a mirror and promote accountability in the sector.

Lisa Ranghelli is NCRP’s Senior Director for Evaluation and Learning.

Top photo credit: Julian Wan on Unsplash

This week, a jury of Minnesotans found former police officer Derek Chauvin guilty in the murder of George Floyd. We are thankful that some measure of accountability has been delivered to his family, but deep in our hearts, we also know that more must be done to provide the kind of safety, security and justice he and so many others have been denied.  

One guilty verdict doesn’t mean that racism embedded in our society has been purged from the criminal justice system. If it had, George Floyd — and Ma’Khia Bryant, Adam Toledo, Daunte Wright and too many others to name — would still be alive. Fear, power and prejudice continue to fuel deadly state violence.  

The problem is systemic and so too must be the solution. This successful prosecution is one small step in a long journey. It should be painfully obvious that much work lies ahead of us to create a world where the lives of Black Americans are respected and our system holds everyone equal under the law, regardless of their position or power. 

What can and what should philanthropy do? 

4 Actions will make a difference  

1. Make Space for Care: This is a time of great pain, frustration and hurt. It’s also a time to show care for your friend, your colleague, your neighbor — especially from Black and other communities of color — who have been and continue to be triggered and traumatized by systematic dehumanization and racism in all parts of life.  Whether you are waking up to this reality or have long been involved in the struggle for basic civil and human rights, the toll on our collective health, energy and spirit is immense just the same.

2. Fund the Walk: It is a time to do more than empathize with Black, Indigenous, Latinx, Asian American and other communities that have been systematically discriminated, under-resourced and kept at the margins. Solidarity requires action, not just rhetoric. It is time to fund their service organizations, community groups, advocacy organizations and emerging leaders. It is time to put more money to the movements that are on the frontlines of the fight.

3. Commit to Dismantling White Supremacy: We know that to leave this nation better for succeeding generations, we must tackle and dismantle systemic racism and the white supremacy that is baked into the DNA of this country and its institutions of power, including philanthropy. It’s time to take a hard look at who and how we are funding and ask whether we can be doing better.

4. Redefining Safety: It is time to financially support immediate, short-term and long-term efforts that redefine policing beyond the violence-based approach of traditional law enforcement. There are groups doing exciting work on this all over the country, including those in the city of Ithaca and Tompkins County that have developed a proposal that would create a public safety department that would deploy social workers and other experts to de-escalate situations and provide help without the threat of force. It is time to stop tinkering with the world as it is, but rather invest in leaders and efforts that are re-imagining the world as it could be.  

Philanthropy must move quickly so that this verdict is not just a step in the right direction, but the impetus for a strong, sustained push towards justice. No one deserves to live in fear that their every interaction with law enforcement may result in their family becoming the next one to tearfully join the nation in awaiting yet another jury verdict. Now is the time to work together to urgently share and redirect resources that can change – and save – lives. 

Aaron Dorfman is president and CEO of NCRP.

Image of the first page of NCRP abortion access fact sheet, The Cost of COVID.In early 2020, NCRP began exploring philanthropy’s investment in the reproductive justice movement and those providing services on the frontlines.

The reason was simple: Increasingly restrictive state legislation, a more conservative U.S. Supreme Court and an emboldened Trump administration that prioritized attacks on autonomy and access seemed to predict an end to the legal protections that are supposed to keep abortion safe, legal and accessible for all those seeking services.

A new year and a new presidential administration might signal greater cooperation with federal agencies, but it doesn’t eliminate the intense anti-abortion challenges that are still coming from state legislators or in the courts.

Reproductive rights are also inexorably intertwined with economic justice, racial justice, immigrant rights and health equity. As such, it’s a natural extension of our Movement Investment Project focus on how philanthropy can serve as a better ally to frontline social justice movement activists and organizations.

While over the coming year we plan to delve more deeply into the full array of issues encompassed in reproductive justice, the use of the pandemic as a pretense for anti-abortion policies, the funding patterns for this aspect of the movement and the increased pressure on state and local abortion funds made us decide to start our work here.

The reality of the reproductive access funding space

It’s hard to imagine a just and equitable world that doesn’t allow for people to have full control over decisions related to their body. While the sector is clearly committed to abortion advocacy at both state and national levels, there is little data showing foundation funding for the essential work held by abortion funds.

Why is that important? Unlike some other movements, a significant majority of the financial support for abortion access and services comes not through institutional foundations, but through smaller abortion funds that often struggle to keep up with the financial needs of patients.

In fact, less than 3% of the $1.7 billion of philanthropic dollars for reproductive rights issues between 2015 and 2019 was specifically designated to these abortion funds.  Overall, only 21% was explicitly designated for abortion rights and services.[1]

We reached out to abortion funds around the country to better understand how they are providing the practical support callers needed and how a shift in funding would benefit their sustainability and capacity. (We summarized the data and these conversations, with a focus on 5 abortion funds in Southeast, Northeast, Southwest, Midwest and Northwest, in this fact sheet.)

What we heard won’t come to a surprise to many who have sought to access the reproductive rights that the Supreme Court first upheld 48 years ago in Roe v. Wade.

The need to make access real and affordable

There is no need to imagine a world without Roe v. Wade. It has become the de facto reality across the country.

It has come into existence by those who have seized on the restrictions imposed to curb the spread of COVID-19 to further limit access abortion-related services and procedures. Consider that across the nation:

  • 12 states have attempted to shut down abortion clinics by labeling them as “nonessential businesses,” with Texas, Ohio, Arkansas and Iowa restricting or banning abortion altogether during the pandemic.
  • 19 states have banned telemedicine, limiting both the overall number of clinics and states with clinics accessible to out-of-state patients.
  • 33 states require counseling before an abortion procedure, and 25 of these states have waiting periods of at least 24-hours, forcing potential patients to make multiple trips or arrange travel for multiple days at a time.

The restrictions have also limited the work of volunteers and increased overall costs, straining regional networks of volunteers and providers that patients rely on for logistical, economic and social support.

“In the past we have relied on a network of volunteers who could house callers in their home while they were traveling for abortion care as well as provide rides to folks who needed to get to and from their appointments,” says Iris Alatorre of the Northwest Abortion Access Fund. “After COVID-19, relying on our volunteer network for these necessary services was no longer a safe option.”

What should philanthropy do?

Art created by Forward Together staff, Diana Lugo-Martinez, Kara Carmosino and Micah Bazant, to mark the 43rd anniversary of the Hyde Amendment.

Art created by Forward Together staff, Diana Lugo-Martinez, Kara Carmosino and Micah Bazant, to mark the 43rd anniversary of the Hyde Amendment. Used under Creative Commons license.

Money certainly helps, as increased investment in abortion funds would help frontline groups and networks address the continuing uncertainty as the pandemic and anti-abortion legislation leaves abortion advocates under protected and overwhelmed.

It would also allow funds to further accommodate patients through increased partnerships with other organizations to better coordinate both logistical needs like housing and travel as well as mental health needs and services across states to better support those who live in restrictive regions.

The math is not complicated. We know that if abortion funds saw an increase equal to even 1% of all reproductive rights funding, this would mean an additional $9 million in foundation support for the frontlines. However, maximizing the impact of additional dollars would also require a shift in funding practices in the following ways:

Wielding power: Philanthropy must leverage its reputation, financial assets and capacity to destigmatize abortion, empower abortion funds and secure access for those seeking services.  

Unrestricted and multi-year grants: Abortion funds rely on 5 primary funders that make up 74% of their philanthropic support. If they were to lose their top institutional funder, it would compromise half of their philanthropic support, a risk that multi-year, unrestricted grants have the potential to reduce. 

Funding at the state and local level:  At the moment, the top 20 recipients of reproductive rights funding are all national organizations, while a majority of abortion services and practical support are happening at the state and local level. 

Transparency from the sector: Philanthropic transparency is vital in not only building trust with a movement that is rightfully cautious, but to disrupt the harmful practice of anonymously funding such a visible issue.  

Divestment from fad-funding: Short-lived funding inspired by a historic moment or the fear of abortion restrictions is a harmful practice and doesn’t allow abortion funds to build their capacity.  

In many ways, the situation at hand is a vivid reminder that grantmaking reflects an erroneous assumption of reproductive rights as an exclusively white, cis-woman issue centered on the national legal debate is not a framework sufficient to meet the current challenge, much less those that lie ahead.

To equitably serve communities, philanthropy must move beyond the mainstream feminist funding approach that, among other things, privileges legal advocacy over direct support on the ground, negates the links between economic justice and reproductive rights, and often renders invisible the existence of trans and non-binary people as patients needing abortion services and care.

Only a truly inclusive and intersectional reproductive justice funding framework allow us to move us closer to the social change we all wish to see.

Brandi Collins-Calhoun is NCRP’s senior movement engagement associate and leads the organization’s Reproductive Access and Gendered Violence portfolio of work.

Stephanie Peng is NCRP’s senior associate for movement research and was the lead researcher on the organization’s most recent factsheet, The Cost of Covid: How the Pandemic Shifted Abortion and the Funds that Guard Patient Access, Rights and Justice.

1Editor’s Note: Analysis of original figures initially published in January of 2021 concluded a total of 912 million in funding for reproductive rights issues, with 20% going to abortion services and 2% going to abortion funds specifically. However, new data added into the Candid database in late 2021 updated those figures.

This post was originally published on NCRP’s Medium page.

On Jan. 5, my home state of Georgia made history. Georgians chose to send Rev. Raphael Warnock to Washington, making him Georgia’s first Black U.S. senator, the country’s 11th Black senator ever, and the second Black senator from a former Confederate state since Reconstruction. They also chose to elect Jon Ossoff, Georgia’s first Jewish U.S. senator and the body’s youngest sitting member. 

Georgians did what many thought was impossible because grassroots organizers – especially Georgians of color, and most especially Black women – fought tirelessly. They responded to absurd levels of documented voter suppression in 2018 by helping register over 800,000 new voters. And when many of November’s white voters stayed home in January, voters of color showed up. 

On Jan. 6, Georgians’ choice became even more important. Months after the U.S. Department of Homeland Security labeled white supremacist groups as “the most persistent and lethal threat” to the country, far-right terrorists stormed the U.S. Capitol in a blatant attempt to stop the legal certification of votes for the presidency. In the chaos, 5 people lost their lives. 

The president, the majority of House Republicans and several Republican members of the Senate incited and emboldened the insurrectionists. Congress and their staff were forced to flee.  

And in the wake of a poorly coordinated and at times sympathetic Capitol Police response, we saw once again how law enforcement so often props up white supremacy and far-right extremism.   

Like Georgia, D.C. has long been my home. As I sat awake in my bed barely 2 miles from the attack, hearing sirens late into the night, I felt in my bones what so many Southerners know: This week wasn’t a surprise. This is America. A country of progress and backlash, Reconstruction and Redemption. It’s a history that rhymes, with many more chapters ahead.  

Our NCRP team has family who have lived through armed civil conflict around the globe, and we know that we embrace American exceptionalism at our own peril. After all, America has suffered a far-right coup before.  

White supremacists in Wilmington, N.C., responded to the 1898 election of a progressive inter-racial coalition by overthrowing the local government and massacring at least 60 people. That coup was successful. It became one of many brutal, anti-democratic acts of terror that laid the groundwork for Jim Crow to flourish long past the end of slavery and into the current day. 

That’s why in moments like these – and there will be more in the days and years ahead – I look home for guidance. Whether our history books acknowledge it or not, the beautiful organizing for justice and liberation in Georgia and across the South has always been there, waiting for the rest of us to wake up, to listen and to join the call with our voices, our bodies and our dollars.  

This is all the truer for liberal white men like me, who are tempted to distance ourselves from whiteness as if we’re one of the special ones, rather than recognizing our complicity in the violence. 

The oppression so often pioneered and refined in the South, like the resistance to it, always shapes the nation. In NCRP’s joint As the South Grows initiative with Grantmakers for Southern Progress, we pointed out that Southern activists have long known how to overcome regressive policies and unjust rules of the game, despite receiving just 56 cents per person in foundation funding for every $1 invested elsewhere.  

So, as we prepare for what comes next, this is a good time to honor the people who have worked for generations to make Georgians’ January choice possible and who will be hard at work long after 2021 ends. Stacey Abrams has a great list to follow.  

Here at NCRP, we want to shout out our own nonprofit members based in Georgia fighting daily for a better future:  

  • Black Voters Matter Capacity Building Institute – Led by long-time NCRP friends LaTosha Brown and Cliff Albright, and headquartered in Atlanta, Black Voters Matter needs little introduction. Black Voters Matter increases the power of marginalized, predominantly Black communities through year-round relational organizing, voter registration, policy advocacy, organizational development, authentic messaging and a deep respect of local infrastructure. Black Voters Matter recognizes that Black women are the MVP’s of systemic change and invests accordingly.  
  • Blue Institute – For too long, the staff on electoral campaigns have failed to represent the demographics of our communities. The Blue Institute provides trainings, education and advocacy so youth of color across the South can lead and thrive in progressive politics. When campaign staff of color are compensated and trained at the levels they deserve, fights for public office are stronger, wiser and more effective. 
  • Georgia ACT – Georgia Advancing Communities Together works to ensure that all Georgia families have safe, decent housing in strong, vibrant neighborhoods. As a statewide coalition of nonprofit housing and community development organizations, Georgia ACT combines policy, coalition work and civic engagement to fight for fair, affordable housing for all. 
  • Georgia Appleseed – The Georgia Appleseed Center for Law & Justice is deeply dedicated to justice for all of Georgia’s children, especially children of color, children with disabilities and children experiencing poverty. They combine pro bono legal expertise and top-notch research with grassroots engagement, policy advocacy and nonpartisan civic engagement. This Swiss Army knife approach enables progress on everything from equitably funded schools and healthier homes to juvenile justice reform and access to the polls.  
  • Inner-City Muslim Action Network – IMAN Atlanta has its roots in Atlanta’s West End neighborhood, where they’ve organized for years around criminal justice reform, refugee rights, children’s rights, community arts, mental health and holistic wellness, and so much more. IMAN’s relational organizing and advocacy enables them to work alongside marginalized communities in Georgia to upend structural and systemic barriers at the root of injustice. 
  • Southeast Immigrant Rights Network – With roots in Georgia and North Carolina, SEIRN is an incredible network of grassroots, immigrant-led groups across the rural and urban Southeast. SEIRN promotes collaboration, connection, leadership development, political education and collective action throughout the network. They’re a trusted voice and a much-needed resource to build just and inclusive communities in Georgia and across the South.  
  • Welcoming America – Headquartered in Decatur, Welcoming America fosters inclusive, welcoming communities for immigrants and refugees in Georgia and across the country. They’re well known for their trainings and regional plans with city and county governments. They also have a savvy understanding of narrative and communication and work closely with other organizing partners in the pro-immigrant movement. 

We also want to thank a few local and regional funding efforts that have been in it in Georgia for the long haul: 

  • Grantmakers for Southern Progress – Based in Atlanta under the leadership of Tamieka Mosley, GSP is a crucial resource for any Southern or national funder who wants to invest accountably and effectively in Southern-led social justice. NCRP has worked closely with GSP since our joint initiative As the South Grows, and they provide an incomparable wealth of connection and expertise.  
  • Latino Community Fund of Georgia – LCF Georgia is an all-star when it comes to funding, supporting, and advocating for Georgia’s Latino-led and -serving organizations across the state. They raise and move money, build capacity, amplify the collective voice of this powerful network and ensure that the narrative of Georgia’s Latino, Latina and Latinx communities is rich with beauty and complexity. They also co-host , a local funding collaborative for immigrant justice.
  • Mary Reynolds Babcock Foundation – For decades, the Mary Reynolds Babcock Foundation has invested in Southern social justice groups in Georgia and across the South, often providing stable, long-term funding before another funder would. Their shrewd investments are combined with a commitment to bring more foundations to the cause and work alongside marginalized communities to determine their strategies. 
  • Sapelo Foundation – With an abiding belief in a “just Georgia,” the Sapelo Foundation makes grants across the state to protect the environment, build civic power, and create healthy communities. The foundation is also embarking on a mission investing plan to align 100% of its capital with these values. 
  • Southern Partners Fund – Headquartered in Atlanta, SPF provides grants to social justice organizations in Georgia and across the rural South. Their model is all about building power by sharing power: Grant decisions are made with dynamic input from the grantees themselves. They organize year-round, think long-term and respond quickly to crisis.  
  • Southern Power Fund – Created in 2020 by 4 Southern pillar organizations, Project South, Alternate Roots, The Highlander Center and Southerners on New Ground, this fund is moving millions to Black, brown, Indigenous and queer leaders and organizers across the South with brilliant plans for change. The fund is also supported by Grantmakers for Southern Progress and Funders for LGBTQ Issues’ fantastic Out in the South initiative. 

Last but not least, the rest of the South deserves love too. We owe a debt of gratitude to our amazing nonprofit members throughout the South:  

This year will offer us many more choices. Will we honor what’s been sacrificed with words, but move slowly in our actions? Or will we choose that just, more beautiful future faster? For America’s sake, this displaced Southerner prays for the latter.  

Ben Barge is NCRP’s field director. He, alongside Research Director Ryan Schlegel, Senior Associate for Movement Research Stephanie Peng, voting rights activist LaTosha Brown and staff of Grantmakers for Southern Progress and the Institute for Southern Studies were instrumental the creation of As the South Grows. The 5-part series exploring the fundraising challenges and other obstacles faced by those organizing in the South, can be found here. 

Image by John Ramspott. Used under Creative Commons license.

Or what does it mean to be bold and Black in Charlotte, North Carolina, right now? 

Three years ago, I read a report stating that, out of the tens of billions of dollars in annual philanthropic giving by U.S. foundations, an estimated  2% of funding  from the nation’s largest foundations is specifically directed to Black communities. While I knew funding to Black-led organizations was inequitable, I had no concept of the scale of neglect.

The reports keep coming, and nothing appears to have changed except for the worse. Studies also point to the dearth of national foundations that even fund nonprofit organizations based in the South.

These data sharpened my once-vague understanding of the funding landscape to an acute awakening to the insidious practices of funders that unfairly advantage white-led nonprofits over Black ones, a matter further compounded in the South.

Then last week, I read the new report by the National Committee for Responsive Philanthropy (NCRP), “Black Funding Denied: Community Foundation Support for Black Communities.”

It disclosed data on philanthropic giving to Black communities by Charlotte’s community foundation, which hosts my collective giving circle’s fund. Of Foundation for the Carolinas’ giving, an estimated average of only 0.5% is allocated to Black communities, in a region where 22% of the population is Black.

For decades, I have witnessed the bias and heard accounts from Black nonprofit founders and leaders about chronic underfunding by philanthropic institutions. It is part of a pattern referred to as “foundation redlining,” borrowing the term about policy and tactics that resulted in segregated housing patterns and a wealth gap that still plague cities, including Charlotte, today.

Probing this issue compelled me and fellow members of New Generation of African American Philanthropists (NGAAP Charlotte) giving circle to organize The Bold Project.

The Bold Project: An NGAAP Charlotte Initiative for Black Organizations Leading Differently provides a framework for our grantmaking, thought leadership and civic engagement with local Black-led nonprofits.

The Bold Project also serves as a communitywide call to action for funders to attend to and repair the funding gap that results from giving preference to white-led nonprofits and effectively abandoning Black communities and sabotaging Black-led nonprofits.

Urgency exists in dismantling old structures and reimagining how to allocate philanthropic dollars in fair and just ways.

Equity audits and new funding measures are required to blunt the negative impact of bias and anti-Black racism, reduce barriers to accessing capital for operations, and address the damage caused by long-running patterns of funding inequity. The data and the times demand boldness.

But, in a region fond of subtlety, confounding euphemisms, and centuries-old face-saving lies over hard truths and candor, what does bold look like?

Illuminated Charlotte skyline. Photo credit: Alvin C Jacobs Jr.

Illuminated Charlotte skyline. Photo credit: Alvin C Jacobs Jr.

Being boldly Black and free

If you are from the South, you already know that behind the smiles and pleasantries — and that famous hospitality — linger deep-seated hostilities. I perceive it as a simmering brew of concentrated privilege and power with heaps of confusion and contradiction, spiked with aged worries and wounds.

Born, bred and schooled in North Carolina, I know the culture well. My family roots, on both sides, are easily traced for 8 or more generations in this state. I probably rank as expert in our quirky pronunciations, idioms, delicacies, pastimes and, too, our civic pathologies.

For years lyrics sung by another native daughter, Nina Simone, about the value of being “young, gifted and Black” resonated deeply. Now a much less young Southern woman, I am pondering: What is it to be bold and Black?

I pose these questions publicly in the hope that as I grapple with this, you also will reflect deeply on these tough questions. Perhaps we can find our respective answers and respond together.

Constant questioning seems fitting since friends can attest my resolution at the top of the year was to be an interrogator — a kind one, yet an interrogator nonetheless. I have found, in Southern culture, asking questions is a form of boldness.

This moment requires sharper understanding of bold, that speaks to our urgency. Let’s go further than a dictionary, where nuanced definitions span from “fearless,” “unafraid” and “daring before danger” to “adventurous” and “free” to “standing out prominently.”

What does bold mean when life, liberty and limb are literally on the line for us and our communities?

Fearlessness rings true, because I have experienced that being Black and bold just might mean winding up black and blue, in every sense. In the fight for justice, boldness and Blackness can bring harsh repercussions: psychological, physical and fiscal.

When I question the high stakes of speaking out and challenging “the establishment,” I draw on examples set by seeming unafraid Black Southerners, like Dorothy Counts, Reginald Hawkins and John Lewis, and I know I must persist.

The connotation that intrigues me most is to be free. Which stirs the question: How can we emancipate ourselves from constraints of the past? That is, how can we be bold in ways that liberate us all right now?

Coronavirus, unconscionable police brutality, protests for racial equality and data on dire funding inequities provide compelling reasons to assert our collective liberties to accelerate justice.

While my perspective is that of a Black Southerner, these questions are perhaps even more pertinent to white Southerners and Charlotte residents with other regional and racial identities.

In his book “Why We Can’t Wait,” Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. observed, “the straitjackets of race prejudice and discrimination do not wear only southern labels.” Yes, the South has its own brand of racialized restraints that we must reckon with and reconcile at this pivotal moment.

Our region is not alone though, as headlines from Minneapolis to Portland to Kenosha confirm. As Malcolm X boldly suggested: We all are Southerners.

This is 21st century America, and I want to be free; however, I know none of us is truly free until all of us are free.

Data in the NCRP report provides new insight on structural blocks in philanthropy. We can clearly see how funders are culpable, as prime contributors to social and economic immobility for Black people as well as brown people — immobility as in locking out whole swaths of the community from vital resources and opportunity, in essence chaining us to undesirable conditions and outcomes.

I venture to call out philanthropy’s inequities for the shame that it is. I dare to question the concentration of wealth, accumulated at the expense of Black and brown people, that then rigs the system to deny us equity and mobility. To progress we must burst the charmed bubble of philanthropy with data and truth.

Drawing from another Southern-born woman, the intrepid Ida B. Wells: “The way to right wrongs is to turn the light of truth upon them.” I urge you to join me in turning on the lights and holding funders accountable, if we may be so bold.

Valaida Fullwood is the award-winning author of “Giving Back: A Tribute to Generations of African American Philanthropists,” creator of The Soul of Philanthropy exhibit, and a founding member of New Generation of African American Philanthropists, a collective giving circle in Charlotte, North Carolina. Her achievements in philanthropy were acknowledged this year by ABFE, which named her its 2020 Trailblazer. Valaida can be reached on LinkedIn and at valaida.com.

 

In light of the national uprising sparked by the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor (and building on other recent tragic movement moments going back to the 2014 murder of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri), NCRP is analyzing grantmaking by community foundations across the country to find out exactly how much they are – or are not – investing in Black communities.

We started by looking at the latest available grantmaking data (2016-2018) of 25 community foundations (CFs) – from Los Angeles to New Orleans to New York City to St. Paul. These foundations represent a cross section of some of the country’s largest community foundations as well as foundations in communities where NCRP has Black-led nonprofit allies. [1]

What did we find?

CONTINUED UNDERINVESTMENT, DESPITE INTENTIONS & DEMOGRAPHICS

Altogether, only 1% of grantmaking from the 25 foundations that we looked at was specifically designated for Black communities, even though a combined 15% of these 25 cities’ populations are Black.

Put another way, these 25 foundations together designated $78 in funding per person in their communities, but only explicitly designated $6 per Black person in their communities.

Updated Numbers & Analysis
This report was originally published in August of 2020. In March 2023, NCRP’s Katherine Ponce examined the lessons learned since then, including looking at the updated numbers.  

Sept. 2020 Editor’s Note
In an effort to further clarify our point and methodology, we have edited several parts of the report to make it clear that we are discussing community foundation grants that were specifically targeted to or explicitly designated for the Black Community.

Click here for more details
Foundation Name
City 
“% of foundation
grants explicitly designated for Black communities (2016-2018) 
Black %  of
City Population 
Baton Rouge Area Foundation 
Baton Rouge, LA 
3.2% 
35% 
Black Belt Community Foundation 
Selma, AL 
9.4% 
58% 
California Community Foundation 
Los Angeles, CA 
0.3% 
8% 
Central Florida Foundation 
Orlando, FL 
0.0% 
16% 
Columbus Foundation 
Columbus, OH
 
1.5% 
16% 
Community Foundation for Mississippi 
Jackson, MS
 
0.0% 
49% 
Community Foundation of Greater Memphis 
Memphis, TN
 
2.1% 
47%
 
Community Foundation of St. Joseph County 
South Bend, IN 
0.0% 
13% 
East Bay Community Foundation 
Oakland, CA 
0.8% 
9% 
Foundation for the Carolinas 
Charlotte, NC 
0.5% 
22%
 
Greater Atlanta Community Foundation 
Atlanta, GA
 
1.7% 
34% 
Greater Birmingham Foundation 
Birmingham, AL 
0.6% 
28% 
Greater Houston Community Foundation 
Houston, TV 
1.6% 
22% 
Greater Kansas City Community Foundation 
Kansas City, MO 
0.4% 
12% 
Greater New Orleans Foundation 
New Orleans, LA 
2.7% 
35% 
Greater Washington Community Foundation 
Washington, DC 
3.3% 
27% 
New York Community Trust 
New York, NY 
4.2% 
15% 
Oregon Community Foundation 
Portland, OR
 
0.6% 
2% 
Seattle Foundation
 
Seattle, WA 
1.0% 
6% 
Silicon Valley Community Foundation 
San Jose, CA
 
0.4% 
6%
 
St. Paul and Minnesota Foundation 
St. Paul, MN 
1.5% 
6%
 
The Chicago Community Trust 
Chicago, IL 
1.7% 
16% 
The Cleveland Foundation 
Cleveland, OH 
1.2% 
19% 
The Community Foundation of Middle Tennessee (TN) 
Nashville, TN 
3.3% 
14% 
Tulsa Community Foundation 
Tulsa, OK 
0.4% 
8% 
 
Find more detailed funding information per community foundation  
on these Tableau and Excel sheets 

These 25 foundations also designated a greater percentage on direct services, but less on structural change, in the general population than they did per Black person. Of the $78 designated per capita on the general population, $52 (66.7%) was designated for direct services and $2.42 on structural change (3.1%). Of the $6 explicitly designated per Black person, $0.51 (8.3%) was designated for structural change and $3.66 (61%) was spent on direct services.

THE EVER-PERSISTENT RESOURCE GAP

The gap between actual community foundation support for Black communities and what we would expect to observe translates into real dollars that are could be used address issues that impact us all. If community foundations explicitly designated investments for Black communities on a per capita basis like they invested in the general population, Black communities in these cities alone would have been the beneficiaries of $2 billion more in grantmaking since 2016.[2]

With the median annual budget (as measured by total expenses reported on forms 990) for organizations in the racial and ethnic minority rights NTEE code category being $445,000, an extra $2 billion could have easily powered hundreds or even thousands of new grassroots Black-led social change organizations, significantly expanding the 501(c)3 and (c)4 ecosystem for the work of Black liberation.

The Black investment rate disparity of these community foundations is, surprisingly, far worse than some other notable measures of inequality. The 25 community foundations that we examined designated grants for non-Black communities at a rate 13 times more than they have explicitly designated for Black communities since 2016. In Q4 of 2019, the median weekly paycheck for white Americans was 1.2 times that for Black Americans.[3] In 2016, median white household wealth was 10 times that of Black households. [4]

Sadly, these conclusions are not new. Our current data snapshot builds on decades of research by the Philanthropic Initiative for Racial Equity (PRE), The Association of Black Foundation Executives (ABFE), Greenlining Institute and others describe philanthropy’s massive under-investment in communities of color and in Black communities specifically. PRE and ABFE’s research has shown total philanthropic support for Black communities hovering at around 1.8%. It appears that these community foundations aren’t even keeping up with the abysmal standards nationally set by their peers.

Proportional funding is also just the start of the equity conversation, not the end.

It is certainly arguable whether decades of financial underinvestment by both the philanthropic sector and other sectors of society can simply be undone by tying funding amounts alone to population data, especially considering the traditional undercounting issues surround Census data, as well the longstanding accuracy issues with philanthropy sector-related data.

Foundations looking to deeply tackle the issue should start by having an honest dialogue with the Black-led, Black-serving organizations in their communities. What are their assets and strengths? Their priorities? How can the foundation deploy its resources to the benefit of the whole community and not just part?

Funding Black communities at a rate commensurate with their relative size is a floor for equitable funding, not a ceiling.

NOW IS THE TIME TO MATCH OUR INTENTIONS WITH FUNDING ACTIONS 

Community foundations are not like other grantmakers. They receive a public subsidy above and beyond that available to private foundations (e.g. the Ford Foundation) by nature of their commitment to raising funds from the public instead of just one person or family. And in order to raise funds for community use, they rely on their reputation as a foundation focused on a whole community instead of a specific cause or issue area. Choosing to direct 99% of their grantmaking away from Black communities undermines the community foundation brand.

Many people who work in these foundations will be painfully aware of this data. Many will ask either internally or publicly whether it’s fair to judge their institutions with data that is from 2 years ago. So much has changed since then. So many foundations have stepped up to provide support in ways that they haven’t before.

Yet, while it is important to remember the good work that many community foundations are attempting to do in the current moment, it is equally important to put these commitments alongside the overall spending numbers of these organizations — both current and traditional. Consider this: Even if community foundation giving for Black communities had tripled since 2018 — which would represent a seismic shift in grantmaking priorities — it still would not even amount to 4% of all giving in these cities.

The bottom line is that community foundations have neglected their charge to serve their full communities. Regardless of why, we must be immediately address how Black Americans have been excluded from community foundation grantmaking writ large.

With COVID-19 continuing disproportionately negatively impact Black communities, and as the country is gripped by a national reckoning about the role of white supremacy in our public life, this “redlining by another name” – as ABFE described it – is holding us all back.

CORRECTION(S)
The gap between current funding and funding/population parity for Black communities over the three years in question is $2 billion, not $200 billion, as was originally reported.

ENDNOTES

1. Additional details about the report’s data methodology, can be found in the report’s Methodology section below and the report’s FAQ page

2. The original version of the report contained typo that has been corrected. The gap between current funding and funding/population parity for Black communities over the three years in question is $2 billion, not $200 billion. If you have questions about this or other methodology questions contact NCRP’s Research Director Ryan Schlegel at rschlegel[at]ncrp.org. (Updated 8/27/2020)

3. https://inequality.org/facts/racial-inequality/
4. https://apps.urban.org/features/wealth-inequality-charts/

METHODOLOGY
The data in this brief report is based on NCRP’s analysis of Candid giving data, which we paired with Census (ACS, 2018) demographic data. Candid (formerly GuideStar + Foundation Center) is the definitive philanthropy sector source for information on foundation grantmaking.

NCRP’s query of Candid data includes grantmaking

  • from each community foundation,
  • for work to benefit the community foundation’s home state (or states in cases where the foundation serves a multi-state community)
  • from 2016 to 2018

Grantmaking for Black communities includes all grants to which Candid assigned the “People of African Descent” beneficiary population code.

Grantmaking for structural change includes all grants to which Candid assigned the “Democracy” or “Human Rights” subject codes.

Grantmaking for direct services includes all grants to which Candid assigned the “Education,” “Health,” or “Human Services” subject codes.

Demographic statistics used in the per capita funding calculations are from the Census 2018 American Community Survey and pertain to the metropolitan area where each community foundation is based as defined by the

Census Bureau. Black per capita funding statistics pertain to the Black population numbers, total per capita funding statistics pertain to total population numbers.

More answers to Frequently Asked Questions about our data can be found here: https://www.ncrp.org/news/faq-black-funding-denied-data-report

CREDITS
Initial writing and data analysis spearheaded by NCRP Director of Research Ryan Schlegel and compiled by Senior Associate for Movement Research Stephanie Peng and Research & Development intern Spencer Ozer. Additional writing and editing provided by Director of Marketing and Membership Janay Richmond, Vice President and Chief Engagement Officer Jeanne Lewis and the NCRP Communications staff of Elbert Garcia and Peter Haldis. 

As calls to #defundthepolice reach the budget proposals of local and state decision-makers, we are reminded of the prescient call of NCRP members like the Ella Baker Center. In the wake of the murder of Trayvon Martin in 2014, the Oakland, California-based nonprofit started a national campaign that has grown to hundreds of community events in more than 30 cities to reimagine the meaning safety and security.

Ella Baker Center Executive Director Zach Norris, with a community member, at the 2019 Night Out for Safety and Liberation in Oakland. Photo by Brooke Anderson, courtesy of Ella Baker Center.

Ella Baker Center Executive Director Zach Norris (right), with a community member, at the 2019 Night Out for Safety and Liberation in Oakland. Photo by Brooke Anderson, courtesy of Ella Baker Center.

The Night Out for Safety and Liberation was an alternative take on the National Night Out, an effort that started in the 1990s that encouraged vulnerable communities to work together and stand up against violence and crime.

This year, the main sponsors of the event, the National Association of Town Watch has put off the annual August event in light of social distance constraints of COVID-19. While it’s a decision that Ella Baker Center Executive Director Zach Norris generally agrees with, he can’t help but wonder whether the nation’s COVID-19 crisis would be limited if we approached safety “with public health in mind instead of ‘see something, say something’ vision.”

We asked Norris to tell us a little bit more about the National Night Out for Safety and Liberation and what it means to boldly reimagine safety in the wake of the coronavirus pandemic and the uprisings against police brutality. A much longer written piece about this can be found here.

Elbert Garcia: Why do you think we need a public health safety approach to safety?
Zach Norris: A public health approach to safety recognizes that all of our safety is tied to each other. It is the idea that our overall community health can only ever be as good as the health of our most distressed communities. For example, a public health approach to safety would empower first responders who are trained to deal with mental health issues, drug use and abuse, homelessness and school discipline rather than sending in armed police.

Community members reimagine what safety is at the 2019 Night Out for Safety and Liberation event hosted by Poder in Action in Phoenix, Arizona. Photo courtesy of Poder in Action.

Community members reimagine what safety is at the 2019 Night Out for Safety and Liberation event hosted by Poder in Action in Phoenix, Arizona. Photo courtesy of Poder in Action.

EG: Why is the current National Night Out problematic?
ZN: The vision of safety promoted at National Night Out has been more grounded in fear and suspicion than in this public health orientation. Don’t get me wrong, the spirit of everyday people coming together to ensure their communities are safe is laudable. But the silence of National Night Out event organizers in the face of the exposure of a long history of police violence in communities of color is deafening. The event website does not mention police violence, nor police brutality, nor any statement acknowledging the ongoing trauma police have caused Black communities.

The main message from police to community members is “you are the eyes and ears of the police.” When police promote these messages, they tap into centuries of social conditioning that lead white people as well as people of color to believe that Black and brown people constitute a threat. An overwhelming focus on watching our neighbors with suspicion, rather than seeing them, can be deadly.

EG: What message do you instead want to deliver with the National Night Out for Safety and Liberation?
ZN: At these events, we remind people that they don’t just have eyes and ears, that they also have hearts, hands and minds. We describe the myriad ways and reasons people feel unsafe; restaurant workers who can’t put food on their own tables, transgender women who are afraid to walk out of their homes. We also describe the many ways people contribute to community safety, that mentoring a young person, providing a job to a formerly incarcerated person and participating on the local water or school board are all ways to contribute to community safety.

EG: What are some places that should get funded, instead of law enforcement heavy tactics?
ZN: There are so many viable, effective safety solutions that are under-resourced or nearly unknown. In California’s East Bay, Restore Oakland is a new community center that demonstrates what public safety looks like by making job training, restorative justice and organizing resources available to the public. In Richmond, California, Advance Peace is a highly effective gun-violence prevention effort which can and should be replicated in every city in the country.

Universal health care and child care are also public safety interventions that would help stem the spread of illnesses such as the coronavirus while also providing families with the support they need to help break cycles of poverty, addiction and incarceration.

Click here to read more about Zach’s vision for Night Out for Safety and Liberation

Top Photo: A young boy performs at the 2019 Night Out for Safety and Liberation in Oakland, California, a national event organized by the Ella Baker Center on the first Tuesday of August. Photo by Brooke Anderson, courtesy of Ella Baker Center.

We are in a moment of great pain and opportunity.

The combined crises of the COVID-19 pandemic and uprisings against law enforcement have exposed the broken parts of our systems and institutions in an unprecedented way.

Philanthropy has an opportunity to respond to these gaps with courage. Black-led organizations fighting for social justice have repeatedly explained the need for more funding and better relationships with philanthropy. For decades our sector has been aware of health and resource disparities that led to disproportionate impact of COVID-19 pandemic.

In our newest issue of Responsive Philanthropy, our authors invite us to act boldly on best practices and shift priorities to support organizations who work to correct the weak points in our society.

The COVID-19 crisis and political reset: Wielding philanthropic power for a just recovery

Rev. Dr. Starsky Wilson of the Deaconess Foundation reminds us that now is the time to be explicit about race, anti-Blackness and racial equity. Funders can use communications platforms and advocacy resources to help movement leaders push policy beyond what is pragmatic for a just-recovery.

The people are beautiful, already

Nichole June Maher of Group Health Foundation urges philanthropy to find the willpower to wield its social, political and economic power and acknowledge its ongoing role in social inequities.

The coolest equity-focused family foundation you’ve probably never heard of

Aaron Dorfman, NCRP CEO, shares reflections from Satterberg Foundation grantees about a model that other family foundations can follow. A popular and helpful practice that every foundation could do, especially in moments of crisis, is increase payout.

From protest to political power: Why we give to 501(c)4 organizations

Finally, we hear from several funders and donors about why they give to 501(c)4 organizations, a critical strategy for supporting organizations that fight to correct broken systems.

Philanthropy at its best trusts frontline, movement organizations. Black-led organizations and others with deep networks in marginalized communities deserve that trust now more than ever as they lead the charge for significant policy change and social transformation.

Don’t miss this opportunity to be a partner in the nation’s social transformation.

Every year, 700-900 women die of pregnancy related causes in the U.S., one of the worst maternal mortality rates among developed countries.

A closer look shows racial disparities carry the statistic: Black women are 3 to 4 times more likely to die of pregnancy related causes than non-Hispanic white women regardless of education and socioeconomic status.

Despite these alarming statistics, philanthropic funding for maternal health has not kept pace with the number of pregnancy related deaths among Black women. 

Funders can and should be doing more.

According to the Centers for Disease Control’s latest data, maternal mortality steadily increased between 2011 and 2014 with significant racial disparities: 40 deaths per 100,000 births for Black women compared to 12 per 100,000 births for white women.

A bar graph showing that pregnancy related mortality rates per 100,000 live births are 12.4 deaths for white women, 40 deaths for black women and 17.8 deaths for women of other races.

In the same period, maternal health funding decreased nearly 32% from $87 million to $58 million.

The rate of maternal mortality and racial disparities point to complex intersections of social determinants and structural inequities that undermine Black maternal health.

However, in 2011 funders designated only $2.5 million specifically to Black maternal health, and that was gutted by more than 50% in 2014.

The maternal mortality crisis is rooted in the marginalization of Black women.

Decreased funding for Black maternal health indicates a gap in grantmaking strategies and the root causes of pregnancy related deaths in the U.S.

Health outcomes are largely tied to social determinants including health and systems services, location, employment, education, race and income.

Maternal health care operates within systems that inherently undervalue Black lives. For most Black women, that means being exposed to multiple forms of discrimination and institutional barriers to quality care, which leads to wide racial disparities.

Black women are more likely to:

  • Be uninsured before becoming pregnant.
  • Die of conditions related to pregnancy than white women with the same condition.
  • Be exposed to environmental risks.
  • Receive subpar medical care based on their location.
  • Experience racial bias from health care providers.

Curbing maternal mortality requires investment specifically in Black maternal health care and solutions that engage inequities undermining health outcomes for Black mothers and their babies.

Dr. Joia Crear-Perry, founder and president of the National Birth Equity Collaborative, an NCRP nonprofit member said: “What happens when you mention the medical issues and you don’t talk about the social structure, you pick strategies that are not going to allow for ending any kind of inequity.”

Funders can break the mold and save lives.

Black women need systemic change that begins at the community level: access to vital community health centers, paid family leave, patient-centered care and access to health coverage.

Funders can help by:

  • Amplifying Black women-led solutions. The maternal health crisis is propelled by anti-Black racism. Philanthropy committed to maternal health equity should engage Black women and their communities as experts by giving them leadership roles in grantmaking strategies that impact their bodies and communities.
  • Promoting and investing in community-led organizing, nonprofit advocacy and civic engagement on behalf of Black women. They are the voices of the communities they serve, having intimate and expert knowledge on local resources and how social determinants effect health outcomes. Funding this work builds critical social capital and promotes long-term systemic change that benefits everyone.
  • Promoting Black women leadership within health institutions. Diversity in leadership will hold health care providers and institutions accountable to all patients. They can provide the necessary cultural competence to eliminate racial and cultural bias and discrimination in their organizations.
  • Defending the Affordable Care Act (ACA). The repeal of the ACA would have devastating implications for millions of people who rely on Medicaid for maternal care and undo the progress it has made towards health equity. Reach out to your nonprofit partners and ask how you can support them in defending the ACA and expanding access to low-income communities.

Maternal mortality in the U.S. reflects a grave injustice to Black women and a deeply flawed health care system. Their voices must be amplified in the fight for health equity.

Nichia McFarlane is NCRP’s events intern. Follow @NCRP on Twitter.