In the fourth and final part in a series examining how professional gatekeepers can change the careers of those without traditional connections, filmmaker Will Packer tells the story of how he made himself stand out at his first internship.
In the fourth and final part in a series examining how professional gatekeepers can change the careers of those without traditional connections, filmmaker Will Packer tells the story of how he made himself stand out at his first internship.
If you have watched any television or films about Black life recently, you have almost certainly come across a striking photograph of a six year old standing alongside her aunt in Alabama under a Colored Entrance sign. The photo, part of a series that ran in Life magazine in 1956, has been used to exemplify an America that once was—but the story of its subject and the dreams she once had is long overdue.
Will pandemic middle schoolers be affected for the rest of their lives?
Every love story is beautiful, has its own distinct history, and its own trials—there's no relationship that looks the same. To celebrate that uniqueness, we're asking couples to open up about their love story, for our latest column, "Love Looks Like This." Below, Reniqua Allen-Lamphere tells her story.
I also worry for the well-being of my millennial peers: We pursued higher education as its costs ballooned, and entered the workforce just when the recession hit. What used to be called a “career” has become a string of gigs. When our parents were our age, they owned over 20 percent of the nation’s wealth; today, we have just 3 percent. Now, just as many are starting families, the coronavirus threatens an economic downturn on a scale that this country hasn’t seen since the Great Depression.
But I’m especially worried about a particular slice of my generational cohort: young people of color, who are far more vulnerable than their white peers to crises like the coronavirus.
For months, I have felt like my future was uncertain. Panic attacks were routine. Tears, a daily event. Anger, mixed with doubt, fear, and sometimes a little bit of hope, filled my body. I seemed to have no control over the thing I wanted most in the world, and it felt like there was nothing I could do about it. Month after month, my body kept confirming that rejection, and month after month, I cried until my tears ran dry, trying to accept and live with the unknown while accepting the current reality: I may never be able to become pregnant.And then Covid-19 was thrust into the world. By the time the virus hit New York City, those uncontrollable feelings had tripled. The whole world was now in a panic, and the word “uncertainty” became a part of my daily vocabulary and everyone else’s. Life spun out of control, and no one knew what the future held. My problems with trying to create life suddenly felt small as the world’s focus turned to preserving life. Suddenly it seemed like everyone was facing a reality that was out of their control.
I’ll admit, I think “OK boomer” and the memes it has spawned are a funny response to the older generation’s befuddlement about the modern world. But the rise of the phrase also leaves me (an older millennial, or more specifically, a “xennial”) scratching my head. I thought millennials and Gen Z already had our rallying cry — one that was created not just as a sarcastic response to adults who don’t understand the plight of younger generations, but one that was an actual call to action.
No generation has undergone such meticulous examination in recent years as the millennials. Yet our understanding of them contains a glaring gap.
Over the last few years I’ve been trying to find the “New South” that young Black millennials like me are moving to. That Black Mecca of upwardly mobile Black folk that is so prominent in the Black imagination. But I can’t. I look for it every time I visit the South. Instead of a feeling of freedom and comfort, all I feel is the weight of a past that doesn’t feel so distant. I want to love places like Charlotte, Charleston, Memphis, and of course Atlanta, the place the SNL writer Michael Che called the “Blackest” city in America, but it’s been hard. It’s been even harder after Trump became our president and I see Klan and Nazi rallies and White power signs peppering the region.
Michael has a lot of student debt — almost $100,000 at this point — and he’s trying to free himself from it the only way he knows how: getting another degree. An excerpt from journalist Reniqua Allen's It Was All a Dream.
The American dream, the idea that anyone can succeed through hard work, is one of the most enduring myths in this country. And one of its most prominent falsehoods. As I entered my 30s, still navigating what achieving the dream would mean, I wondered what other black millennials were feeling. I wanted to figure out what my generation of black Americans thought about the promise of the American dream and how we can attain it.
'I was nervous about meeting his family for the first time, but as a woman of color with middle-class roots, I also worried how I would fit in with folks who were not just white but upper-class with Harvard Ph.D.s.'
Black people have been moving to the South for years, of course, and it’s not a trend reserved for the young. But to me it’s beginning to seem that black millennial culture — the center of black life — and the idea of black hope and opportunity are now squarely located in the South.
As I watched two presidential candidates outline their vision for America in one of the most hyped debates in history, after a week of unrest in Charlotte and deep pain in Tulsa following the deaths of two more black men, Keith Lamont Scott and Terrence Crutcher, at the hands of police officers, I confronted the reality that our future may be even dimmer than our past.
A lot of people are talking about egg freezing: It’s the latest perk for professional women at companies like Facebook and Apple; it’s being marketed as a welcome solution for millennial women who want more control over their reproductive lives. It’s moving more mainstream. But few of the women having these conversations are black, and few of the discussions are geared toward black women.
Unlike white millennials, we aren’t allowed to deviate from norms, to be untraditional. We have to follow strict standards and conventions. We have to be acceptable and respectable. We can’t have nuanced views and ideology, and if we have the nerve, the audacity to be angry, we better have something to show for it.
For many African-Americans, mining once promised a path to the middle class. Its collapse leaves workers without options
Let me be clear: I have no problem with a holiday celebrating Dr. King. I deeply respect the man and his mission, and I think he deserves all the praise and holidays given to him. But I also wonder how the made-for-tv narrative that has become associated with King has impacted the way we look at leadership—especially in the black community.
It’s time we get over all that. White privilege is invisible, unearned and can include both societal, material or psychological advantages solely based on skin color. Specifically, white skin. Because it privilege is generally invisible, many refuse to believe it exists. As in the case of climate change, however, science continues to solidly disprove such denials