By Antoinette Stewart-Eneh, Special to California Black Media Partners

Word Count: 1058

Note: Client A, B & C, names are withheld for privacy; these accounts reflect my recollections as theirDoula.

Client A rocked her hips on a birthing ball, surrounded by pale wood and warm textiles in a softly lit Scandinavian-style office. I was her doula through a Southern California maternal health company combining nurse-led care, technology, and wraparound support.

She was a healthy Black woman in her thirties. Her baby girl was doing well; her partner took notes as we discussed labor and advocacy.

Then we turned to their chosen hospital. I knew it well—and remembered a phrase from another client’s experience: “Policy of Sovereignty.”

Client B had been told she needed a repeat cesarean as a precaution, though the reasoning was unclear. Her obstetrician, who performed her first cesarean two years earlier, had assured her throughout pregnancy that she was healthy, healed, and ready for a vaginal birth. We asked staff to review her chart, consult her obstetrician, and reconsider immediate surgery. Instead, they invoked the “Policy of Sovereignty.”

The physician on duty, we were told, had final authority, regardless of her established care plan. I asked whether an ultrasound or reassessing the baby’s position could offer clarity. Cesareans can be lifesaving. But were Client B’s history, informed consent, and circumstances guiding this decision—or was routine overriding individualized care? We kept asking for her obstetrician. Beneath every request was a deeper question: Was she being heard?

The Numbers Behind the Stories

Statistics arrive in clean columns. The experiences behind them do not.

Maternal mortality and pregnancy-related mortality use different time frames and methods and are not interchangeable. Finalized 2024 CDC data recorded 649 maternal deaths nationally. The overall rate was 17.9 deaths per 100,000 live births, but for non-Hispanic Black women it was 44.8, compared with 14.2 for White women and 12.1 for Hispanic women.

In California, Black birthing people experienced 56.5 pregnancy-related deaths per 100,000 live births during 2020–2022—3.8 times the White rate and four times the Asian rate.

As a doula serving Los Angeles and San Bernardino Counties, I see faces behind those numbers. I remember concerns raised softly, then firmly, then desperately. I am tired of watching Black families enter spaces meant to protect them, only to discover they must defend themselves while laboring, bleeding, trembling, or recovering.

Returning to Client A

Client A’s labor stretched nearly 48 hours. As her condition worsened, she, her partner, and I asked whether a cesarean should happen sooner. A provider questioned my place as a doula, then said she was next.

Six more hours passed.

She entered surgery visibly ill with a serious uterine infection, her baby malpositioned and stuck. Her partner later recalled the provider saying, “This baby would never have made it through the birth canal.”

Those words landed like a blow. Our urgency had been treated as ignorance. With Client B, we questioned why surgery was inevitable. With Client A, why it was delayed. Doula advocacy is not about one kind of birth. It is about informed consent, individualized care, and timely action. Hospital routine should never outweigh the person carrying the risk.

Survival Cannot Be the Standard

The Black maternal health crisis includes unequal care, untreated conditions, racial bias, delayed referrals, poor communication, and inadequate postpartum support. It is about birth plans respected only until a hospital becomes less busy and postpartum care that asks whether a mother survived, not whether she has what she needs to recover.

Survival cannot be the standard. Technology can support care, but it cannot replace human connection. An algorithm cannot detect fear in a patient’s eyes, and a mission statement alone cannot ensure adequate staffing or culturally responsive care.

The Story of Client C

Before I arrived, I heard the chaos through Client C’s phone. Staff struggled to locate her baby’s heartbeat on an external monitor as her fear and blood pressure rose. I pleaded for an internal electrode before surgery.

“There’s not enough time,” a nurse said.

“I would like to wait for my doula,” Client C called out.

But she was medicated, hurried through consent, and wheeled away while I listened.

In the operating room, after a shift change, another nurse placed an internal electrode and said, “The previous monitor wasn’t working.”

No one responded.

According to her father, the obstetrician avoided eye contact: “We need to move forward.”

Surgery may still have been necessary; that was not mine to determine. But if faulty equipment helped create the emergency, the family deserved acknowledgment and explanation—not silence. No family should have to wonder whether major surgery followed an unavoidable crisis or a machine failure no one recognized in time.

From Prevention to Accountability

After supporting nearly 100 families, I have learned that danger often begins before admission. I have urged clients to seek care—and heard why they feared returning: dismissed pain, harsh words, shame for asking questions.

Care cannot be holistic where Black families do not feel safe enough to speak or return. Representation matters, but providers of color cannot repair inequity alone. They need adequate staffing, mentorship, culturally responsive training, reliable equipment, and colleagues that are reflective of all the aforementioned. It’s not the Black providers job to care for just the Black patients, everyone should have the same goal.

The Momnibus Act, California’s Medi-Cal doula benefit, the Transforming Maternal Health Model and the Perinatal Equity Initiative require more than promises; they need sustained funding, reliable reimbursement and accountable implementation.

Birth should be sacred. Yet too many Black birthing people arrive carrying the burden of proving their pain is real. A doula can listen, educate, comfort, and advocate—but cannot repair a system that refuses to listen. The true measure of progress is what happens when a Black birthing person says, “Something is wrong.”

Are they believed? When equipment fails, is that failure acknowledged? Do families leave not merely alive, but safe, respected, supported, and whole?

Until those answers are consistently yes, California’s maternal health success story remains unfinished.

About the Author

Antoinette Stewart-Eneh is a mother of two, holistic maternal wellness advocate, and birth and postpartum doula who has supported families since 2019. She serves as program operations coordinator for Frontline Doulas, a volunteer client coordinator with the Joy in Birthing Foundation and a childbirth educator in South Los Angeles. She is studying to become a midwife and lactation educator.

By Dr. Maritony Jones, Special to The Post

When community activist Jonathan “Fitness” Jones heard concerns from senior residents in East Oakland about illegal dumping, recurring trash issues and the health hazards they created, he decided that watching the problem was not enough. 

Jones, a member of the African American Sports and Entertainment Group (AASEG) and an Oakland Private Industry Council board member, learned that seniors were frustrated by the recurrence of illegal dumping even when trash has been cleared. Recurring trash can contribute to unsanitary conditions, attract rodents and leave residents feeling that their neighborhoods are being overlooked. 

On Saturday, Sept. 26, Mr. Jones joined High Street Coalition volunteers at Dick’s Donuts near High Street and Quigley Street, spending the morning picking up trash and helping beautify the surrounding neighborhood.

High Street Coalition volunteers organize community cleanups on the second and fourth Saturdays of each month. 

Following the cleanup, Jones talked with Richard Johnson, CEO of Formerly Incarcerated Giving Back (FIGB). Johnson said he wanted to bring formerly incarcerated nonprofits together not only to help clean up the city, but also to bring youth with them to mentor the next generation. 

Jones and Johnson discussed developing a community model that brings formerly incarcerated individuals, Oakland youth and nonprofit organizations together to clean and beautify the city. 

The vision is to create opportunities for formerly incarcerated adults to take leadership roles while mentoring young people through hands-on community service. The program could also provide youth with opportunities to develop leadership skills, learn teamwork and responsibility, and potentially gain employment experience. 

The goal is bigger than removing trash from the streets. It is about restoring neighborhoods while building relationships between generations and creating opportunities for people with lived experience to give back to their communities. 

Jones believes the message is simple:  

“We don’t talk trash, we pick up trash.” 

The proposed collaboration seeks to bring Oakland nonprofits, formerly incarcerated leaders, youth, residents, businesses and community organizations together around a shared purpose — cleaning the town, beautifying Oakland and building a stronger community together. 

By Juliana Mercer

I graduated from Marine Corps boot camp a couple weeks before September 11, 2001. I had no idea how profoundly 9/11 would change the trajectory of my life.

I went on to deploy to Iraq and Afghanistan. Between deployments, I worked at the Wounded Warrior Battalion in San Diego, supporting Marines as they rebuilt their lives. What I did not understand was how deeply I was absorbing their grief and losses.

That became clearer when I later deployed to Afghanistan during one of the deadliest periods of the war for Marines. I purposefully stopped counting the flag-draped coffins as they were loaded onto planes to return home, swallowing my grief so I could return to the mission.

I became paralyzed watching young Marines go outside the base, thinking about their families and whether they would see them again. I began hallucinating that wounded Marines I cared for were walking toward me in the war zone. I now recognize that, alongside my own PTSD, I was carrying secondary PTSD from caring for wounded Marines.

With every loss, I swallowed what I felt just to keep functioning. I kept moving forward, until everything I buried became impossible to ignore.

I did not recognize what was happening until five years after returning home. I sought help. Therapy helped me feel less alone, but my symptoms continued to affect my life and relationships.

My experience is not unique. 870,000 veterans receiving VA health care were diagnosed with PTSD in 2024. Since 9/11, nearly 150,000 veterans have died by suicide. Many continue searching for relief after available treatments have failed.

That is why veterans are cautiously hopeful about psychedelic treatments. 

Studies of psilocybin for treatment-resistant depression show significant reductions in depressive symptoms, with up to one-third of patients achieving remission in some trials. Research involving veterans with PTSD found that 75% were in remission one month after psilocybin treatment.

I followed the research before pursuing psilocybin treatment myself. During that experience, I was finally able to access the grief I spent decades burying. It did not erase what happened or the memories of the Marines I lost. It changed my relationship with those memories. They no longer controlled my life.

I reconnected to the self I had lost and was able to feel joy and love again.

Psychedelic medicines are not a cure-all. But veterans pursuing them are not looking for shortcuts. Many have spent years doing everything the medical system asked while continuing to search for relief.

Our government is beginning to recognize the potential of new approaches. 

This year, President Trump signed an executive order to accelerate research and reduce barriers to psychedelic treatments for serious mental illness. VA is conducting clinical trials of MDMA for PTSD and psilocybin for depression. In July, FDA finalized guidance for clinical trials involving psychedelic drugs.

If these treatments receive FDA approval, the healthcare system must be ready to deliver them responsibly — through DEA action, clear safeguards, and VA facilities prepared to provide care.

Our country asks a great deal of those who serve. If evidence demonstrates that these treatments are safe and effective, veterans should not wait years longer because Washington failed to prepare for success.

Juliana Mercer is a Marine Corps veteran and executive director of Healing Breakthrough. A version of this column was published in Stars and Stripes.

By Wade Henderson, Esq.

There are moments when a nation must decide, not simply what it has the legal power to do, but what its sense of humanity requires it to do.

The treatment of more than 300,000 Haitians living and working in the United States under Temporary Protected Status (TPS) presents such a moment. The Senate should pass S.4814, legislation that would extend TPS for Haitians for three years. The Senate’s Republican members hold a critical key to whether Congress will act before the midterm elections.

There are several reasons that the Haitian TPS question is a genuine crisis.  First and foremost, Haiti is dangerously unsafe, and the justification for TPS could hardly be clearer.

Haiti continues to experience extraordinary violence and instability. United Nations and human-rights organizations report killings, kidnappings, sexual violence, displacement and widespread abuses by armed gangs. Millions of Haitians face acute humanitarian needs.[1]

Most tellingly, the U.S. Department of State warns Americans: “Do Not Travel” to Haiti, citing kidnapping, crime, terrorism, civil unrest and limited health care.[2]

That warning raises an unavoidable question: If Haiti is too dangerous for Americans to travel there, how can it be considered safe to compel more than 300,000 Haitians to return?

Congress created TPS precisely for circumstances in which armed conflict or extraordinary conditions make safe return impossible or inappropriate.[3] The documented conditions in Haiti meet that humanitarian standard many times over.

Let’s also clear up another misimpression.  The Supreme Court in its June 25, 2026 decision in Mullen v. Doe did not order TPS to end and it did not order Haitians to be deported. 

Rather, the Court ruled that the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) had the primary responsibility to decide when to grant TPS and that its decisions were not, in most instances, judicially reviewable.[4]

The decision therefore permitted the Administration’s termination of Haitian TPS to proceed, but the humanitarian question of whether it should proceed remains with the political branches. In other words, Congress retains its legislative authority to act.  S.4814 is Congress exercising that authority.

For Haitians living under the threat of deportation, this is not an abstract legal dispute.  The human cost is becoming painfully real.

Consider Pierre Damas Bel, a 20-year-old Haitian college student with a promising future, who lived in Springfield, Ohio. After losing his immigration protection, he was placed on an ICE ankle monitor. His family has described the profound psychological distress he experienced.

Bel subsequently died after stopping his car and walking into traffic on a crowded Ohio highway. His family believes it was suicide  Authorities are investigating, and it would be irresponsible to claim that immigration policy alone caused his death. But his tragic story illustrates the human consequences of creating fear and uncertainty for people who have lived, studied and worked lawfully in this country and have no immediate expectation of returning home safely.[5]  

There also is another compelling reason for Congress to act: Haitian TPS holders are caring for Americans.

Approximately 21,000 Haitian TPS holders work as caregivers and nursing assistants, serving an estimated 77,000 patients nationwide.[6] They care for seniors in nursing homes, assist people with disabilities and provide home care that allows vulnerable Americans to remain in their communities. 

When experienced Haitian caregivers lose their legal ability to work, families must scramble to find replacements, nursing facilities face staffing shortages, and vulnerable people can lose caregivers they have trusted for years.

At a time when America already faces a serious shortage of direct-care workers, deporting thousands of experienced Haitian caregivers is not merely inhumane, it’s self-defeating and contrary to our nation’s own healthcare needs.[7]

The mass deportation of Haitians also presents a troubling humanitarian double standard that Congress should confront.

The Trump Administration has made a special effort to admit White South African Afrikaners as refugees, citing racial persecution and violence — a dubious claim at best. At the same time, it is stripping protection from Haitians whose country is experiencing catastrophic violence, death and insecurity.

The State Department currently rates South Africa for travel recommendations at Level 2—“Exercise Increased Caution.” Haiti is at Level 4—“Do Not Travel.”[8]

Every person facing genuine persecution deserves humanitarian consideration and protection, but humanitarian standards should be applied consistently. If America can recognize humanitarian danger facing White South Africans, surely it can recognize the documented and extraordinary danger confronting Black Haitians.

The disparity deserves congressional scrutiny—not because one group should receive less protection, but because humanitarian protection should not depend upon race or political convenience.

Finally, the Haitian TPS question should not be reduced to a partisan argument.

Republican Ohio Governor Mike DeWine has criticized the Administration’s approach to Haitian immigrants and warned of the consequences of ending TPS. Democratic Maryland Governor Wes Moore has likewise expressed opposition to returning Haitians to dangerous conditions.[9]

These governors understand that immigrants are not merely immigration cases. They are workers, taxpayers, caregivers, parents, students, neighbors and members of their communities.

The House of Representatives has already taken action and passed a bill to restore Haitian TPS. 

The Senate’s Haitian TPS bill (S.4814) offers a measured response: three additional years of protection while Haiti confronts its extraordinary crisis. It is not amnesty! It does not grant citizenship or permanent residence. It does not repeal America’s immigration laws. It does, however, provide important and humane temporary protection while conditions make return to Haiti unsafe.

Our history tells us what happens when government treats human beings with hostility and indifference, and regards humanitarian appeals as inconveniences to be overcome.

America can and must do better.

The Senate now has an opportunity to demonstrate that America’s humanitarian principles apply consistently—to Black immigrants as well as everyone else.  Republican senators hold a critical key to bipartisan action. Before the midterm elections, they should join Democrats in responding to this humanitarian imperative. 

Our nation’s sense of humanity demands it.

Wade Henderson, Esq. is a civil and human rights attorney in Washington, DC.  He serves as a Senior Advisor to the Haitian Bridge Alliance.

Endnotes

1. United Nations Integrated Office in Haiti (BINUH), Human Rights Reports; Human Rights Watch, World Report 2026: Haiti.
2. U.S. Department of State, Haiti Travel Advisory, Level 4—“Do Not Travel.”
3. 8 U.S.C. §1254a(b)(1).
4. Mullin v. Doe / Trump v. Miot, U.S. Supreme Court, June 25, 2026.
5. Washington Post, “College student steps into traffic, is killed after losing immigration status,” Sept. 1, 2026; ABC News, Sept. 1, 2026. Authorities continue to investigate Bel’s death.
6. Reuters, “US families, healthcare providers under strain after Trump crackdown on Haitian immigrants,” Aug. 19, 2026.
7. Id.; see also reporting by LeadingAge concerning the impact of ending Haitian TPS on senior and disability care.
8. U.S. Department of State, Haiti Travel Advisory; South Africa Travel Advisory.
9. Reporting on statements by Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine and Maryland Gov. Wes Moore concerning Haitian TPS.

Black voters have been among the Democratic Party’s most dependable supporters for generations. But loyalty and trust are not the same thing.

With less than a month to go before the midterm elections, Black voters and political strategists say years of inconsistent engagement and unmet expectations have left some voters questioning whether the party has earned their continued support. The challenge now is bigger than winning votes. It’s convincing distrustful voters that staying politically engaged is worth it.

Communications strategist Ashley Etienne argues that Democrats have spent years taking one of their most reliable voting blocs for granted, creating a widening trust gap that threatens the party’s long-term prospects in Texas and nationally.

“Trust is the currency of persuasion,” she said. “We’re seeing distrust at an all-time high, especially with Black voters … distrust of the media, institutions, the Democratic Party, self-agreement. Campaigns don’t lose because they fail to talk to voters. They lose because they fail to listen.”

Etienne, who served as a senior adviser to Presidents Barack Obama and Joe Biden and communications director for Vice President Kamala Harris, said repairing that relationship requires something considerably more difficult than another campaign advertisement. It requires listening.

Black support remains strong, but not absolute

Recent polling suggests Democrats continue to hold a substantial advantage among Black voters heading into November, but that support isn’t universal.

A July 2026 Pew Research Center survey found 68% of Black registered voters said they would support the Democratic candidate for U.S. House in their district, compared with 8% who favored the Republican. Another 25% said they were either unsure or would support another candidate.

That uncertainty follows some erosion in Democratic support among Black voters in the 2024 presidential election. A Pew analysis of validated voters found 83% of Black voters supported Kamala Harris in 2024, compared with 92% who supported Joe Biden in 2020.

Pew found that shift was driven less by individual voters switching from one party to another than by differences in who turned out to vote.

The findings don’t suggest Black voters have abandoned Democrats. They do raise questions about whether longstanding party loyalty is enough to guarantee participation.

“We’ve been making that same argument decade after decade,” Etienne said. “Those are becoming less persuasive arguments.”

Why is trust disappearing?

The distrust isn’t necessarily about one candidate or one election. For some Black voters, frustration comes from feeling heavily courted during election season without seeing enough progress afterward on the issues affecting their daily lives.

Housing costs remain a concern. So do education, economic opportunity, neighborhood investment, and the cost of everyday necessities.

That creates a difficult dynamic for campaigns: Asking voters to participate in a political system that some believe has not delivered enough for them.

It also raises a separate question. What happens when frustration with political parties becomes disengagement from the political process altogether?

What happens when voters stay home?

The answer can become particularly consequential in local elections, where races can be decided by hundreds of votes rather than thousands.

Harris County Democratic Party Chair Traci Gibson has pointed to several 2024 judicial races decided by narrow margins. District judge candidate Elaine Palmer lost by 304 votes, while Jeralynn Manor lost by 647 votes.

Gibson also warned about voters who begin Harris County’s lengthy ballot but don’t finish it.

“If you go into these polls and you vote for the first five people and then you leave, that’s how we get Elaine Palmer losing by about 300 votes,” Gibson said.

The larger issue extends beyond any candidate or political party. Judges are elected. School boards make decisions affecting students and families. City and county officials determine how public dollars are spent. State lawmakers decide which bills become state law.

Those decisions are made regardless of how many eligible voters participate.

For voters distrustful of political parties or government institutions, political participation also doesn’t have to mean unquestioning loyalty to either party.

Voters can research candidates individually, compare their positions, attend or watch candidate forums and examine an incumbent’s record against previous campaign promises. They can also learn what the often-overlooked offices farther down the ballot actually control.

In that sense, distrust can become a reason for greater scrutiny rather than disengagement.

Candidates have work to do, too

Responsibility for rebuilding participation doesn’t fall solely on voters.

At a recent Third Ward town hall hosted by state Rep. Jolanda “Jo” Jones, Harris County Precinct 7 Constable James “Smokie” Phillips and Houston Black American Democrats, voters and political strategists called for more sustained campaign engagement.

“Investment drives outcomes. If you don’t invest in it, it doesn’t work,” Etienne said.

She argued that campaigns spend heavily on polling, consultants and advertising while directing too little money toward Black-led political infrastructure and organizations with established relationships in Black communities.

Shamier Bouie, chair of Houston Black American Democrats, said organizing cannot begin a few months before Election Day.

“It’s all about year-round organizing, and increased investment in Black voter outreach … more funding for Black-led organizations that have relationships, infrastructure, and experience in effectively engaging Black communities,” Bouie said.

The question of investment also surfaced in July when Democratic U.S. Senate candidate James Talarico pledged $25 million toward Black voter outreach. Some voters wanted specifics about where and how that money would be spent.

“We still need our kids, we still need our schools equitably funded,” said Augie Cahee, vice president of marketing web delivery at JPMorgan Chase & Co. “So, we want to know what you’re going to do with the money. Don’t stand up and tell me $25 million and you don’t have a plan.”

The exchange illustrated the larger trust problem: Voters aren’t simply asking candidates to talk to them. They want to know what happens after the conversation.

From distrust to accountability

Karla West, a precinct chair for downtown’s Precinct 16, said responsibility ultimately belongs on both sides.

“We fell asleep at the wheel,” West said of voter turnout.

But she also challenged political leaders.

“The Democratic Party did not say what they would do for you,” West said. “We haven’t heard a plan for years. I’m sick of it. We have to have strategies, we have to have plans, we have to have a mechanism in place for people to feel they are heard.”

Defender Reporter Tannistha Sinha contributed to this report.

Based on reporting by Houston Defender.

For generations, the conversation about Black wealth has focused on what we do not have: not enough savings, not enough access to capital, not enough homeownership and not enough inherited wealth. Those realities matter, and the disparities behind them are real but there is another question worth asking: What are we doing with the wealth we already have?

That question deserves more attention because one of the greatest barriers to homeownership is often not the ability to make a monthly mortgage payment. It is the ability to get through the front door the down payment, closing costs and cash required to purchase a property in the first place. For many Black families, that initial hurdle can delay homeownership for years, even when someone has a stable career, good income, reasonable credit and the financial capacity to sustain a mortgage.

Yet in some families, part of the solution may already be sitting within the family itself.

Across Black America, there are parents, grandparents, sisters, brother, aunt and uncles who may not consider themselves wealthy but who own something extraordinarily valuable equity. They purchased homes decades ago, made mortgage payments month after month, raised families in those homes, maintained them through recessions and difficult economic periods and, over time, watched those properties appreciate. A house purchased for $50,000 or $75,000 may today be worth $250,000, $300,000 or considerably more.

That difference represents more than appreciation on a financial statement. It represents years of work and sacrifice converted into an asset and therein lies a tremendous opportunity.

A gift of equity allows a homeowner, typically in a transaction involving family, to sell a property for less than its appraised market value and transfer some of the difference to the buyer as equity. Subject to the requirements of the mortgage program, that equity can potentially be used toward the buyer’s down payment and, in some circumstances, closing costs.

Example. Suppose a mother owns a home that appraises for $300,000. She wants to sell it to her daughter for $240,000. The $60,000 difference between the appraised value and the sales price can potentially become a gift of equity. The mother does not have to withdraw $60,000 from a bank account and hand it to her daughter. The wealth is already there it has been accumulating inside the property.

That is what makes this strategy so important to understand. We frequently talk about the difficulty of saving a down payment without asking whether a family may already possess an asset capable of helping overcome that barrier. A son or daughter could spend another five or ten years attempting to save enough money to purchase a home while a parent or grandparent is sitting on substantial equity accumulated over several decades.

The family has wealth it simply may not be liquid.

A gift of equity can create a bridge between those two realities. The previous generation may have spent 30 years building equity so that the next generation does not have to begin at zero. That is one of the deeper meanings of generational wealth. It is not simply about leaving something behind after we die. It is about understanding whether the assets one generation has built can improve the economic starting position of the generation that follows.

For Black families, that distinction is especially important we have spent generations fighting for access to property and the opportunity to own it. As more Black families acquire homes and build equity, the conversation must eventually expand beyond the question of how we create more first-generation homeowners. We must also ask how the ownership already achieved by one generation can help create ownership in the next.

This requires us to think differently about inheritance. We often imagine inheritance as an event that occurs at the end of someone’s life, when assets pass through a will, trust or estate. But property gives families another possibility. Under the right circumstances, real estate can be used to transfer economic opportunities while parents and grandparents are still alive to participate in the process and see what the asset they spent decades building can do for the next generation.

A parent may not have $100,000 sitting in a savings account that does not mean the parent has nothing substantial to give. The family home may be the largest asset that person owns, and this points to a distinction that is essential to any serious conversation about wealth income is what we earn; wealth is what we own.

A family can have relatively modest income and still possess meaningful wealth because a home purchased decades earlier has appreciated while its mortgage has steadily been paid down. This matters for Black America because the racial wealth gap cannot be understood solely as a question of wages and income. It is also a question of ownership, assets and whether those assets successfully move from one generation to another.

Return to the mother with the $300,000 home. She could sell the property on the open market, receive the proceeds and allow the house to leave the family. There is nothing inherently wrong with that decision. She earned that equity, and her own financial security must matter. But suppose her circumstances allow another choice. She sells the property to her daughter for $240,000 and provides $60,000 through a gift of equity.

Her daughter may now be able to purchase a home she otherwise could not have acquired because she lacked sufficient cash. More importantly, she does not necessarily begin her ownership journey at zero. She enters it with equity. If she manages the property responsibly, makes the mortgage payments, maintains the home and allows time and amortization to work, the economic value accumulated by one generation has the potential to continue growing in another.

The mother has therefore transferred more than a house she has transferred a financial head start.

That is when property becomes more than shelter it becomes capital.

None of this means that a gift of equity eliminates financial responsibility or the normal requirements of obtaining a mortgage. The buyer still has to qualify. A lender will evaluate credit, income, debt and the ability to repay the loan. The property generally must be appraised, title requirements must be satisfied and the transaction must comply with the rules of the mortgage program.

There is documentation as well. A lender will generally require a gift-of-equity letter identifying the parties, their relationship, the amount of the gift and confirmation that repayment is not expected. That final requirement matters because a gift cannot secretly be another loan. If a parent provides $50,000 in equity but expects the child to repay the $50,000 later, it is not a true gift for mortgage purposes.

The larger issue, however, is not the paperwork. It is what happens to Black-owned property over time. For much of American history, Black families faced enormous barriers to acquiring property in the first place. Redlining, restrictive covenants, discriminatory lending and unequal access to mortgage credit limited where Black Americans could purchase homes and whether they could obtain the financing necessary to do so. Against that history, when a Black family has managed to acquire property, pay for it, preserve it and accumulate substantial equity over decades, we should understand what has been created.

It is not simply a house it is an asset, and assets require strategy.

Before a family property is simply listed for sale, there should be a deeper conversation around the kitchen table. What is the property actually worth? How much equity has accumulated? Is there someone in the next generation who wants the home and is financially capable of maintaining it? Could that person qualify for financing? Could a gift of equity help make the transaction possible? And perhaps most importantly, what do we want this asset to accomplish for our family?

Generational wealth rarely happens by accident. Someone has to think beyond today’s transaction and understand that the equity accumulated over 20, 30 or 40 years represents stored economic power.

A gift of equity will not be appropriate for every family, and it is certainly not a solution by itself to the racial wealth gap. But it illustrates a much larger principle. We should not spend all of our time discussing the wealth Black America has yet to build while overlooking the wealth that millions of Black families have already spent generations creating.

That is what it means to turn ownership into legacy.

Property is Power. And when property passes from one generation to the next with knowledge, planning and purpose, that power can outlive us.

Property is Power! is a movement to promote home and community ownership. Studies indicate homeownership leads to higher graduation rates, family wealth, and community involvement.

Based on reporting by Michigan Chronicle.