By Adam Shapiro

Kristen Amundson has devoted her professional life to supporting students and parents throughout the education system. Previously, she authored “81 Questions for Parents” and “Unfinished Learning: Parents, Schools, and COVID School Closures.”

Amundson, the former president and CEO of the National Association of State Boards of Education, is now turning her attention to grandparents. Her new book is titled “The Grandparent Effect: Helping Children Thrive Through Love, Support, and Connection,” and is published by Bloomsbury.

Amundson explains that grandparents have become increasingly important in children’s lives due to longer lifespans and changing family dynamics. Originally, grandparents were important for children’s survival, particularly at a time when families were large and mothers needed extra caregiving support. Because mothers often turned to their mothers for this help, the positive impact on children was often called the “Grandmother Effect.”

Today, many more grandfathers are involved with their grandchildren. Amundson prefers to talk about the “Grandparent Effect” and notes that these caregivers also support reading and writing, boost confidence, and encourage grandchildren’s interests. She notes that those involved grandparents experience health benefits themselves (“if you have to get on the ground with an infant and take a child to the park, you are moving around and that’s good exercise!”).

The book provides an overview of how the role of grandparents has evolved over time, explaining that until the 19th century grandparents often lived close to their grandchildren and worked together on farms. She describes how the Industrial Revolution led to families splitting up, with children moving to cities for factory work while grandparents remained on farms, resulting in grandparents becoming poorer over time.

“There are many examples of how grandparents have adapted during recent challenges, including providing support during the pandemic through in-person care when possible or using technology like FaceTime and Zoom when physically distant, and taking on roles like ‘granny nannies’ to help with childcare and education needs,” she says.

Amundson tells the story of a grandmother who took the time to become certified in dyslexia training and taught her family members, including her granddaughter and grandson.

But with these added roles come some possible hiccups along the way. She emphasizes that grandparents need to remember they are no longer in charge like they were with their own children, and parents have the right to set rules that grandparents should respect. Amundson illustrates this point with examples about discipline and food choices, noting that grandparents should follow the parents’ guidelines rather than overruling them (except for maybe allowing an extra cookie).

“I know of a situation where grandparents crossing boundaries affected family dynamics when they took their grandchild to the emergency room without involving the parents, which later led to a temporary timeout for the grandparents.”

Amundson’s book also includes examples of ways grandparents advocate for the next generation, such as Texas grandmothers who speak out on state legislation.

Other grandparents participate in a self-help group supporting custodial grandparents who care for children whose parents are dealing with substance use issues or are incarcerated. The group provides practical support including educational seminars, college application assistance, and simple activities like Halloween decorations to help children feel included.

Amundson’s book is a valuable and enjoyable resource for grandparents who are navigating the excitement and joy of their senior status in the 21st century.

When I play poker and go all-in, I may be holding pocket aces. Other times, I’m bluffing. Either way, all of my chips go into the pot. In poker, going all-in doesn’t require certainty. It requires commitment. And the same is true when it comes to artificial intelligence.

For Black Americans, this particular bet is crucial. We have too few voices in the rooms where AI is being shaped and too much at stake in what happens next. Black workers, students and entrepreneurs are already being affected by AI. So this isn’t just somebody else’s technology debate. It’s ours, too.

AI could cure cancer. AI could kill us. That is the extraordinary range of possibilities now being debated by some of the very people building the technology.

And some of the risks are becoming less theoretical. OpenAI recently disclosed six instances of unexpected or concerning model behavior during training or evaluation, including models taking unauthorized actions, concealing information and finding ways around constraints. A recent brief from the U.N.’s Independent International Scientific Panel on AI described a separate OpenAI-Hugging Face incident as one of the clearest real-world warnings yet of a possible path toward losing human control over advanced AI agents.

But development is hardly slowing down. In fact, it’s clearly going all-in.

President Donald Trump has framed AI largely as a competition America cannot afford to lose, saying, “Whoever wins AI wins.” He recently announced plans to create an “AI Force” and appoint an AI “czar,” while promising not to “hinder or stifle” the growth of the AI industry. And Anthropic reports that Claude now leads 26% of the company’s AI research and development work and collaborates on more than 90% of it.

Vast sums of money, extraordinary computing power and some of the smartest people on the planet are being committed to making these systems more powerful.

If that is the bet we are making, then responsibility deserves the same commitment.

There are signs that at least some in the industry recognize that. Anthropic recently announced a partnership with Accenture to embed independent evaluators inside its frontier AI development process, with each company expecting to invest at least $1 billion over five years.

That is closer to the balance we need. Development does not necessarily have to stop for responsibility to accelerate.

Responsibility starts with safety: keeping increasingly powerful systems under human control, protecting privacy and cybersecurity, and guarding against misuse.

But responsible AI has to mean more than preventing some future catastrophe.

It means preparing workers whose jobs may change or disappear. It means making sure algorithms don’t reproduce discrimination in hiring, lending, health care and education. It means helping schools decide when students should learn without AI, about AI and with AI.

And it means making sure people who will live with the consequences have a meaningful role in shaping them.

That includes Black folks.

I’m not an AI expert, a tech billionaire or a politician. I’m a Chicago educator who has spent most of my adult life preparing students, almost all of them Black and from low-income communities, for an unpredictable future. That makes this debate especially urgent to me.

And our young people aren’t waiting for adults to figure it out. About six in 10 Black teenagers are already using AI chatbots for schoolwork. Yet federal data show that about 60% of schools serving mostly students of color provide AI training to at least some teachers, compared with 75% of predominantly white schools.

The economic stakes are significant, too. McKinsey estimates that 24% of Black workers are in occupations with greater than 75% automation potential, compared with 20% of White workers. Black people make up about 12% of the U.S. workforce but only 8% of workers in tech jobs and just 3% of technology executives in the C-suite.

So Black people are not watching this transformation from the sidelines. We are using the technology, our children are learning with it, and we are working in occupations that could be significantly changed by it. What we don’t have are nearly enough seats at the tables where the biggest decisions are being made.

That lack of representation was visible recently. At a major Washington gathering calling for action on AI safety, almost none of the people onstage were Black.

Black voices aren’t absent, however. Sen. Cory Booker called for a special session of Congress on AI, saying the technology’s rapidly evolving risks and opportunities require urgent attention. Congressional Black Caucus Chair Yvette Clarke has pushed for greater accountability when AI is used to make consequential decisions in employment, housing, credit, education and other areas. And the NAACP is challenging the expansion of AI data centers over concerns including pollution, water and energy use, utility costs and insufficient community input.

Those questions are now playing out here in Chicago, where Mayor Brandon Johnson has proposed a one-year moratorium on new or expanded data centers while the city develops regulations addressing their effects on energy, water, pollution and residents’ quality of life.

Those concerns illustrate why inclusion must be part of what we mean by responsible AI. Responsible AI cannot mean only preventing AI from someday escaping human control. It also has to mean making sure the AI we are deploying today does not deepen inequities we already know too well.

The Gates Foundation’s new Goalkeepers report emphasizes that AI could become a powerful equalizer or deepen existing inequalities. The foundation is putting its money where its mouth is, committing at least $1 billion over two years to expand access to AI and help ensure its benefits reach people who might otherwise be left behind.

Bill Gates writes that the people with the greatest needs often have the least power to determine where innovation and investment go.

That sounds eerily familiar.

Black Americans know from experience that national progress does not guarantee racial equality. The United States has grown richer, stronger and more technologically advanced while Black people have too often been denied an equal opportunity to share in that progress.

We should not repeat that pattern with AI.

Going all-in cannot mean committing everything to making the technology more powerful and then hoping safety, opportunity and equity somehow catch up.

Going all-in means going all-in on responsibility, too.

All-in on technical safety. All-in on privacy. All-in on preparing workers. All-in on helping schools and students navigate the technology wisely. All-in on preventing old biases from becoming automated ones. And all-in on making sure Black students, workers, professionals and entrepreneurs can help shape AI and benefit from it rather than simply absorb its disruptions.

The AI industry is already going all-in on development. Black people should insist that responsibility includes us, too.

We don’t know how our country’s gamble on AI will turn out. But Black people need a seat at the table so we can play our hand.

The post Responsible AI Development Requires a Seat at the Table for Black America appeared first on Chicago Defender.

Based on reporting by Chicago Defender.

Is there a safe place for African Americans in the USA in 2026? What area or city can African Americans go to in order to feel safe and relax? This question came to me as I listened to an African American male talk about where he felt safe in a city. The answer to the previous question should be, “An area where other African Americans reside.” In today’s world, that statement might be a lie.

The African American man was adamant that when he visited another city, or even in his hometown, he felt safer in all-white environments. I listened to him and thought, “Is he right? Do I feel comfortable and safe around white people more so than African Americans?” I ended the conversation with the African American and continued thinking. “Has self-hate corrupted the African American mind to the point where they feel safer around those who have exploited them than themselves?” The question was so simple I had to laugh because the answer went straight to the root of the issues that plague the African American community. Many African Americans feel safer in predominantly white environments.

Many will argue that this is a broad statement and point to the makeup of the majority of cities that have a high number of African Americans. Yes, in a typical US city, it may seem that African Americans seek each other out. This is true, but are they seeking African American communities for safety, or because they cannot afford to live anywhere else? Are African Americans safe in the areas they live in that are majority African American? These are the questions where the answers can get uncomfortable.

There is no need to mention the crime rate in any so-called “African American Ghetto.” We all have heard the numbers and seen the actions that shock the world about African American interactions. The endless violence. The anger and aggression towards each other. The failing schools that are located in many African American communities. Are these factors that lead African Americans to feel safer around the people who created their misery? Is the seeking of safety around whites by African Americans even a sane act? I’ll let you answer these questions yourself.

We all know self-hatred is one of the main ingredients of the misery that shapes many African American communities. Yet, there is another ingredient that is often overlooked that gives the miasma a kick. Ignorance. Ignorance has become a mainstay in the African American community to the point where African Americans see it as the norm. Ignorance of self and lack of common sense have warped the mindset of many African Americans in the USA. Ignorance leads to a mental lack that keeps African Americans from understanding the issues they face. An ignorant person would run to the people who created their misery out of blindness, seeking safety. Doesn’t that sound like many African Americans in 2026?

African Americans should have overcome self-hatred and ignorance, with all the technological advances in modern society. That does not seem to be the case. The African American male mentioned earlier has a degree and uses technology daily for work and pleasure. Is he ignorant, or just being realistic in his assessment of the state of the African American community?
Are African Americans truly safe in all white environments? I won’t answer this because one common factor follows African Americans wherever they go. That common factor is themselves. If an ignorant, self-hating African American moves to White Heaven, they will still be who they are. In such cases, their ignorance and self-hatred may provoke the heavenly whites to attack on various levels. After all, who wants to be around someone who hates their own people, and self?

There will be no safe place for African Americans anywhere on the planet until they feel safe with what is looking back from the mirror. Until that day comes, White Heaven beckons.

Frank James IV © 2026
[email protected]

The opinions expressed in this editorial are those of the writer and not of the Milwaukee Times Weekly Newspaper or HT Group, LLC, its staff or management. “Being Frank” is a bi-weekly column exclusive to the Milwaukee Times Weekly Newspaper.

Based on reporting by Milwaukee Times Weekly.

WASHINGTON (HUNS) – On the second Sunday service of the semester at the Andrew Rankin Memorial Chapel at Howard University, Rev. Judy Fentress-Williams, called on the Black church to be more steadfast in its efforts to elevate Black women to the pulpit.

On August 30, the renowned biblical scholar and senior teaching assistant of the Alfred Street Baptist Church in Alexandria, Virginia, spoke on the Biblical parable of the mustard seed with her sermon titled “Think Small”. Her sermon urged young people not to abandon their purpose in pursuit of accolades, but instead to pursue freedom and belonging without having to prove themselves. This sentiment is difficult for Black women who want to become senior leaders.

“Because of the unique context that was Alfred Street Baptist Church, I didn’t get pushback because I was a woman,” Rev. Fentress-Williams said. “What I will say is that I think I was slow to answer my call to ministry, and that’s typical for many women. Many women hear a call to ministry and say, no, that’s called a teacher.”

Despite teaching for 20 years, her journey into ministry illustrates the lack of acceptance for women to fully pursue their calling.

According to the Pew Research Center, 73% of Black adults identify as Christians (65% being Protestant, 4% being Catholics, and the other 4% associated with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and Jehovah’s Witnesses). However, Black women who make up 64% of congregations within the Protestant faith only account for 1% of senior leadership.

The disparity highlights how the Black church remains patriarchal in its authority. Rev. Kelly U. Farrow, founder of the Circle of Sacred Fire, a non-profit initiative that connects the 1% and dismantles those patriarchal beliefs.

Since 2018, the organization has curated teachings in sermon design and sisterhood for Black women. The organization has 58 circles nationwide, including collegiate chapters.

“[It] is critical because representation matters. We need to see every diversity, every gift, every voice, every shade, every age group in leadership at this time. Without representation, we are only singing and sharing half the song.” Rev. Farrow said.

Representation remains critical for younger generations already experiencing the pushback. Andrea Pool, president of Howard’s Community Gospel Choir, says being a young woman holding the highest position in the organization has made others question her ability to lead.

“I think coming to D.C. definitely just exposed me to a lot because with me being raised by people who were in the church, with my mom being a minister,” Pool said. “I didn’t realize there was another world out there that didn’t appreciate having females in leadership.”

The choir forges an acceptance of many Christian beliefs amongst members to stand on biblical principles. However, Pool is adamant about leaning on women leaders, like her mother, to remind her that identity and relationships alone are not what will make her a great leader.

“I think women in leadership can take younger generations, honestly, everywhere. I think in [the] church it is important to understand that men aren’t the only people who can lead. They aren’t the only people who can bring people to Christ.” Pool said.

Based on reporting by Howard University News Service.

Standing up to a bully requires more than slogans, press releases, or carefully staged outrage. It requires looking power in the face, refusing intimidation and saying, plainly, no. Congresswoman Joyce Beatty has that courage.

The Ohio Democrat and former chair of the Congressional Black Caucus is standing virtually alone inside the Kennedy Center’s governing structure against Donald Trump’s attempted seizure of a national cultural institution. Trump has installed loyalists, pushed aside dissenters, and tried to plaster his name onto a building Congress designated as a living memorial to President John F. Kennedy.

Beatty sued. And she won, not once, but twice. She did not merely issue a statement; she used the law, reminding Trump and his enablers that public institutions are not presidential playthings and that a board vote cannot erase an act of Congress.

Trump answered with insults and threats. During a virtual board meeting, he reportedly called Beatty “destructive,” claimed she had “never built anything,” and threatened to hold her responsible if the deteriorating building caused a death. That was not an argument. It was intimidation dressed up as authority.

Beatty did not fold. She has been pepper-sprayed while protesting police violence and arrested while demanding voting rights. She knows what it means to put her body, not merely her name, behind a principle. Now she is defending a public institution from a president who thinks anything touched by government belongs to him.

Audacity means boldness, nerve, even temerity. It is neither virtue nor vice until we ask: audacity in the service of what?

Trump’s is criminal audacity: the brazen nerve to privatize public memory and turn a national memorial into a vanity project. It is audacity in the service of ego, domination and theft.

Beatty’s is righteous audacity: the moral nerve to confront illegitimate power and refuse to be muted. Accepting the Nobel Peace Prize in 1964, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. declared, “I have the audacity to believe,” then spoke of food, education, culture, dignity, equality and freedom for people everywhere. That was audacity in the service of justice. That is the tradition Joyce Beatty claims.

Coming out of Congressional Black Caucus Week, her example provokes a larger question: What is Black political power for?

The CBC was founded in 1971 by 13 members who understood that representation without collective action was insufficient. They boycotted President Richard Nixon’s State of the Union address and demanded a meeting about Black America. They were not invited to power’s table because the powerful developed good manners. They organized, insisted, and disrupted.

Today the CBC is larger and more institutionally powerful than its founders could have imagined. Black members hold seniority, key committee positions, and party leadership. Hakeem Jeffries could become the first Black Speaker of the House. But proximity to power is not power, and titles are not transformation.

CBC week brings urgent policy debates about voting rights, economic justice, health, education and Black political power. It gathers ambitious young people, seasoned public servants, advocates and entrepreneurs, along with more receptions than any human can reasonably attend. Yet we must not confuse access with action or networking with movement-building. The measure of the gathering comes after the ballroom lights go dark.

Will voting rights be defended and predatory redistricting challenged? Will Black unemployment, Black maternal mortality and the racial wealth gap be treated as emergencies rather than perennial panel topics? Will elected officials confront authoritarianism when it is risky?

Joyce Beatty has answered with her actions.

Her fight is about more than a building. Cultural institutions tell us whose history is honored and whose names endure. Trump’s desire to rename the Kennedy Center is part of his effort to rewrite history, punish dissent, and place himself at the center of every American story. He does not simply want power. He wants tribute. Beatty refuses to pay it.

Black women have often supplied the labor and backbone of American democracy while others received the credit. They organize voters, steady institutions, defend the Constitution, and are told to lower their voices. Beatty’s voice was literally muted during a Kennedy Center meeting. She found another microphone: the federal courts. Resistance is not always a march. Sometimes it is a lawsuit, a vote or a refusal to consent. Sometimes it is one woman in a hostile room saying, “You may have the votes, but you do not have the law.”

Courage deserves to be named. We saw it in Barbara Lee, standing alone against the sweeping 2001 Authorization for Use of Military Force and warning against a blank check for endless war. We saw it in Barbara Jordan, a freshman on the House Judiciary Committee, making the Constitution thunder during Watergate. We see it in Maxine Waters, using her financial leadership to confront predatory lending, discriminatory finance, and attacks on consumers. And we see it now in Joyce Beatty.

The CBC has long called itself the conscience of the Congress. Conscience is not a ceremonial title. It is a duty. At a moment when too many people accommodate the outrageous, normalize the abnormal, and calculate the cost of speaking, Beatty has chosen to fight. Her righteous audacity is not simply that she challenged a president. She refused to let public memory become private vanity.

Dr. Julianne Malveaux is a Washington, D.C. based economist, author, and commentator. Visit www.juliannemalveaux.com.

Based on reporting by Gary Crusader.

By Bo Tefu, California Black Media

Rev. Leon William “Sonny” Clark, longtime pastor of New Spirit Baptist Church in Santa Ana and a respected faith and community leader in Orange County, died Sept. 9. He was 72.

Born Oct. 2, 1953, in Bennettsville, South Carolina, Clark was a U.S. Navy veteran who later built a life of service centered on family, faith, ministry, and community.

Clark began his formal ministry at Metropolitan Baptist Church in Altadena in 1978. After acknowledging his call to ministry in 1980, he preached his first sermon and went on to serve churches throughout Southern California, including Second Baptist Church in Riverside, Mount Vernon Baptist Church in Rubidoux, Antioch Missionary Baptist Church in Pomona, and Friendship Baptist Church in Yorba Linda.

In November 2003, Clark was called to lead New Spirit Baptist Church in Santa Ana, where he served as pastor for more than 22 years. His work extended beyond the pulpit through counseling, mentoring, civic engagement, and efforts to strengthen Orange County’s African American community.

Clark served on the Orange County Heritage Council and supported efforts to preserve and celebrate African American history and culture. He helped organize the Orange County Black History Parade and Unity Festival, served on the Interfaith Committee and the Orange County Transit Authority, and served as president of the Orange County Ministers Conference.

In 2024, the City of Santa Ana recognized Clark for his contributions to the community. He also received the Orange County Southern Baptist Association Hall of Faith Award and was previously honored as Pastor of the Year by the Orange County Heritage Council.

Clark is survived by his wife, Andrea Joyles Clark; six children, Shawn Williams, Le Ondra Clark Harvey, Kyla Coward, Joshua Clark, Marissa Clark and Ashley Clark; grandchildren and great-grandchildren; siblings; extended family; and the New Spirit Baptist Church congregation.

A wake will be held Thursday, Oct. 1, from 4 to 8 p.m. at New Spirit Baptist Church, 701 S. Sullivan St. in Santa Ana, with a remembrance service from 5 to 6:30 p.m.

A Celebration of Life will be held Friday, Oct. 2, at Friendship Baptist Church, 17145 Bastanchury Road in Yorba Linda. Viewing begins at noon, followed by the service at 1 p.m.

Burial will take place Monday, Oct. 5, at 10:15 a.m. at Riverside National Cemetery.

Clark often shared a guiding principle that shaped his ministry: “Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.”