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.”

By Steven A. Holmes Special to The Post

It is nearly 20 years since Chauncey Bailey, a crusading journalist, was murdered

on an Oakland street corner, gunned down to prevent him from writing stories about a

crooked business.

I hope people remember Bailey, a reporter and editor-in-chief for the

Oakland Post, the city’s Black newspaper. He had already written several articles about

the problems of a business called Your Muslim Bakery and was working on another

when the bakery’s owner ordered an employee to kill Bailey.

His murder shocked the journalism world that found the idea of an American

reporter killed for doing his job unfathomable. For me, the shock and sadness were also

personal.

I knew Bailey. In the mid-1970s we were classmates in the Michelle Clark Memorial

Foundation program, the precursor to the Institute for Journalism Education Summer

Program. A program, backed by the Ford Foundation, that provided intensive training

for fledgling minority journalism students and then placed them in jobs at newspapers

and television stations.

I’m reminded of Bailey and that program when I visit the East Bay at the end of

September to discuss the future of student journalism. To me, the visit will not only

evoke memories of Bailey. It will also be an opportunity to hone strategies to protect and

support student journalists who are under attack today, maybe not in the way that took away Chauncey Bailey, but an attack, nonetheless.

Spurred by the hostility toward the free press emanating out of Washington, high

school and college journalists are facing a barrage of censorship and harassment from

school administrators and local officials.

The 24-hour hotline staffed by the Student Press Law Center (SPLC), the non-profit I chair, has seen a 35% increase in calls from student journalists seeking legal advice on censorship, libel and copyright issues during the past two years, as well as a tripling in the number of complaints of harassment, including threats of firing, of faculty advisors.

I am not suggesting today’s national climate is as dangerous as the murderous

intentions of Yusef Bey IV, the man who ordered Bailey’s assassination. But the

harassment of student journalists does kill something else. It can destroy the desire of

student journalists to continue their growth to become professional news gatherers and

producers – something the country will always need.

It is that professional maturation that I’m reminded of when I think back on Chauncey

Bailey.

Truth be told, when we were classmates back in 1974 Bailey was the class clown,

known more for his sardonic wit than his writing or reporting talent. I have vivid

memories of Bailey sitting at his desk in the back of the room regaling us with sarcastic

comments. Sure, he was funny.

And he didn’t exhibit the level of reporting skills of our other classmates such as Milton Coleman who went on to be the Deputy Managing Editor of the Washington Post or Alexis Scott who for years has run the Atlanta Daily World.

After a series of reporting jobs in Hartford, Connecticut, Detroit, Michigan, and Oakland, Bailey had risen in talent and skill to helm this very newspaper. A tip from a source led Bailey to look into the possibility that Bey was running Your Muslim Bakery into bankruptcy. Word that Bailey was working on that story filtered back to Bey who ordered the journalist killed.

On August 2, 2007, Bailey was shot three times at point-blank range as he walked to work.

So, when I think of my trip to the East Bay my thoughts go to journalism’s past

represented by Chauncey Bailey’s sacrifice and what the staff and the board of SPLC

can do to secure the current and future work of student journalists.

Steven A. Holmes is a former Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. His novel “Black Messiahs” was published in May this year.

NABJ condemns President Donald Trump’s decision to deny access to MS NOW journalists and his threat to exclude CNN and Politico because of coverage he dislikes. The role of journalists is to hold power accountable on behalf of the American people. Government officials cannot reward reporting they find favorable with access, or withhold access as punishment for journalists who have scrutinized or criticized them. This retaliation is a threat not only to the news organizations being targeted, but to every journalist working to report independently and without fear of government reprisal. The White House belongs to the American people, and they have a right to know what their government is doing. Journalists must be free to ask difficult questions and report the answers. A free and independent press is not a privilege granted at the discretion of any president. It is a cornerstone to a healthy and functioning democracy. The First Amendment can never be optional.

Based on reporting by Texas Metro News.

By Marc H. Morial

National Urban League President & CEO

New York City’s troubling decline in reading scores, despite one of the most ambitious literacy reform efforts in the nation, is a wakeup call for the entire nation.

Across the country, reading achievement continues to decline. Nearly 40 percent of fourth graders read below the basic level and roughly a third of eighth graders are reading below basic, the highest share ever recorded.

Taken together, these numbers reveal a national literacy crisis that threatens economic opportunity, educational equity, and our nation’s future competitiveness.

Reading is not merely another subject in school. Reading is the foundation upon which all learning rests. A child who struggles to read struggles to learn history, science, mathematics, and civics. A young person who cannot effectively read and analyze complex information faces barriers to college completion, workforce success, and informed participation in our democracy.

That is why the growing literacy crisis is fundamentally an opportunity crisis. Behind every percentage point is a child whose future opportunities hang in the balance. Persistent achievement gaps mean that Black and Latino students continue to bear a disproportionate share of the consequences when reading instruction falls short. If we are serious about economic mobility and educational justice, literacy must be at the center of the conversation.

For more than two decades, many schools embraced Balanced Literacy approaches that sought to cultivate a love of reading by putting books in students’ hands and encouraging independent reading. The approach was well-intentioned, but too often foundational skills instruction, particularly phonics and decoding, suffered.

The evidence is increasingly clear that explicit, systematic instruction helps more children become successful readers. States and school districts that are embracing these principles deserve credit for moving in the right direction. But millions of students are already in middle school, high school, and even college struggling to read complicated texts, analyze difficult arguments, and complete entire books.

What is our plan for them?

Too many students arrive in high school lacking the reading stamina necessary to engage deeply with literature, history, or complex informational texts. College professors increasingly describe students who struggle with lengthy assignments that previous generations navigated more comfortably.

To be clear, Balanced Literacy alone cannot explain these trends. Increased screen time, constant digital distractions, shortened attention spans, and the dominance of algorithm-driven content all influence students’ reading habits and learning experiences.

Yet recognizing these factors cannot become an excuse for inaction.

Instead, it should compel us to think more broadly about literacy.

The challenge before us is not simply helping children sound out words. It is helping them develop the capacity to wrestle with complex ideas, sustain attention, evaluate evidence, and build knowledge through reading. It is helping them become informed citizens and lifelong learners.

And that requires a comprehensive, systemic strategy.

We need high-quality literacy instruction beginning in early childhood settings and extending throughout elementary school. We need to strengthen early intervention so that struggling readers receive support before learning gaps become entrenched. We must carefully examine the quality and effectiveness of programs serving our youngest learners, including Head Start and other early childhood initiatives.

At the same time, we need a national commitment to literacy recovery for older students. Districts and states should be developing evidence-based strategies that help adolescents strengthen comprehension, vocabulary, knowledge-building, and engagement with complex texts. Students who fell behind during the pandemic and those who continue to struggle deserve intensive support, not lowered expectations.

We should also have serious conversations about the role of technology in children’s lives. Restricting unnecessary screen exposure, particularly in the early grades, should be part of a broader effort to rebuild reading habits and attention spans that support learning.

More concerning than the decline in reading scores is the absence of a clear, large-scale strategy to address the growing crisis. Every year that a struggling reader falls further behind increases the likelihood that they will face lifelong educational and economic disadvantages.

The recent reading results from New York City are a warning. The national NAEP results are an even louder one. Together, they tell us that incremental change is not enough.

We know more about how children learn to read than ever before. We know that literacy is the gateway to opportunity. What remains to be seen is whether we have the collective will to act with the urgency this moment demands.

Our children cannot afford for us to wait.

Based on reporting by Jackson Advocate.

Peter Magubane was more than a photographer. He was a witness, storyteller, historian and courageous chronicler of one of the most turbulent periods in South African history. Born on January 18, 1932, in Vrededorp, Johannesburg, and raised in Sophiatown, Magubane discovered photography as a young boy after receiving a Kodak Brownie camera. That simple camera would eventually become his instrument for documenting the lives, struggles and determination of Black South Africans. He died on January 1, 2024, at the age of 91, leaving behind one of the most important photographic archives of South Africa’s apartheid era.

Magubane’s professional journey began at Drum magazine in 1954. He initially worked as a driver and messenger, but his ambition was to become a photographer. Under the mentorship of Drum’s legendary chief photographer Jürgen Schadeberg, Magubane developed his skills and began photographing major political and social events. His first significant assignment involved covering the 1955 African National Congress convention. From that point forward, photography became his way of documenting a country undergoing enormous change.

The South Africa that Magubane photographed was governed by apartheid, a system that legally enforced racial segregation and discrimination. For Black South Africans, everyday life was shaped by restrictions on where they could live, work and travel. Magubane did not limit himself to photographing politicians or famous leaders. He photographed ordinary people—children, workers, families and communities—giving the outside world a visual record of what apartheid meant in everyday life.

One of the defining moments of Magubane’s career came in 1960, when he photographed the aftermath of the Sharpeville Massacre. His photographs helped bring international attention to the violence surrounding resistance to apartheid. He also photographed the 1956 women’s anti-pass march, the Rivonia Trial involving Nelson Mandela and other activists, and numerous other events that became part of South Africa’s historical record.

Magubane paid an enormous personal price for his work. In 1969, he was arrested while photographing protesters outside Pretoria Central Prison. He was subsequently held in solitary confinement for 586 days. After his release, the apartheid government placed him under a banning order that severely restricted his ability to work and move freely. Yet the restrictions did not convince him to abandon photography. Instead, they demonstrated just how powerful the authorities believed his photographs could be.

In 1976, Magubane documented the Soweto Uprising, when thousands of Black students protested against the apartheid government’s education policies. His photographs captured young people confronting police violence and became some of the most internationally recognized images of the uprising. Despite the danger, Magubane continued photographing what was happening around him. His work transformed individual moments of protest into permanent historical evidence that could not easily be erased.

His creativity was matched by his determination to get the picture. Because authorities restricted photographers and attempted to prevent journalists from documenting certain events, Magubane sometimes concealed his camera in unusual places, including a hollowed-out Bible, bread and other objects. These methods allowed him to continue working when openly carrying a camera could attract police attention. His photographs demonstrated that documentary photography sometimes requires not only technical ability but extraordinary courage and resourcefulness.

After Nelson Mandela was released from prison in 1990, Magubane entered another important chapter of his career. He became Mandela’s official photographer and documented the transition toward democracy, including significant moments surrounding South Africa’s first democratic election and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. The photographer who had spent decades documenting resistance now had the opportunity to photograph a country moving toward a new political era.

Magubane’s legacy extends far beyond the individual photographs he made. He published numerous books, exhibited internationally and received major honors, including an honorary Doctor of Literature from the University of Cape Town in 2010. His photographs remain part of the historical record because they show not only the brutality of apartheid but also the humanity, resilience and determination of the people who lived through it.

Peter Magubane ultimately demonstrated the extraordinary power of photography. He understood that a photograph can preserve a moment long after the people who witnessed it are gone. His camera recorded injustice, resistance, suffering, courage and eventually freedom. For photographers today, his life offers an enduring lesson: photography is not simply about making beautiful pictures—it can also be about seeing clearly, standing close to history and making sure that important stories are never forgotten. Magubane’s photographs gave South Africa a visual memory, and his life’s work reminds every photographer that sometimes the most important picture is the one that history needs someone brave enough to make.

Based on reporting by The Positive Community.