Reflections from Jackson: Reaffirmed, Reconnected, and Ready

A few months ago, I received the amazing news that I had been selected for Cohort 3 of the Organizer Accelerator Program—built by organizers, for organizers—in partnership with the NAACP and Groundwork Project. Out of 350 applicants, only 16 were chosen. It was deeply affirming to be seen—not just for my work, but for who I am.

As the Director of Community Engagement at the Center for Policing Equity, I work every day at the intersection of justice and community. My job is to ensure that the voices of those most impacted are part of reimagining public safety. Being selected for this cohort affirmed that this work—quiet, intentional, often behind the scenes—matters.

Then we were told our first in-person convening would be held in Jackson, Mississippi.

Honestly, my first thought was “Oh no.” My only memory of Mississippi was from a childhood road trip as we moved from California to Georgia. It was a different time—no cell phones, just books, games, and family. But as we entered the Deep South, I saw fear settle into my parents. My white and Native grandmother had warned us: don’t stop in Mississippi. I didn’t understand why until that night, when we passed a burning cross. I still remember my mother’s face—her hand covering her mouth in fear. At 11, I couldn’t process the full weight of what I was seeing. But I never forgot it.

So when I landed in Jackson, I carried that history with me. But I was immediately greeted by two women from the NAACP with wide smiles and a warm “Hey y’all, welcome to Mississippi!” That moment changed everything. I felt welcomed, not wary.

That evening, I met the rest of my cohort—organizers from across the country. Georgia, Oklahoma, Massachusetts, West Virginia, Nebraska, Texas, North Carolina, and more. We bonded over shared struggles: imposter syndrome, burnout, being the go-to for everyone but forgetting ourselves. I finally felt like I wasn’t alone.

Our first full day included a visit to Tougaloo College, a space so rich in history you could feel it in the walls. Later, I had the chance to meet Joe Kennedy—a surreal moment. I’ve long admired Jackie O. for her elegance, so to meet a Kennedy who is both honoring and redefining his family’s legacy was unforgettable.

We also toured the “Two Mississippi Museums,” which held nothing back. I wept as I watched footage of lynchings and viewed Emmett Till’s open casket. Earlier, we heard from Hezekiah Watkins, a Freedom Rider who was arrested at just 13 and sent to Parchman Penitentiary—placed on death row for standing up for justice.

We closed with a visit to Medgar Evers’ former office—now home to the Jackson NAACP. The bullet holes are still in the walls. I met his daughter, Reena Denise Evers, who continues his legacy with grace. We also toured his home. I could feel the energy of that space—the pain, the courage. He built that home to protect his family, even designing a side entrance and gravel roof in case of attack. He knew the risks and still chose to lead.

During a panel titled “The South Got Something to Say”, someone asked, “What does progression look like?” I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Later, I said, “Progression for me is when I can walk through a museum and not see the same injustices—just modernized versions.”

That question still sits with me.

People often speak poorly about the South, seeing only its scars. But what they don’t realize is that the South is where the roots are—where resistance took shape and movements were born. And though the shadows of Jim Crow still linger, as André 3000 said, “The South got something to say.”

This experience reminded me why I do what I do. The work we do at CPE is often behind the scenes—listening deeply to communities, supporting local ecosystems, shifting harmful narratives about public safety. But it matters. Every listening session, every strategy meeting, every resident who feels heard is one step toward liberation.

In Jackson, I was reminded that change doesn’t always look big and loud. Sometimes, it’s the quiet moments—shared stories, deep listening, and the warmth of being truly seen—that shift everything.

And I’m grateful to be part of that shift.