Some people might say I’m a wee bit outspoken—and honestly, I take that as a compliment. I come by it honestly. My parents raised me to be informed, to speak up, and to speak out. But when I look back over my adult life, I can point to one pivotal moment when my voice wasn’t just heard—it was validated. And for that, I want to thank four remarkable women who saw something in me and made space for it to grow.

It was the late 1990s. I was early in my career—long before titles like bank Senior Vice President, Vice President of a university, nonprofit leader, or board chair were attached to my name. Back then, I was simply a young woman with a passion for service and a fire in my gut for justice.

It all started with an invitation from my dear friend Angela Rowe. She asked me to attend a meeting, the very first gathering of what would become the Virginia Foundation for Women. The organization was being launched by Mary Sue Terry—the former Virginia Attorney General, the first woman to hold statewide office in Virginia, and one of the few to do so anywhere in the country. Also in the room were trailblazers like Viola Baskerville, who I knew from volunteering on her successful city council campaign (before she became a Delegate and then Secretary of Administration), and Claire Guthrie Gastañaga, the first woman to serve as Chief Deputy Attorney General of Virginia.

I still remember how energized I felt at that meeting. After Mary Sue spoke, she opened the floor for questions. I raised my hand. At the time, the hot-button issue was “welfare to work,” and I had a concern: Would this new organization truly center all women—or only focus on the needs of affluent and professional women?

So I asked:
“What will this new organization do to help poor women—women being targeted by new welfare-to-work policies—get the training necessary for sustainable employment?”

Mary Sue didn’t dodge the question. She didn’t give me a polished, PR-safe answer. Instead, she looked me in the eye and asked,
“Are you willing to be part of the solution? If so, we can get started tonight.”

And that’s exactly what happened.

She introduced me to Carolyn Lambert, a powerhouse in human services. Carolyn simply said, “We’ll craft a plan together.” And we did. By the next meeting, I had worked with Carolyn to sketch out the beginnings of what would become the Welfare Transition Program. But I had no idea what was coming next.

At that second meeting, the press showed up. We gathered on the steps for a press conference. When a reporter asked a question about why the organization was necessary, Mary Sue turned and said,
“I’ll have someone else answer that.”

I don’t know if it was Claire or Viola—or both—who gently pushed me forward, but suddenly, there I was, at my very first press conference, answering a reporter’s question. When I finished, I turned to look at Mary Sue, Viola, Claire, and Carolyn. I couldn’t tell if the look on their faces was pride, surprise, or the shared realization that they had just found their newest project. Either way, from that day forward, they poured into me—mentoring, advising, trusting, and challenging me.

Over the next few years, I was traveling across Virginia, helping to develop and implement the Welfare Transition Program, advocating for low-income women, and making sure their voices were part of the conversation. I was no longer just speaking—I was being heard.

And now, more than 30 years later, we find ourselves at another pivotal moment. Virginia is poised to elect its first woman governor in the midst of a raging culture war that demands bold, grassroots leadership. But more than that, this moment is calling out for something else:
Women mentors.

So the question is this:
What are we doing to mentor the next generation of boldly outspoken women leaders?

Today, I look back with deep appreciation for Mary Sue, Viola, Claire, and Carolyn—four women who created space for me, lifted me up, and handed me the mic when it mattered most.

Now it’s my turn.

And I’m committed to pouring into others what they so graciously poured into me.

The Dream, Revisited: A Story on the Anniversary of Dr. King’s Assassination

As this day comes to a close, I’m reflecting on a heavy truth—today marks 57 years since Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated on April 4, 1968.

A bullet silenced the man, but not the movement.

Dr. King was taken from us just five years after his “I Have a Dream” speech and four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which outlawed segregation and discrimination in public spaces, schools, and employment.

His death wasn’t just the loss of a leader—it was an assault on the ideals he lived and died for: racial equality, nonviolence, and the radical hope of a Beloved Community where everyone could share in the dignity and wealth of the earth.

I was born after the Civil Rights Act. My generation is, in many ways, the dream realized. We walked through doors opened by the courage of those before us. And yet, on this day, I reflect not just with reverence—but with alarm.

Because if Dr. King were alive today, I believe he would weep.

Not just for what still exists—racism, voter suppression, erasure of history—but for what has quietly returned.

For the first time in 61 years, segregation is legal again in the United States.

In February 2025, the General Services Administration issued a memo outlining changes following a new executive order on diversity, equity, and inclusion. One change? The repeal of a 1965 executive order banning segregation among federal contractors.

The federal government no longer explicitly prohibits segregated restaurants, waiting rooms, or drinking fountains by its contractors.

This isn’t a legal technicality. It’s a moral failure.

So today—on this solemn anniversary—we must recognize that the dream is not a memory. It’s a mandate.

And now, 57 years after his death, it is our turn to answer.

As I honor Dr. King, I also honor those in my own family who stood with him:
    •    Aunt Vera Rahming Ward and Uncle Alfred Ward, who marched with Dr. King in Washington, D.C.
    •    Cousin Johnny Johnson, an attorney who dismantled segregation through the courts—opening venues like the Orange Bowl Stadium and Miami Springs Golf Club once closed to Black Americans.

Their courage lives in me.

Their legacy—and Dr. King’s—is not only remembered, but continued.

#MLK #CivilRights #Leadership #Equity #BelovedCommunity #Legacy

Photo: 23rd Annual MLK Community Celebration & Drum Major Awards. I serve each year as mistress of ceremonies and on the planning committee.

Challenging False Narratives About Welfare in America

It’s time to reject the false narratives about who receives welfare in America. When asked to picture a welfare recipient, many imagine a young Black single mother with children. This stereotype is not just misleading—it’s a deliberate lie that has shaped public perception for decades. And when you start with a lie, it becomes easier to justify the policies and rhetoric that follow.

The reality? 75% of welfare recipients are white, while 25% are all minority groups combined—a fact backed by the U.S. Census Bureau (I’ve included a chart from the most recent census data).

I first learned these numbers 20 years ago while working closely with United Way. I remember questioning why the brochures I saw primarily featured people of color as welfare recipients when the actual demographics told a different story. My voice was heard, and the organization took steps to better reflect the truth. That moment mattered.

Today, it saddens me to see people on social media claiming that Black Americans and other minorities are responsible for the national deficit due to so-called “handouts.” Not only is this untrue, but it distracts from the real issue: ensuring that all people in need receive support, regardless of race.

That is what a great nation does. Let’s focus on truth and compassion—not harmful myths. 

As I watch the erasure of African American history unfold, I take it personally because I know my own family’s legacy is at risk. My family is documented in the Florida archives for several significant achievements. A U.S. Post Office bears the name of a family member, and the building of my cousin’s medical practice—now a national landmark—receives annual funding for its upkeep. He was the first Black radiologist in South Florida. His brother, whose law practice operated in the same building, played a crucial role in integrating multiple establishments and schools in Florida, ultimately becoming the state’s first Black judge. And, in 1918, my ancestor was one of the country’s first civil rights activists.

The backlash against diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) and the related executive orders have prompted companies, organizations, and government agencies to reevaluate hiring and promotion policies under the guise of ensuring they are “merit-based.” Unsurprisingly, most have found that their policies were already based on merit. That’s because true DEI has always been about ensuring that women, people of color, LGBTQ+ individuals, and people with disabilities are not subjected to discrimination in the workplace. It fosters a sense of inclusion and belonging. So, when no violations of merit-based practices are found, yet the goal remains to dismantle DEI, what comes next? Apparently, the answer is to whitewash history—purging it from curriculums, websites, and public records.

So far, Donald Trump’s DEI rollback has resulted in the following:
 • The removal of historical content about the Tuskegee Airmen, the African American pursuit squadron that flew over 1,500 combat missions and earned three Distinguished Unit Citations.
 • The erasure of the Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASPs), a group of civilian women pilots who flew critical missions during World War II, including ferrying aircraft and towing targets.
 • The deletion of videos and at least three pages of Black history content from the U.S. Army website.
 • The removal of Black History Month photos from the Department of Defense’s visual distribution website.
 • The deletion of a U.S. Army Corps of Engineers story about Hattie Scott Peterson, the first African American woman civil engineer in the Corps.
 • The removal of a U.S. Army webpage detailing the timeline of LGBTQ+ acceptance in the armed forces.
 • The deletion of links on Arlington National Cemetery’s website that documented the contributions of Black, Hispanic, and female veterans.
 • The Pentagon erasing references to Richmond’s Leigh Street Armory, the nation’s oldest Black militia armory.
 • The elimination of DEI offices, programs, and content across all national museums.
•  This month the Trump administration eliminated the segregation clause. The federal government no longer explicitly prohibits contractors from having segregated restaurants, waiting rooms and drinking fountains.

 The alteration of historical records, such as removing references to Colin Powell’s African American identity—though Madeleine Albright’s status as the first female Secretary of State remains untouched. How long before Condoleezza Rice’s history is rewritten? Will they attempt to erase Barack Obama’s Black identity? Kamala Harris’s status as the first woman, Black, and Asian American vice president? Where does it stop?

The goal is to demonize DEI, which is ironic because the words diversity, equity, and inclusion are words that represent the aspiration of the U.S. Constitution and Bill of Rights (but when first written, these documents did not include women and people of color).

This is not the first time history has been rewritten to fit a whitewashed narrative. After the Civil War, several Black Americans were elected to local and state governments. In 1870, Hiram Revels became the first Black U.S. senator, and Joseph Rainey was elected to the House of Representatives. However, when Jim Crow laws took hold in the late 19th century, Black officials were systematically removed from office. The United Daughters of the Confederacy (UDC) then embarked on a decades-long campaign to reshape history. They funded Confederate flags on state buildings, erected monuments to Confederate soldiers across the South, and rewrote history textbooks to frame the Civil War as the “War of Northern Aggression,” emphasizing states’ rights over slavery. These revisionist history books were taught in Southern and Western schools until the late 1980s, shaping the beliefs of many leaders in power today.

So when politicians today claim they want a “return to accurate history that doesn’t make people feel bad” or invoke “Make America Great Again,” they are calling for a return to the very narrative the UDC created. Through textbooks, scholarships, and library funds, they sought to instill pride in white Southern heritage while erasing the political, social, and cultural advancements of Black Americans. In short, they wanted white school children taught they were better than everyone else. This is systemic racism at its finest.

I witnessed this revisionist history firsthand. When I moved from California to Virginia in the 10th grade, I noticed stark differences in my textbooks. I wrote about these disparities and won a national essay contest and scholarship—an achievement that made my father, a historian, incredibly proud.

The summer of 2020, after the murder of George Floyd, saw a reckoning. Confederate flags were taken down from government buildings, and statues honoring Confederate leaders were removed. Now, in 2025, we are experiencing the backlash—the “Big Payback.” The policies being rolled out align perfectly with Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation’s playbook for reshaping America, just as it did in the conservative resurgence of the 1980s. This is why we are witnessing the erasure of minority contributions to American history—because, to those in power, these contributions do not matter….and the people who hold the histories dear do not matter either. 

And yet, amidst all of this, I have yet to see calls to remove St. Patrick’s Day celebrations (or the removal of European or Russian immigrants) This month, on St Patrick’s Day, I put on my favorite green dress, enjoyed a traditional Irish meal in our office cafeteria, and celebrated alongside colleagues of all backgrounds. It was a fun and inclusive day—something DEI was meant to foster for everyone. But inclusion, it seems, is only acceptable when it fits a certain narrative.