The TV cast a stark, brutal light over the living room, illuminating my mother’s face as we watched the video of Tyre Nichols’ assault together. She sat next to me, 60-something years old, a woman who has lived through her share of injustice and yet somehow, each time, the pain lands fresh. As the footage played, she shook her head, muttering words that pierced the silence between us: “They didn’t have to do that boy like that.”
Her voice held the weight of every incident, every assault, every silent and not-so-silent act of violence she’s witnessed in her lifetime. There was a world of exhaustion in those words, an unspoken reminder that, in all her years, justice and mercy have too often felt like distant promises, even in moments when they were most desperately needed. As we sat together, it felt like the weight of generations bore down on us, each one grappling with this sickening realization: that for all our progress, so much still remains unchanged.
Moments like these remind me why, as a Black woman, I cannot afford to sit back during an election year. Watching Donald Trump’s influence on our nation—the rhetoric that emboldens hatred, the policies that dig deeper into our wounds—feels like a constant, chilling reliving of the Jim Crow era. It’s a modern-day public lynching, inflicted through policies and powers that harm us in ways that feel calculated and cruel. The phrase echoes in my mind: “He don’t have to do us like that.” Yet, each day, we see him and others in power act as though there’s a silent permission to disregard us, to dismiss the calls for change, and to double down on practices that uphold systemic inequities.
This is why our vote is vital. For Black women, 2024 is not just another election cycle—it’s a reckoning, a moment when we have the opportunity to push back against the tides of racism and misogyny that are dressed up as politics as usual. Voting isn’t just a right; it’s a tool of survival, a way of demanding acknowledgment and respect, of claiming the justice that our mothers and grandmothers dreamed of but often never saw. It’s our chance to hold leaders accountable and to say, Enough is enough.
The struggles that my mother has endured, and that I have witnessed, fuel my determination to make sure that my voice, my vote, and my resolve count. Watching that video reminded me of our pain, but it also reminded me of our resilience. Black women have always been a powerful force in our nation’s history. Our votes have led to shifts in policies, inspired movements, and disrupted the status quo. We are a force to be reckoned with—and this election is no different.
In 2024, we must stand together, casting our ballots not just as citizens, but as stewards of a legacy that demands to be seen, heard, and honored. We must channel our anger, our grief, and yes, our hope, into action. We vote because we cannot watch another generation inherit the same brutal realities. We vote to demand a future where Black lives matter in every sense, and where justice is not just a word spoken but a right lived.
This year, as we approach the polls, let’s remember my mother’s words: “They didn’t have to do that boy like that.” Those words are both a painful reminder and a call to action, urging us forward. We vote because we know we deserve better—and we are determined to see a world that reflects that truth.
Kirstin Cheers is the deputy director of public relations at KQ Communications. She holds a master’s in communications studies from the university of Memphis. She lives in Memphis, TN.
If you were to ask anyone on my campus to describe November 6, the day after the presidential election, they would likely respond with the word “unremarkable.” For this reason I think it is more important than ever to tell the unremarkable story of my Appalachian campus, cozily nestled in a sea of red, one day after the 2024 presidential election.
In the weeks leading to Election Day, I visualized campus on November 6 with one candidate elected and then-the other. In one scenario I imagined campus in turmoil, an externalized expression of feelings including scenes of protests, riots, and unrest. In the second scenario, I imagined the same turmoil but within myself as a form of internalized grief knowing I would be in the minority. Regardless of whether my candidate won, I was loathing the day after the election because of my uncertainty about how campus was going to react. My coping method for dealing with anxiety was to extinguish fearful fantasies the minute they ignited and ignore this major historic event that was about to happen.
Fast forward to Wednesday, November 6. I walked into my office at 8 am having had very little time to reflect on or process the election. In an ideal situation, I should have had a day to digest the results and gauge students’ demeanor, but I did not have that privilege. I had to jump in with the belief that the world’s worst topic I could discuss the day after the election was how to build a persuasive argument with logic and credibility in a public speaking course. I had one hour to figure out how to address this sensitive topic in a way that did not inflame a potentially already agitated audience–students. My head was not clear after a sleepless night of watching election results and I was doing a miserable job of keeping my emotions composed. I was nervous and foolishly unprepared to teach an already difficult topic to a public speaking class with what I imagined to be a room full of happy students as the majority and a small group of sad students as the minority.
In my anxious and frantic state, I resorted to talking through my thoughts with my Dean by using her as a sounding board at 8:30 am. I had a few tears of anxiety but she remained stoic. Her reaction to my anxiousness was so muted that I began to wonder if I needed to be as nervous as I was. Thankfully, in a few minutes we brainstormed a way to teach logic through lighthearted topics like, why our town should serve free ice cream once per month. This simple approach nurtured my feelings and convinced me to have courage to face students and the day’s topic. My goal was to carry business on as usual without causing emotional instability. I have been especially sensitive towards the emotional tone of my classroom since the pandemic where dark clouds of social isolation and anxiety loom; where concealed weapons on campus have recently been made legal; and where students of an Appalachian community college struggle with real-world issues like poverty, caring for terminally ill loved ones, and drug addiction. By the time I arrived to class at 9:30 am, only one of my colleagues had mentioned the previous night’s election.
After I gave a quick lesson on logic and had students work in groups to create an argument with their lighthearted topics, I realized everyone seemed astoundingly normal. Not one group brought up politics or strayed off topic to discuss election results. They were all very focused on the assignment but were struggling significantly. They could not figure out how to take a stance and build an argument. One group even begged me to tell them what their stance should be on their topic of what season is the best of all. I began to realize the majority were struggling with the assignment because they were terrified to form an opinion among peers whom they had been building relationships with for over 13 weeks. Then I realized their reticence on the election results was for similar reasons. I wanted to be certain that this was true, so I talked to one of the small groups that seemed “safe” to unleash my thoughts.
I explained that it bothered me that there was inevitably both happiness and sadness in the room but not a soul would know. I told them I imagined this being extremely lonely. I explained that I could not imagine anything worse in the world than to feel unable to share a feeling of any kind with anyone and that is what I imagine their experience being with the election. I visualized feelings of emptiness and loneliness as more terrifying than any election results and explained that my wish for them is to take my lesson on how to build an argument to build confidence in learning how to share an opinion and even more importantly how to share an emotion with others. As I was talking, I could tell my words deeply resonated with the students. Students agreed, not through their words, but through their nonverbal reactions. This may not sound like much; but in my post-pandemic days of teaching, the biggest struggle I have is eliciting any kind of verbal or nonverbal response. For the first time this semester, I felt like I was truly talking to humans with real feelings and opinions. Not a single student found the courage to discuss this further but I knew I had left them feeling validated for their undisclosed feelings.
I came back the next day with a new group of public speaking students and tested what I had said to the small group the previous day. I wanted to be sure my perception was accurate. This time, I got one brave student to raise a hand and say, “That is a very kind way of describing us but do you feel deceit when students don’t express themselves?” I responded, “Of course not; I believe that fear to express an opinion and feelings is a very real experience and I want more than anything to empower them to conquer those fears. Loneliness is more terrifying than any elections results.” I could tell I had touched another group of students who were also silently struggling for a voice but were lost in how use them.
To this day, November 14, only one colleague has initiated a conversation about the election results with me and not one single student has. If any election results were discussed on campus, it was because I initiated the conversation. It appears someone has pushed the mute button on my campus for all voices. So, there we have it, a seemingly unremarkable story with a strong message about Generation Z, our inability to engage in meaningful dialogue, and the future of democracy.
Biography
Dr. Mary Beth Held is an Associate Professor of Communication Studies at a community college in Appalachia, where she has dedicated over thirteen years to fostering student voices and academic growth. Dr. Mary Beth Held holds an M.A. in Communication Studies from West Virginia University and a Ph.D. in Higher Education Administration from Ohio University. Her passion for empowering students through effective communication continues to be the driving force of her work, as she remains committed to helping her students develop the skills and confidence to succeed both in and outside the classroom. If you would like to reach Dr. Mary Beth Held, they can be emailed at mheld@wvup.edu.
As a Nurse Practitioner (NP) in primary care, I see firsthand how the health of African- Americans in Memphis is shaped by social, economic, and systemic factors. Memphis, a city rich in culture and history, is also a city where health disparities—particularly for African-American communities—are stark. Despite advances in medicine and healthcare delivery, African- Americans in Memphis still face significant barriers to achieving optimal health outcomes.
As a healthcare provider on the front lines, I am continually reminded that these disparities are not just the result of biological differences, but are intricately tied to socio-economic conditions, historical inequities, and the structure of our healthcare system. In this post, I will explore these health disparities, provide insights based on my practice, and offer thoughts on how we can move forward as a community.
The Scope of Health Disparities in Memphis
African-Americans make up approximately 65% of the population in Memphis. However, this majority population experiences some of the highest rates of chronic disease, such as hypertension, diabetes, and heart disease. According to the Shelby County Health Department, African-Americans in Memphis have significantly higher mortality rates from conditions like heart disease and stroke compared to their white counterparts. These health issues are often diagnosed later, managed less effectively, and result in worse outcomes.
Chronic Diseases
Memphis is often ranked among the top U.S. cities for obesity, and within the African-American community, rates of obesity are disproportionately high. Obesity is closely linked to conditions like hypertension and diabetes, both of which are prevalent among African-American patients I see in primary care. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), African-Americans are 40% more likely to have hypertension and are twice as likely to die from it as non-Hispanic whites.
I routinely encounter patients who present with blood pressure readings well above the target range for hypertension. Often, these individuals have not seen a healthcare provider in years—sometimes due to lack of access, other times due to distrust of the healthcare system. The long-term, unmonitored progression of hypertension contributes to heart disease and stroke, leading causes of death among African-Americans in Memphis.
Diabetes is another pervasive issue. African-Americans are twice as likely to develop type 2 diabetes, and in Memphis, complications from this disease—such as kidney failure, amputations, and blindness—are tragically common. In my practice, I work diligently with patients on lifestyle changes, medication management, and diabetes education, but the social determinants of health make long-term control difficult for many.
Mental Health
Mental health disparities among African-Americans in Memphis are equally concerning. African-Americans are less likely to receive treatment for mental health issues, even though they experience similar rates of conditions like depression and anxiety compared to other racial groups. Structural racism, economic disadvantage, and the trauma of living in poverty-stricken neighborhoods contribute to high levels of stress and mental illness.
In my role, I often serve as a first point of contact for patients who are struggling with their mental health. It’s not uncommon for African-American patients to report somatic symptoms—such as headaches, fatigue, or unexplained pain—that are tied to stress or untreated depression. Yet, due to stigma and lack of access to mental health professionals, many patients do not receive the treatment they need.
The Root Causes of Health Disparities
The health disparities in Memphis are not solely the result of individual behaviors. They are rooted in broader social determinants of health—conditions in the environments where people live, learn, work, and play. Many African- Americans in Memphis are, unfortunately, more likely to live in poverty, experience unemployment, and face food insecurity—all of which contribute to poor health outcomes.
In my experience, the lack of access to healthy foods is a major issue in predominantly African-American neighborhoods. Many of my patients live in food deserts, where fresh fruits and vegetables are hard to come by, and fast-food options dominate. When I talk to patients about managing their diabetes or hypertension, I often hear the same response: “It’s hard to eat healthy when the only grocery store near me doesn’t carry fresh produce.”
Another major barrier is access to healthcare itself. Many African-Americans in Memphis are either uninsured or underinsured. Even those with insurance often face long wait times for appointments or live far from healthcare facilities. This delay in accessing care leads to late diagnoses and complications that could have been prevented with earlier intervention.
Solutions and the Role of Nurse Practitioners
As a Nurse Practitioner, I believe that we are uniquely positioned to address health disparities, particularly in primary care. Our role allows us to form long-term relationships with patients, focus on preventive care, and address not just the symptoms of disease but the root causes as well.
Culturally Competent Care: One of the most important aspects of reducing health disparities is delivering culturally competent care. In my practice, I make it a priority to listen to my patients’ concerns and validate their experiences. Building trust is essential, especially for African Americans who may have a history of mistrust with the healthcare system. This trust allows for better patient-provider communication, which in turn improves adherence to treatment plans.
Community Outreach and Education: I believe that healthcare providers must go beyond the clinic walls. In Memphis, community-based programs are crucial for reaching those who may not regularly access care. As an NP, I participate in health fairs and community education events that focus on preventive care, particularly in African American neighborhoods. These events help to raise awareness about chronic disease management, the importance of regular screenings, and mental health support.
Advocacy for Policy Change: Addressing health disparities requires systemic change. Nurse Practitioners can be powerful advocates for health equity. By pushing for policies that expand Medicaid, increase funding for community health centers, and address food deserts, we can help dismantle the barriers that disproportionately affect African Americans in Memphis.
A Path Forward
The health disparities among African Americans in Memphis are profound, but they are not insurmountable. As a Nurse Practitioner, I see the potential for change every day in my practice. By providing culturally competent care, engaging in community outreach, and advocating for policy changes, we can work together to reduce these disparities.
But this effort requires more than just healthcare providers. It requires collaboration across sectors—education, housing, transportation, and food systems must all work together to create environments that support health. In Memphis, where the challenges are great, the opportunity to create lasting change is even greater.
As I reflect on my role in primary care, I remain hopeful. Hopeful that with sustained effort, we can create a healthier future for African Americans in Memphis, where disparities in health outcomes are a thing of the past, and every patient has an equal opportunity to live a healthy, fulfilling life.
Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. (2023). The Role of Social Determinants in Health Disparities. https://www.rwjf.org/
Jimarie Nelson, MSN, APRN, FNP-C
Originally from Detroit, Michigan, she has called Memphis home for over a decade. J Jimarie holds an MSN with a concentration in Family Nurse Practitioner from the University of Memphis Lowenberg School of Nursing, a BSN from Louisiana State University Health Sciences Center, and a BA in Biological Sciences from Wayne State University.
Her passions for science, community service, and dance fuel her commitment to helping clients look and feel their best while driving growth and wellness in the community.
Ida B. Wells-Barnett is recognized throughout history for her late 19th-century antilynching campaign. Her activism—through numerous essays and pamphlets—contributed to a decline in lynchings during her lifetime. Ninety years after her death, President Joe Biden’s administration passed the Emmett Till Antilynching Act, a federal law that defines lynching as a hate crime. While Wells-Barnett’s laborious efforts eventually bore fruit, we must ask ourselves: at what cost did it take for the U.S. to finally pass a federal law prohibiting lynching? (Tianna Mobley, “Ida B. Wells-Barnett: Anti-lynching and the White House).
I often reflect on the personal and professional sacrifices that Wells-Barnett made in order to speak truthfully about lynching. In this piece, I want to discuss one of the highest prices she paid to report on lynchings in the South: her exile from Memphis, Tennessee. According to her autobiography, diaries, and biographies, Wells-Barnett had no plans to leave Memphis. She decided to return to the city after realizing that staying in Visalia, California, with her aunt would not work out ((Miriam Decosta-Willis, The Memphis Diary of Ida B. Wells: An Intimate Portrait of the Activist as a Young Woman)). At that time, Wells (who would later marry Ferdinand Barnett and become Ida B. Wells-Barnett) found that Visalia lacked the social and political life she was accustomed to in Memphis. As a young Black woman, she knew she would not thrive in Visalia, prompting her return to Memphis ((Ida B. Wells, Crusader for Justice). We can assume that Wells intended to settle down and start a family there. However, after returning to Memphis from a trip to promote her newspaper, The Free Speech, she received devastating news: her best friend, Thomas Moss, had been lynched. Motivated by his murder, Wells embarked on a path that would begin her antilynching activism, fundamentally altering her plans to make Memphis her permanent home (Nathaniel C. Ball, “Memphis and the Lynching at the Curve”).
Wells began this journey by writing an exposé that revealed the true reasons behind the lynchings of Thomas Moss, Calvin McDowell, and William Stewart. This exposé would later transform into one of the most impactful pamphlets of her career, Southern Horrors (Ida B. Wells, The Light of Truth: Writings of an Anti-Lynching Crusader). In the South, Black men were typically lynched on the pretext of having raped white women. Wells’s exposé dismantled this “threadbare lie,” exposing the rape myth narrative surrounding Black men. Her reporting revealed that Southern white men used this narrative as a red herring to obscure their true motivations: to prevent Black men from advancing in economic, political, and social spheres. Many Southern whites were threatened by the rapid gains made by emancipated Black people during Reconstruction and post-Reconstruction, especially those who resented the South’s loss in the Civil War.
Wells’s exposé enraged white Southerners even further. After her article circulated in Memphis, white mobs planned to lynch her. They descended upon the Free Speech office in search of her, but she was away on business (Paula J. Giddings, Ida: A Sword Among Lions: Ida B. Wells and the Campaign Against Lynching). They destroyed her office and threatened to lynch her upon her return. As a result, Wells’s career in Memphis ended, along with her dreams of a permanent settlement there. Yet, despite this setback, Wells bravely continued her fight against lynching by traveling to Britain for her antilynching crusade tour, which proved to be a success. She also found love with Ferdinand Barnett in 1895, and together they started a family in Chicago, Illinois, where they were well-respected politically and socially.
However, we should contemplate the “what ifs” of Wells staying in Memphis. When Southern Blacks like Wells were exiled for exposing racial violence, we need to consider what Memphis truly lost. While it is important to commemorate the impact that Memphis had on Wells, we should also ponder the further impact she might have had if she could have remained there. Instead of Wells’s family being based in Chicago, what if they had established roots in Memphis? Would there have been an Ida B. Wells Homes? What about Wells’s Black Women’s Clubs? Instead of the Ida B. Wells Homes being demolished in the early 2000s, could they have survived in Memphis? Perhaps the Ida B. Wells Woman’s Club and the Alpha Suffrage Club would have thrived in Memphis due to the deep Black Southern roots in the city.
I conclude with this thought: the past is immutable; we cannot change it. Because of her exile from Memphis, Wells became even more motivated to continue her social justice activism, which included public writing, speaking, and traveling. My aim is to highlight the imaginative possibilities of what could have been had Wells stayed in Memphis, while also addressing a larger reality. This reality is that Wells-Barnett and many other Black women sacrificed immensely for social change. We can admire their bravery, but we must also acknowledge the significant loss represented by the “what ifs.” I urge us to examine history not only through the lens of Black women’s courage but also through their sacrifices for the places and communities they cherished—motivated by a belief in a greater purpose: the freedom of Black people. I encourage us to consider how we can develop strategies to protect Black women without forcing them to abandon the places, spaces, and people they love, while still fighting for the advancement of their communities.
Sophia Muriel Flemming M.A.
PhD Candidate, University of Georgia
Sophia Flemming is a PhD candidate in Communication Studies with an emphasis on rhetorical studies. Generally, Flemming studies African American public address, specifically focusing on Black feminist and Womanist rhetorics from the 18th to the 21st centuries. Her research examines the topics Black women communicate about, their communication styles, how voice manifests in their experiences and epistemologies, how they interact and engage within and outside their communities, and, most importantly, how they communicate interpersonally and in public spaces.
