Stepping into philanthropy freshly out of undergrad feels like arriving at a crossroads—each step fueled by hope, shaped by history, and guided by purpose. Growing up in Durham’s Crest Street community, I learned from people who held on to what mattered, even in the face of systemic challenges. My grandfather, Willie I. Patterson, was a public servant and community leader who, in 1973, helped unite residents to stop the East-West Expressway from destroying homes, ties, and the historic New Bethel Baptist Church. Their fight taught me that protecting what you love requires more than passion—it demands resilience, action, and a vision for the future. Today, those lessons anchor my work as a S.O.A.R. Fellow at Laughing Gull Foundation (LGF), where I strive to honor that legacy by addressing systemic inequities and fostering pathways for justice.

Crest Street’s residents moved urgently, seeking help from attorneys Mike Calhoun and Alice Ratliff through the North Central Legal Assistance Program. They partnered with Duke University sociologist Elizabeth Friedman, whose study confirmed what we already knew: Crest Street’s bonds went far beyond bricks and mortar. Together, they took their fight to the Durham City Council, NCDOT, and FHWA, refusing to accept displacement as inevitable. Their victory wasn’t about one person; it was a collective movement powered by unity and resilience. Crest Street wasn’t just a neighborhood—it was the heart of generations, rich with stories, traditions, and deep connections. Elders passed down wisdom, and children dreamed of futures their ancestors fought to make possible. My grandfather and his neighbors understood that losing Crest Street wasn’t about losing buildings; it was about losing the soul of their community. Their fight wasn’t just to reroute a highway—it was to protect the dignity and identity of their people. What they achieved was extraordinary: standing united, they proved that true power lies in collective strength. Crest Street’s victory wasn’t just about rerouting a highway—it was a blueprint for resilience. That blueprint became my foundation, teaching me how to stand firm in the face of systemic challenges. Though I wasn’t born until 2000, the triumph of Crest Street resonates deeply within me. It taught me that protecting what you love is more than a responsibility—it’s a way of life. Their story shaped my moral compass, offering a blueprint for fighting for justice. Crest Street’s strength reminds me that justice isn’t abstract—it’s alive in the collective actions of people who protect their stories, their homes, and their futures. That legacy lives within me, guiding every step I take to create lasting change.

At North Carolina A&T State University, I learned what resilience truly meant. My time there ignited a fire, shaping not just what I wanted to do, but who I aspired to become. For generations, HBCUs have been at the forefront of cultivating Black excellence, providing opportunities that mainstream institutions often denied. The wins and losses I shared with my community—Black people, Black culture, Black leadership—refined me and solidified resilience as my compass. A&T was more than a place of education; it was a nurturing ground for growth, leadership, and activism. Through student organizations, cultural events, and shared experiences, I gained a deeper appreciation for how collective strength fuels individual success.

HBCUs have always been transformative spaces, fostering equity, opportunity, and cultural excellence despite decades of underinvestment. Yet today, they face critical challenges: enrollment is rising, demand is growing, but funding has not kept pace. Recently, I was able to contribute to an ongoing effort at Laughing Gull Foundation to intentionally build HBCUs into its grantmaking strategy, conducting research to help the organization as it seeks to address systemic underfunding of these institutions.

Through my work at LGF, I’ve been in a position to help shed light on inequities like these as our organization pursues strategies that build power and capacity for Black and Brown-led nonprofit organizations across the South. Our work reminds me daily of the resilience embedded in these spaces and the urgent need to invest in their futures. Supporting HBCUs and Black-led nonprofits is about investing in the visionary leaders who have always been at the forefront of social change. These are the people whose courage, wisdom, and resilience don’t just shape our world—they lead us toward a more just and liberated future.

Protecting what we hold dear is deeply personal to me. Growing up in Crest Street, I saw how systemic forces threatened our very existence. The East-West Expressway wasn’t just a construction project—it was a test of whether our voices, histories, and homes mattered. My grandfather and other community leaders fought relentlessly to ensure our neighborhood’s story didn’t vanish under the weight of asphalt and indifference.

In one of my first events as an LGF fellow, I had the opportunity to attend a HEFN site visit and witness these systemic inequities on a broader scale. In Sampson County, NC, the data and stories I’ve read about environmental racism became tangible. The stench of towering landfills was a stark reminder of how deeply these sites intrude on daily life. A lifelong resident shared how poisoned waterways robbed the community of sustenance, and contaminated deer bore alarming abnormalities. These stories weren’t abstract injustices; they were lived realities woven into a community’s fight for survival. At LGF, I’ve worked to explore what role philanthropy can play in addressing systemic inequities in land ownership and preservation. Land trusts in particular have the potential to be powerful tools for resilience, yet the barriers faced by BIPOC-led efforts reveal stark inequities: limited funding, reduced access to resources, and a struggle for long-term sustainability as a result. Black land trusts safeguard not only physical spaces but also histories, cultures, and futures. For marginalized communities, especially Black communities, land ownership is a powerful act of resistance against systemic dispossession. This realization has deepened my commitment to taking on a role in philanthropy that listens to and amplifies community-led solutions. This fellowship has been transformative in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. It has allowed me to engage deeply with complex issues while challenging me to think critically about philanthropy’s potential and its limitations. At LGF, I’ve learned that meaningful change doesn’t come from surface-level fixes—it requires a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths and reimagine systems of support.

Looking ahead, I see philanthropy as a bridge—one that connects resources with vision, hope with action, and communities with opportunities for self-determination. This work has taught me that change is possible, but it requires persistence, humility, and a willingness to evolve. While the challenges are immense, I remain anchored by the belief that every step toward justice matters.
Some days, the work feels like pushing against an unrelenting tide. Philanthropy often moves slowly and falls short. Yet, in these gaps, I find purpose—bridging the space between good intentions and lasting impact. Even small shifts can ripple outward, creating pathways for future generations. That weight could feel overwhelming, but I’ve learned to let it steady me, reminding me why this work matters and giving me the strength to keep climbing.

To be effective in this work, I must bring my whole self to the table. This journey isn’t just about what I do—it’s about staying steady enough to keep doing it. Self-care isn’t indulgence; it’s a lifeline. Somatic practices, meditation, and nourishing meals ground me, while moments of rest, like a hot Epsom salt bath, remind me to pour into myself. These routines aren’t just habits; they are acts of resilience that help me carry this work without being overwhelmed by it.

These practices ground me, creating space for stillness in a world that demands constant motion. They help me carry the weight of this work without being overwhelmed by it. In those quiet moments—whether it’s the steam from a cup of herbal tea or the softness of a hymn in the background—I find the strength to rise again. They remind me that resilience isn’t built through rushing but through pauses, where we slow down enough to remember why this work matters.

This fellowship has been a journey of learning, growth, and purpose. It has challenged me to think critically about philanthropy’s role in addressing systemic inequities while amplifying the voices and stories that often go unheard. Resilience, like justice, is an ongoing practice—a commitment to action, reflection, and care. At the HEFN gathering back in October, we were asked to connect with the stories that ground us. While I didn’t bring a keepsake—I brought the weight of my scars. In the stillness, I embraced the heaviness and let the words come. I wrote a poem, not to escape the pain but to honor the strength it forged. It was the genuine trust and transparency I felt in that room that allowed me to enter a vulnerable space mentally. In that atmosphere of safety and authenticity, I could share my story—not just as a reflection of pain, but as a testimony of triumph and resilience.

This poem is a testament to that resilience and the power of reclaiming our stories. Even in stillness, we are moving—toward justice, healing, and the futures we dare to imagine.

Just Still
RJO

Here I am.
Two feet on the ground, hands by my side…
just still.
Still going through the madness,
still cracking the same old jokes and laughing ’til it’s tears running down my cheek.
Still chasing the smell of victory, oh so sweet.
But I only smell gunsmoke, and boy does it reek.
The same tears of pure joy once were riddled with despair… week after week.
Days go by and you can’t remember why you didn’t find time to eat—
you don’t know the last time you brushed your teeth.

you’re just still…

Still from fear,
still from the front to your rear.

Yet one day, that weight begins to lift,
A subtle shift, a gentle drift.

You remember warmth, a glimmer of light,
Breaking the endless stretch of night.

Breath by breath, you start to reclaim
Pieces of self once lost to the flame.

You rise not with fury, but a quiet grace,
Learning to meet each shadow face-to-face.

Now the mirror shows more than strain—
It reflects someone who’s weathered the rain.

Not just a soul held down by fear,
But a steady heart that’s learned to steer.
Rooted in strength, unshaken, fulfilled,
Standing in power, no longer stilled.
The world may roar, or fall silent at will,
But here you are, unbroken—

just still.