Analysis: European Americans’ unemployment rate has remained steady for four straight months with virtually no change in unemployment rate. Asian Americans decreased 10 basis points and Latino Americans decreased 30 basis points from May, respectively. African America’s unemployment rate increased by 80 basis points from May.
AFRICAN AMERICAN EMPLOYMENT REVIEW
AFRICAN AMERICAN MEN:
Unemployment Rate – 6.9%
Participation Rate – 68.8%
Employed – 9,752,000
Unemployed – 721,000
African American Men (AAM) saw a increase in their unemployment rate by 170 basis points in June. The group had a mild rebound in their participation rate in June by 30 basis points. African American Men lost 117,000 jobs in June and saw their number of unemployed increase by 181,000.
AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMEN:
Unemployment Rate – 5.8%
Participation Rate – 60.9%
Employed – 10,248,000
Unemployed – 634,000
African American Women saw a decrease in their unemployment rate by 40 basis points in June. The group decreased their participation rate in June by 80 basis points. African American Women lost 84,000 jobs in June and saw their number of unemployed decrease by 50,000.
AFRICAN AMERICAN TEENAGERS:
Unemployment Rate – 19.2%
Participation Rate – 30.0%
Employed – 651,000
Unemployed – 155,000
African American Teenagers unemployment rate increased by 480 basis points. The group saw their participation rate increased by 210 basis points in June. African American Teenagers added 10,000 jobs in May and saw their number of unemployed also decrease 41,000.
African American Men-Women Job Gap: African American Women currently have 496,000 more jobs than African American Men in June. This is an increase from 463,000 in May.
CONCLUSION: The overall economy added 147,000 jobs in June while African America lost 193,000 jobs. From CNN, “It is becoming harder for Americans to find work: The average duration of unemployment rose from 21.8 weeks to 23 weeks, and the share of unemployed workers who have been out of a job for 27 weeks or longer rose to 23.3%, edging closer to a three-year high. Trump’s tariffs — and the dizzying back and forth on implementing them and pausing them — has caused many businesses to stall major decision-making or spending, including hiring.”
“History is not everything, but it is a starting point. History is a clock that people use to tell their political and cultural time of day.” – Dr. John H. Clarke
“I am 32 years old. I am married. I just had a baby. I called my parents for my birth certificate… these people gave me a photocopy.” — J.J. McAvoy
Cue the collective Black laughter that says, “Yeah… that tracks.”
For many African Americans—and children of Black immigrants—this scenario isn’t just relatable. It’s practically law. There exists in our households an unwritten yet universally enforced mandate: You do not own your documents. Your parents do. Whether you’re 12, 22, or 42, asking for your birth certificate is like requesting access to national security archives—at best, you’ll get a heavily redacted photocopy; at worst, a reminder that “they’re in a safe place” and no further information will be disclosed.
Yet what begins as a meme-worthy moment veiled in humor reveals something deeper—intergenerational trauma, immigration anxieties, institutional distrust, and the invisible threads of caretaking and control that define Black familial life.
Birth Certificates, Blackness, and Bureaucracy
Black people in America—and Black immigrants especially—understand the stakes of documentation in ways others simply don’t. It’s not just paper. It’s protection. It’s legitimacy. It’s survival. From the days of freedmen who needed freedom papers to prove they weren’t property, to Caribbean and African immigrants who were taught by necessity to file away every school record, immunization report, and ID in a manila envelope the size of a novel manuscript—documents are currency. And parents? They’re the vault.
HBCUs have long understood this dynamic, too. Campus move-in days often feature parents armed with accordion folders bulging with immunization forms, financial aid papers, and—yes—original birth certificates that will never see a dorm room drawer. Even at 18, as a student legally responsible for yourself, the assumption is clear: your documentation stays in the family archives unless and until it’s needed. And only your parents decide what constitutes “needed.”
The (Unspoken) Reasons Why
So why don’t our parents just hand it over?
1. Institutional Distrust: Historically, Black people have had good reason to distrust American institutions. From stolen land deeds to denied voter registrations to medical exploitation like the Tuskegee Study, paperwork—or the lack thereof—has been used as both sword and shield. Birth certificates especially were once used to deny African Americans social services, employment, and even their very existence in the eyes of the state.
Holding onto that paper is, in some ways, holding onto power.
2. Immigration Mentality: Immigrant parents—particularly from African, Caribbean, and Latinx backgrounds—often operate under the logic that documentation must be preserved, not just for legal reasons, but because replacement is not guaranteed. Many come from countries where losing a document meant spending days in government offices, or worse, being permanently excluded from education or employment. The habit of over-documenting is one born from necessity, not paranoia.
3. Generational Control: Let’s be honest—sometimes, it’s a control thing. Documents are a symbol of adulthood, of autonomy. But in many Black families, adulthood is earned, not merely reached by age. Holding onto your birth certificate is just one more way to remind you that your elders are still in charge. Even if you have a spouse, a job, a mortgage, and a child of your own.
4. Sentimentalism & Safeguarding: There’s also a layer of emotional preservation at play. For some parents, especially mothers, the birth certificate is a living memory. The hospital receipt, the baby bracelet, the inked footprints—these items are sacred. Giving them to you feels like giving away a piece of your infancy they’ve guarded like treasure.
A Cultural Running Joke… But Also a Warning
On Black Twitter, TikTok, and Instagram, stories like jjmcavoy’s are met with likes, laughs, and a flood of similar testimonies:
“I’m 38 and my mom just mailed me my baby teeth, but not my social security card.”
“My dad keeps the birth certificates in the Bible. You’ll never find them.”
“I asked my aunt for my birth certificate once. She said, ‘For what? You tryna run away?’”
These shared experiences are part of the Black collective memory—and they help build community through humor. But embedded in that comedy is a stark lesson: we don’t always feel safe in the system, so we create our own.
In Black America, documentation isn’t just paperwork—it’s protection. And when trust in state infrastructure is low, your parents become your bureaucratic buffer. They don’t trust “the system” to have your back, so they keep it all—just in case.
HBCUs and Documentation Culture
Within the context of HBCUs, this culture plays out in subtle but impactful ways.
Admissions Counselors at HBCUs are often more patient and understanding when a student says, “My mom has that,” in response to requests for transcripts or ID. They’ve heard it before—maybe they’ve lived it.
Financial Aid Officers are used to parents showing up to sign forms, not out of necessity, but tradition.
Registrars know that some students may not know their Social Security numbers off the top of their heads, because those numbers are still in a locked filing cabinet three states away.
This familiarity becomes a quiet advantage in navigating Black student life, especially when compared to predominantly white institutions (PWIs), where rigid adherence to individual responsibility can feel jarring.
When the System Fails, the Family Files
African American communities have long developed workarounds for systems that marginalize them. Oral histories compensate for redlined census data. Church records double as unofficial archives. Grandmothers are genealogists, tracing kinfolk across counties based on memory and letters, not legal filings.
Our parents’ refusal to give up your birth certificate is not just about withholding—it’s about preserving. Preserving your existence, your legacy, your ability to say “I am here, and I can prove it.”
Navigating the Handoff
Eventually, there comes a time when you must take ownership of your documentation. Whether it’s applying for a passport, enrolling your child in school, or—like Ms. McAvoy—giving birth to the next generation, adulthood demands paperwork. But the transition is rarely smooth.
So how do you make the leap from child to custodian?
1. Create a Formal Ask Instead of casually requesting it, frame the conversation around responsibility. “I’m building my family file. I’d like to keep originals of all my documents for safekeeping and future planning.”
2. Offer a Digital Archive Scan and share. Offer to digitize the family’s entire document archive as a service. You’ll likely earn enough goodwill to walk away with your originals.
3. Understand Their Fear Recognize that their reluctance comes from love, not spite. Thank them for safeguarding you all these years—and assure them you’ll carry the baton forward.
4. Seize the Entrepreneurial Opportunity This entire dilemma opens a major door for innovation. A Black entrepreneur could launch a culturally responsive document safekeeping and digital archiving startup designed specifically for African American families. Think of it as a cross between Dropbox, Notarize, and a legacy planning firm—infused with cultural empathy. This could include secure cloud storage, physical document lockers, and mobile apps with prompts for family milestones, estate planning, or even generational wealth transfers. Black-owned banks and credit unions are especially well-positioned to expand into this space, offering document protection services as part of their wealth-building and financial literacy programs. Imagine opening a savings account and also being offered a secure vault for your family’s vital records. In a world where trust and service matter, this is not just a business—it’s a cultural preservation mission.
Final Thought: A Legacy Worth More Than Paper
No, your Black parents are probably not going to give you your birth certificate—at least not without some emotional negotiation. And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay. Because behind their hoarding of paperwork is a story of resilience. Of protection. Of love in a world that hasn’t always treated our existence as worthy of documentation, let alone preservation.
They’ve held onto the receipts of your life because they knew someone had to.
So yes, laugh about the photocopy. Roll your eyes at the manila envelope. But when you finally get that official, embossed, gold-stamped certificate in your hands—thank them.
Because while you may just see a piece of paper, they saw proof that you mattered.
And they’ve been safeguarding that proof your whole life.
“Television doesn’t just reflect our world—it reinforces its unspoken rules. And sometimes, it’s in what’s left unsaid that the truth screams loudest.”
There is perhaps no show more foundational to African American Gen X and elder millennial identity than A Different World. Premiering in 1987 as a spinoff from The Cosby Show, the sitcom quickly found its own voice and purpose, blossoming into a cultural beacon that reflected the richness and complexity of Black college life at fictional Hillman College—an HBCU modeled after Spelman, Howard, and other elite institutions.
From apartheid and HIV awareness to campus politics and colorism, the show tackled subjects few mainstream programs dared to touch. But even within its groundbreaking storytelling, some narratives were never fully explored. Perhaps most glaring among these were the unexplored romantic pairings of Ron Johnson and Whitley Gilbert, and Kimberly Reese and Dwayne Wayne. Their absence is not simply a matter of creative choice, but rather a symptom of entrenched internalized hierarchies of colorism, class, and gendered desirability—even in Black-led creative spaces.
This isn’t merely nostalgia-fueled fan fiction. It’s a cultural audit.
Ron Johnson: Miscast by Archetype, Not Background
Ronald Johnson, Jr. was not some scrappy kid from the margins. He was a light-skinned, second-generation college student from Detroit, Michigan. His father owned a car dealership, and Ron worked summers there—signaling not just work ethic, but a proximity to Black wealth and business infrastructure. In fact, by Hillman’s standards, he and Whitley Gilbert were socioeconomically parallel: both came from upper-middle-class families, both had access to private social capital, and both had expectations of upward mobility baked into their upbringing.
And yet, Ron’s portrayal consistently tilted toward buffoonery. He was the punchline. The skirt-chaser. The guy you liked but didn’t take seriously. His aesthetic—flashy suits, jewelry, and New Jack Swing flair—was coded as nouveau riche and unserious, despite being emblematic of a generation of young Black men redefining business and culture.
Meanwhile, Whitley Gilbert, with her Southern debutante air, was elevated as aspirational. She was light-skinned, soft-spoken (when she wanted to be), and came from a family steeped in respectability politics. That she would end up with Dwayne Wayne—a Brooklyn-born, dark-skinned, ambitious math major with a heart of gold—was played as a triumph of emotional growth and opposites attracting. But the coupling obscured the more natural pairing: Whitley and Ron.
Why were two light-skinned, upper-middle-class, culturally fluent characters kept apart?
The answer lies in how class and colorism intersect with gender expectations in Black storytelling. Ron’s light skin and wealth didn’t earn him narrative maturity because he was not written as emotionally serious. Whitley’s light skin and wealth did, because Black women must still fit a limited spectrum of desirability to be seen as love-worthy.
The Subtle Rejection of Intra-Class, Intra-Color Love
Pairing Whitley and Ron could have offered a natural and compelling relationship arc, exploring how two Black elite youth—one from the industrial North, one from the genteel South—navigate love, identity, and social expectations. Ron was not without emotional depth. He showed loyalty, ambition (eventually co-owning a nightclub), and a genuine desire to be taken seriously.
But Whitley’s arc was preordained. She was meant to be elevated—refined through her relationship with Dwayne Wayne, whose dark skin, nerdy brilliance, and working-class roots made him both lovable and “in need of” polish. The show allowed Dwayne to evolve from a bumbling flirt into a serious partner, but that grace wasn’t extended to Ron. His business acumen was never valorized. His family wealth never framed as legacy-building. His light skin did not shield him from being typecast.
Why? Because Black masculinity on screen is often given limited templates: the hustler, the hero, or the helpmate. Ron didn’t fit any box neatly enough. He was light-skinned without gravitas, rich without respect, and flirtatious without the redemption arc. The result? He was denied the narrative dignity of love with someone in his actual social class.
Whitley Gilbert: The Chosen Debutante
Whitley’s character arc—from elitist to empathetic—was among the show’s most powerful. Her internal classism was challenged, her superficiality peeled away, and her vulnerability finally exposed. But she was also shielded by her presentation: light-skinned, poised, and conventionally attractive within Eurocentric standards.
This made her “worthy” of the show’s grandest romance—the epic, sometimes rocky, and ultimately redemptive love story with Dwayne Wayne. Their courtship wasn’t just about two young adults figuring it out; it was a narrative about respectability and romantic transformation, a staple of Black middle-class media.
But what if Whitley had fallen for Ron? It wouldn’t have been about transformation. It would have been about familiarity—two people from the same world finding common ground. That wasn’t the story the show wanted to tell. It wanted aspirational transformation, not intra-class reflection.
That choice reveals the quiet but powerful ways in which class and colorism combine to sculpt who gets to be complex, who gets to grow, and who gets chosen.
Kimberly Reese: The Invisible Anchor
If Whitley Gilbert was the show’s belle, Kimberly Reese was its backbone. Played by Charnele Brown, Kim was dark-skinned, hyper-focused, and working multiple jobs to stay afloat in pre-med. She represented a different kind of Black excellence: gritty, grounded, and God-fearing.
Yet, for all her virtues, Kim was largely ignored romantically. She had flings and moments, but never a grand love story. Her pairing with Ron was fleeting. Her moment with Matthew, a white medical student, felt more like a plot device than an earnest exploration of interracial love. She was never positioned as a leading lady in the way Whitley was.
But why not pair Kimberly with Dwayne?
Both were academically driven, socially awkward at times, and navigating the pressures of being exceptional. Both came from working-class families. A relationship between them could have explored what it means to build a future together—struggling to balance career goals, family expectations, and a desire to uplift each other.
Instead, the show doubled down on the colorist formula: dark-skinned man, light-skinned woman. Dwayne and Kimberly were emotionally compatible, but Kim was never allowed to be seen as “soft” or romantic enough to be chosen.
She was the strong Black woman. And in television, that often means being alone.
The Economics of On-Screen Desirability
At HBCUs, where the intersection of class and colorism is often most stark, these dynamics are not fiction. They are lived experience. Generational wealth, skin tone, regional culture—all shape who gets attention, who is seen as “wife material,” and who becomes invisible. A Different World was written by people who understood those dynamics intimately, which is why their omissions are so revealing.
The coupling of Dwayne and Whitley functioned not just as a love story, but as a marketing strategy. A light-skinned woman and dark-skinned man satisfied the public’s craving for aspirational integration—of class, color, and character. Ron and Kim, both of whom would’ve represented more internally coherent couplings with their respective counterparts, were left out not because they lacked chemistry, but because they challenged the marketable image of what Black love was supposed to look like on television.
The Reboot Hillman Needs
What if A Different World were rebooted with new eyes?
Ron and Whitley: two heirs to Black economic mobility navigating authenticity, ambition, and vulnerability.
Dwayne and Kim: two strivers, from humble beginnings, falling in love through academic rigor and emotional resilience.
Today’s Hillman could tell these stories. And it must. Because representation is not just about being on screen—it’s about how we are portrayed. Who is seen as lovable. Who gets growth. Who gets the happy ending.
If the goal is not just to show Black faces but to dismantle Black hierarchies, then these “what-ifs” are not trivial. They are necessary.
Love in the Shadow of Respectability
A Different World did for HBCUs what few shows have ever done for any institution. It made them aspirational. It brought them into the living rooms of millions. But it also brought with it the quiet assumptions of who gets to be desired, respected, and redeemed.
Ron Johnson was more than a clown. He was a young Black man with legacy wealth, light skin, and untapped emotional depth. Kimberly Reese was more than a study machine. She was the embodiment of strength and softness—if only the writers had allowed it.
The couples we never saw reveal as much about us as the ones we did. And in the silence of those omissions lies the challenge for future creators: will they continue to tell safe stories, or will they tell the stories that make us all feel seen?
“It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.” — Aristotle
Each time Federal Reserve Chair Jerome Powell appears before Congress, particularly the House Financial Services Committee, a rare opportunity presents itself—one that could improve financial literacy at the highest levels of government and foster substantive dialogue on monetary policy’s profound impact on American households, businesses, and institutions. But that opportunity is almost always wasted.
Instead, the public is forced to endure yet another performance of political theater where elected officials, both Democrat and Republican, seem more concerned with going viral than going deep—more focused on five-minute gotchas than on fifty-year policy ramifications.
And for African America, whose economic institutions and family wealth face historic and systemic precarity, this continued dysfunction is not simply frustrating. It is dangerous.
The Purpose of Oversight or a Stage for Soundbites?
The Federal Reserve is arguably the most powerful economic institution in the world. Its chair, currently Jerome Powell, wields incredible influence over interest rates, inflation, labor markets, and the credit system. A hearing before Congress should be a time when policymakers probe deeply, ask sophisticated questions, and help inform the public through their own understanding.
Instead, what unfolds is often little more than ideological posturing. Members of Congress use their time to push personal or party agendas, cherry-pick statistics, or lob loaded questions with no intent of hearing the answer.
This isn’t oversight. It’s political performance art.
The House Financial Services Committee, charged with overseeing financial institutions, capital markets, and economic stability, must rise above this. Its role should be more than ceremonial. It should be educational—to itself and to the American people. But the overwhelming sense watching Powell’s recent testimonies is that most of the committee members lack even a basic understanding of how monetary policy functions, let alone how to interrogate it effectively.
Why It Matters for HBCUs and African American Economic Institutions
African America does not have the luxury of political and financial ignorance.
When inflation creeps higher, it isn’t just a line in a Bloomberg terminal. It is the difference between a Black student being able to afford books for the semester or choosing between groceries and tuition. It is a Black-owned small business having to lay off an employee because a loan’s interest rate jumped from 6% to 11%.
The lack of thoughtful interrogation of Powell’s monetary strategy reflects a more structural problem. There is a scarcity of African American economists in monetary policy circles. The Federal Reserve’s own ranks remain largely devoid of HBCU graduates, and few members of the House Financial Services Committee themselves come from economically marginalized backgrounds or have spent real time examining the consequences of macroeconomic policy on communities of color.
Yet these are the same communities most sensitive to interest rate swings, credit market freezes, or inflationary spikes.
And still, with this knowledge, Black America’s representatives—those on the committee and those adjacent—too often use their time during hearings for moral appeals or political slogans. But where is the policy meat? Where is the specificity? Where is the courage to press Powell on structural inequality in the Federal Reserve’s frameworks?
The Federal Reserve and the Myth of Neutrality
To be fair, the Federal Reserve, under Powell or any other chair, does not operate in a vacuum. But the institution often touts its political independence as a form of virtue. That independence, however, should not be mistaken for neutrality. The Fed’s policies have winners and losers.
From 2020 to 2022, the Fed’s monetary expansion saved financial markets—but also exploded asset prices, exacerbating wealth inequality. Homeowners gained equity. Renters fell behind. Banks consolidated more power while local lenders and community institutions—like Black banks—continued to struggle.
The committee could have questioned Powell on these outcomes. It could have demanded a racial wealth gap impact assessment of every major monetary policy decision. It could have interrogated how interest rate hikes disproportionately hurt historically marginalized borrowers. But those questions are never asked.
Instead, Powell is interrupted mid-sentence. Politicians talk over him. They make proclamations but ask no follow-ups. This behavior isn’t just disrespectful—it’s dangerous. And it’s a gross misuse of public time.
What HBCUs Can Teach Congress About Learning
At an HBCU, you learn that education is both a privilege and a weapon. It is something to be studied, sharpened, and used to build institutions. That approach—one rooted in discipline, humility, and preparation—is entirely missing from the House Financial Services Committee’s handling of monetary policy.
If a professor at Spelman or Howard or North Carolina A&T asked students to prepare a critique on central banking and one of those students responded with vague accusations or irrelevant political banter, they would be challenged to do better. Because rigor matters.
Imagine, instead, what would happen if HBCU economics departments had a seat at the table. Imagine if the committee regularly invited young scholars from Hampton, Morehouse, and FAMU to submit briefs or participate in Q&A sessions. Imagine a committee that used Powell’s visit as a chance to uplift new Black monetary scholars, who are often overlooked despite deep institutional knowledge.
There is no reason why an HBCU-trained economist should not be Chair of the Federal Reserve one day. But for that to happen, both access and expectation must change. We must expect more of Congress—and we must prepare ourselves to be in those seats.
The Price of Ignorance Is Paid in Communities Like Ours
Grandstanding doesn’t stabilize mortgage rates.
Political theater doesn’t ensure access to affordable credit.
Viral clips won’t help a Black farmer secure the funding needed to plant next season.
When the committee wastes its opportunity to genuinely understand and shape monetary policy, it abdicates responsibility for protecting those most vulnerable to economic volatility. Black communities cannot afford that negligence.
For instance, Powell was not questioned about how inflation-targeting might undervalue employment gains in Black communities. Nor was he asked whether the Fed’s models even consider racial employment disparities in real time. These are the kinds of questions that would surface if the committee viewed itself as learners—not performers.
A Call for Financial Statesmanship
What is needed in Congress is not just political courage but intellectual humility. An understanding that financial literacy is not just for constituents but must be a discipline practiced by lawmakers themselves.
The House Financial Services Committee could evolve into a place of high economic inquiry, a model of bipartisan dialogue around shared economic goals. But that will require members who read the footnotes of policy briefs, not just the headlines. Who consult experts across ideology. Who admit what they don’t know and ask better questions in return.
It also means creating a pipeline of informed staffers, many of whom should be HBCU-trained. Imagine a rotating fellowship where top students in finance and economics at Prairie View or Tuskegee serve one-year policy internships with members of Congress. Not only would this improve committee function, but it would democratize who gets to shape monetary discourse in the long run.
A Missed Opportunity That Cannot Keep Being Missed
Chair Powell is not infallible. His policies deserve scrutiny. But if the scrutiny is shallow, the Fed wins by default. Monetary policy deserves robust challenge—but that challenge must come with intellectual integrity, not political antics.
African American families, students, and business owners live with the real-world consequences of interest rate decisions every single day. They deserve elected officials who treat these hearings not as soundbite factories, but as classrooms—where hard questions are asked, where policies are dissected, and where the future is imagined more inclusively.
The Federal Reserve will always operate in the shadows unless Congress holds up a light. But to shine that light effectively, the House Financial Services Committee must first turn its cameras inward and ask whether it is performing or learning.
Because for communities like ours, the cost of their ignorance is far too high.
“Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm and harmony.” – Thomas Merton
Social, economic, and civic are the three pillar institutions of any and every society. The framework of those three pillars varies from society to society. As with any three legged chair those pillars/legs must be kept in balance or the chair will tip over inevitably. The only alternative to the chair tipping over is person on it exerting an inordinate amount of energy to compensate for the unbalanced legs, but eventually even then the person tires and the chair falls, the person is hurt, and injury ensues to both chair and person. Had the stool’s engineers remained focused and prioritized balance and sustainability then the person and chair could exist in analogous perpetuity. Both sharing the energy to maintain the person’s weight across the stool and the stool’s support of the person.
How do we see the unbalance of much of global society today? To be clear, I say much because many Indigenous communities who have been untouched by the majority of society still live in balanced societies. They do not consume too much social where they do not attend to the economic needs (like fishing or hunting) of their people or too little time attending to the governance of their community. No, they spend a balanced time with all three pillars and therefore their societies have survived and sustained for millennia. Whereas, much of the 8 billion people who call Earth home suffer from an exerted system that leaves no room for sustainable balance for many of our communities existence.
Take a look at pre-pandemic work before remote/hybrid work was considered viable and even post-pandemic where a culture war is waging to force many back to the office. There are but seven days in a week or 168 hours. Of the 168 hours if we subtract a proper 8 hours of sleep nightly, then there are 112 hours left. The work week is 40 hours a week across 5 days. One would think that would leave a whole 72 hours for social and civic engagement. But because we work in offices and not from home or hybrid work consumes far more than 40 hours. For most people, work consumes about 3 hours before with getting ready and travel and 2 hours after returning home. That is to say work consumes around 13 hours of our day or 65 hours per week leaving only 47 hours for social and civic activities. A chair blatantly out of balance.
In a balanced society, none of the three pillars should consume more than 37 1/3 hours of our week. It is fundamentally not hard to see why we know our coworkers better than we know our neighbors or why we see a lack of interaction between parents and education institutions. Who has the time? Our economic pillar has become overweighted. Many will read this as we need to become underweight economically, but this just rebalances the strain. That is not at all the answer. Balance, balance, balance is. If we want citizens to be more active, engaged, and responsible for the other pillars of society we have to rebalance the pool of time available for them to do so. But how do we get the pillar of economics to trim itself in such a way that returns balance? How do you get anyone or anything to voluntarily rescind its power?
In our current system you get paid to work in our economic institutions. That is the only means of survival. Social and civic engagement is almost always voluntary – even when you are an employee of a social and civic institution. Or at least that is what many would say the pay suggests. The bank does not pay their financial analysts to go spend a day tutoring math kids. The school system does not pay their teachers to go sit on an educational committee at city hall. The government does not pay its politicians to do the janitorial work so a parent that cleans the building they work in can attend their kid’s science fair. You are only “paid” to do the job you are assigned and not to do the work we all know to be necessary for the sustainability and success of the society.
Yet, the lack of balance we all know comes with a cost – or more harshly a consequence. The consequence of an unbalanced society is multifaceted and severe. As we continue to allow the economic pillar to overshadow the social and civic responsibilities of our communities, we witness rising mental health issues, disconnection from our neighbors, civic disengagement, and an overall erosion of the societal fabric. The symptoms are everywhere: increasing loneliness despite hyper-connectivity, declining voter turnout in democracies, labor strikes due to poor work-life balance, and a general sense of dissatisfaction with life. When a stool wobbles for too long, it is not a matter of if it will tip, but when.
What happens when a society’s citizens are overworked, unable to engage meaningfully in their communities, and detached from civic duties? We already see the consequences in our daily lives. The rise in stress-related illnesses, the decline in trust in public institutions, and the feeling of social alienation are direct results of the imbalance we have accepted as normal. A society that prioritizes economic productivity over social cohesion and civic responsibility is one that burns its candle at both ends, hurtling toward inevitable collapse.
So, what can be done? How do we bring balance back to the three pillars?
First, we must redefine value. Work is not the only valuable contribution a person can make. Time spent building relationships with neighbors, participating in local governance, and contributing to community well-being should be recognized as equally important to financial productivity. This means restructuring our economies to support a more equitable distribution of time. Policies such as universal basic income, reduced workweeks, and incentives for civic engagement could help shift societal norms and expectations.
Second, we must implement systemic changes that facilitate balance. Corporations and governments alike must recognize that a burned-out population is neither productive nor sustainable. Offering flexible work schedules, promoting hybrid work models, and integrating social and civic engagement into corporate responsibility initiatives can help rebalance the pillars. Schools, workplaces, and civic institutions should collaborate to create structures that allow for more holistic societal engagement.
Finally, we as individuals must shift our mindsets. Reclaiming balance requires a cultural shift in how we define success. Instead of glorifying overwork, we must celebrate active participation in all three pillars. This means making intentional choices to engage with our communities, advocate for systemic change, and demand policies that prioritize sustainability over mere efficiency.
A society in balance fosters well-being, innovation, and resilience. When social, economic, and civic pillars are given equal importance, communities thrive, economies sustain themselves without exploitation, and governance remains responsive to the needs of the people. The alternative is continued imbalance, a prolonged exertion that inevitably leads to collapse.
We have reached a critical juncture where we must decide: do we continue to endure the consequences of imbalance, or do we take intentional steps toward realigning the three pillars of society? The answer lies not just in grand policy shifts but in everyday decisions—how we work, how we engage, and how we prioritize our time. Balance is not just an ideal; it is a necessity for the long-term survival and prosperity of our communities. The choice is ours.
HBCU Money 