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The Real Game: PWI Athletics Win with Wealth, Not Athletes—And HBCUs Can’t Chase That Model

Posted on December 4, 2025 by | Leave a comment

“The wealthiest boosters and donors to a PWI rarely ever played sports, but they did go build companies and a lot of wealth. Boosters spend hundreds of millions a year to compete with their friends and business competition from rival schools. The money spent is a bigger game than what happens on the field.” – William A. Foster, IV

Courtesy of The Rich Eisen Show

The image circulating across sports media this week says everything without trying to explain anything at all. LSU’s new contract offer to Lane Kiffin — seven years at $13 million annually, stacked with multimillion-dollar bonuses, home buyouts, and housing subsidies looks less like a coaching contract and more like a sovereign wealth transaction. It is the kind of deal only an institution backed by generational wealth, mega-boosters, and a national alumni base at the upper end of the economic ladder could produce. Yet every few months a familiar chorus resurfaces insisting that if “only the top African American athletes chose HBCUs,” the financial gap in college athletics would close. The narrative is compelling, emotional, and rooted in cultural longing, but it remains economically false.

The fantasy is seductive: if only more premier African American athletes chose HBCUs, our athletic programs could compete with Predominantly White Institutions (PWIs). If only we could land that five-star recruit, sign that top quarterback, or attract that elite basketball prospect, everything would change. The dream persists in alumni conversations, on social media, and in aspirational fundraising campaigns. But the dream is built on a fundamental misunderstanding of what actually drives college athletic success and it’s costing HBCUs resources they can’t afford to waste. The numbers tell a story that talent alone cannot rewrite.

Lane Kiffin’s new contract with LSU pays him approximately $13 million annually, making him one of the highest-paid coaches in college football. To put this in perspective, Southern University’s entire athletic department operates on total revenues of $18.2 million for fiscal year 2025-2026. One coach at a PWI earns over 70 percent of what an entire HBCU athletic department generates in revenue. This isn’t an aberration it’s the system working exactly as designed.

The disparity becomes even starker when you examine what funds these massive operations. According to an audit report, Southern University Athletics had total revenue of $17.3 million and expenses of $18.9 million in fiscal year 2023, creating a deficit of $1.5 million. Meanwhile, PWI athletic departments operate with budgets in the hundreds of millions. The athletes on the field, no matter how talented, cannot bridge this chasm.

What truly separates PWI athletic programs from HBCU programs isn’t the talent of 18-22 year-olds playing the games. It’s the economic power of the institutions behind them specifically, the size, wealth, and giving capacity of their alumni bases. According to Georgetown University, PWI graduates earn an average of $62,000 annually, compared to HBCU graduates who earn around $51,000. But the income gap is just the beginning of the story. The real disparity lies in generational wealth accumulation and the sheer number of potential donors.

Major PWIs have alumni bases numbering in the hundreds of thousands, often spanning generations of families who have accumulated significant wealth over decades. These institutions benefit from alumni who are CEOs, hedge fund managers, real estate developers, and executives at Fortune 500 companies. Their boosters can write seven-figure checks without blinking. When they want to retain a coach or upgrade facilities, they simply open their checkbooks.

HBCUs represent around 3% of America’s colleges, yet account for less than 1% of total U.S. endowment wealth. The endowment funding gap stands at approximately $100 to $1—for every $100 a PWI receives in endowment money, HBCUs receive $1. This isn’t just about annual giving; it’s about the compound interest of generational investment that HBCUs have never had the opportunity to build.

Corporate sponsors don’t pay for athletic excellence they pay for eyeballs and access to affluent consumer bases. When companies decide where to invest their marketing dollars, they’re calculating the purchasing power and professional networks they can reach through an institution’s alumni base. A company sponsoring a PWI athletic program gains access to hundreds of thousands of alumni with significant disposable income and decision-making power in corporations. The athletes are just the entertainment that delivers this audience. The actual product being sold is access to the alumni network—for recruiting employees, marketing products, and building business relationships.

This is why even if every top African American athlete chose HBCUs, the sponsorship dollars wouldn’t automatically follow. The economic fundamentals would remain unchanged. Companies invest based on return on investment calculations that are tied to alumni wealth and network size, not solely to on-field performance.

The belief that athletic success drives institutional prosperity is perhaps the most dangerous delusion facing HBCU leadership. Even among PWIs, only a tiny fraction of athletic programs actually turn a profit. Most operate at a loss that’s subsidized by the broader university budget, student fees, and institutional transfers. Southern University’s budget shows $2.2 million in “Non-Mandatory Transfer” and $1.4 million in “Athletic Subsidy”—meaning the institution itself must subsidize athletics with nearly $3.6 million in institutional funds. This is money diverted from academic programs, faculty salaries, research, and student services to keep athletic programs afloat.

The PWI athletic model works for PWIs not because athletics are inherently profitable, but because they can afford the losses. They have massive endowments, substantial state funding, and alumni donor bases that can absorb deficits while still funding academic excellence. HBCUs don’t have this luxury. When an HBCU runs a $1.5 million athletic deficit while struggling to pay competitive faculty salaries, upgrade outdated classroom technology, or fund research initiatives, the opportunity cost is devastating. That deficit represents scholarships not awarded, professors not hired, and academic programs not developed.

Some HBCU advocates point to conference television deals and NCAA tournament appearances as potential revenue sources. But here again, the math is unforgiving. Major PWI conferences negotiate billion-dollar television contracts because they deliver large, affluent viewing audiences that advertisers covet. The Big Ten and SEC don’t command massive TV deals because their athletes are more talented they command them because their alumni bases represent valuable consumer demographics. The SWAC and MEAC can’t replicate these deals because they don’t deliver the same audience size and purchasing power, regardless of the talent on the field. Even if HBCUs somehow assembled teams that won national championships, the structural economic advantages would remain with PWIs.

Here’s what proponents of athletic investment don’t want to acknowledge: the marginal difference in talent between a five-star recruit and a three-star recruit is minimal compared to the massive difference in institutional resources. A slightly more talented roster cannot overcome a 10-to-1 or 100-to-1 resource disadvantage.

Consider the logistics: While an HBCU football program might struggle to afford charter flights for the team, PWI programs have dedicated planes, state-of-the-art training facilities, nutritionists, sports psychologists, and medical staffs that rival professional franchises. They have recruiting budgets that allow them to identify and court prospects nationally. They have video coordinators, analysts, and support staff that outnumber many HBCU athletic departments entirely. The game is won with infrastructure, coaching depth, medical support, nutrition, facilities, and recovery technology not just with the athletes on scholarship. And these resources require the kind of sustained, massive funding that only comes from large, wealthy alumni bases and major corporate partnerships.

There is an alternative model that makes sense for HBCUs: the Ivy League approach. Ivy League schools have chosen not to compete in the athletic arms race. They don’t offer athletic scholarships for football. They emphasize academic excellence while maintaining competitive but not dominant athletic programs. Their alumni networks and institutional prestige are built on academic achievement, research output, and professional success not athletic championships.

For HBCUs, this model offers a realistic path forward. Focus resources on academic excellence, research capabilities, and entrepreneurship. Build prestige through intellectual output, not athletic performance. Create value through what HBCUs have always done best: developing future leaders, producing groundbreaking research, and serving their communities.

The Ivy League proves that institutional prestige and alumni loyalty can thrive without major athletic success. No one questions Harvard’s or Yale’s institutional value because their football teams don’t win national championships. Every dollar spent trying to compete in the PWI athletic model is a dollar not invested in what could actually transform HBCU economic outcomes: research infrastructure, entrepreneurship programs, endowment building, and academic excellence.

Research shows that more than half of all students at HBCUs experience some measure of upward mobility, and upward mobility is about 50 percent higher at HBCUs than PWIs. This is the actual competitive advantage HBCUs possess their ability to transform the economic trajectories of students from under-resourced communities. This mission deserves full investment, not the scraps left over after athletic departments consume resources. If HBCUs invested the millions currently subsidizing athletic deficits into research grants, business incubators, technology transfer offices, and endowed professorships, they could create sustainable revenue streams while fulfilling their core mission. They could become engines of wealth creation for African American communities rather than junior varsity versions of PWI athletic programs.

Admitting you can’t win an unwinnable game isn’t defeat it’s strategic wisdom. HBCUs should stop trying to beat PWIs at a game rigged by structural economic advantages they will never possess. Instead, they should redefine success on their own terms.

This means:

Rightsizing athletic budgets to reflect institutional resources and priorities, accepting that competing for national championships in revenue sports isn’t financially viable or strategically wise.

Investing in niche sports and athletic experiences that can be competitive without massive resource requirements and that build campus community without drowning budgets.

Redirecting resources toward academic distinction, particularly in high-demand fields like STEM, healthcare, and technology where HBCU graduates can command premium salaries and build generational wealth.

Building research infrastructure that attracts grants, creates intellectual property, and establishes HBCUs as innovation centers rather than athletic also-rans.

Developing entrepreneurship ecosystems that turn students into business owners and job creators, building the kind of economic power that generates sustained institutional support.

Creating HBCU-specific tournaments and competitions where these institutions can showcase their talents to their communities without subsidizing PWI athletic departments through guarantee games.

The African American community’s love for HBCU athletics is real and deep. The pageantry of HBCU homecomings, the tradition of the bands, the pride of seeing young Black excellence on display these matter. But love sometimes means making hard choices about where to invest limited resources for maximum impact. The question isn’t whether HBCUs should have athletic programs. The question is whether they should bankrupt their academic missions chasing a competitive model they can never win, designed by and for institutions with 100 times their resources.

One coach earning $13 million. One entire athletic department operating on $18 million. The math isn’t subtle. The choice shouldn’t be either.

Until HBCUs build alumni bases with the size, wealth, and giving capacity to compete in the modern college athletic arms race, pursuing the PWI model isn’t ambition it’s financial suicide. The path to HBCU prosperity runs through classrooms and laboratories, not football stadiums and basketball arenas. It’s time to stop chasing someone else’s game and start winning our own.

Disclaimer: This article was assisted by ClaudeAI.

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Is the Love of Sports Costing African America the STEM Future It Desperately Needs?

Posted on November 28, 2025 by | Leave a comment

The future will not belong to those who can jump the highest, but to those who can think the deepest.” — Anonymous (Modern African Proverb Reimagined)

For every hour a Black boy or girl spends practicing, playing, or watching sports, it becomes an hour not spent mastering math, science, literature, or history. Over time, those missed hours compound not just in skill gaps, but in confidence gaps. And confidence, in education as in life, is everything. The long-term consequence of this imbalance may be far greater than lost academic opportunities. It may be the loss of African America’s ability to compete in the 21st-century economy and the slow erosion of its intellectual sovereignty.

Sports are a cherished part of African American culture, woven through family traditions, community pride, and generational memory. From Jackie Robinson to Serena Williams, from Doug Williams to Simone Biles, athletic greatness has symbolized resilience and excellence in a world that too often sought to deny both. But beneath the surface of that cultural triumph lies an uncomfortable reality: the love of the game may have become too consuming, crowding out the time, attention, and aspiration needed for mastery in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics — the disciplines defining wealth and power in the modern world.

A study by GradePower Learning found that American students spend about 1,000 hours in school each year — and roughly the same amount watching screens. For African American youth, however, there’s an additional pull: sports participation, practices, and games can consume 10 to 20 hours a week, not counting the time spent watching sports media, highlights, or discussing the latest player stats. By the time a child reaches high school graduation, those hours can exceed 8,000 — the equivalent of four full years of math or science instruction. What might have been time spent learning quadratic equations or Newton’s laws becomes time devoted to perfecting a crossover dribble or memorizing playbooks.

In theory, sports are said to teach discipline, teamwork, and perseverance — invaluable traits for life and leadership. But decades of African American participation in sports have shown that, in practice, these virtues rarely translate into collective advancement or institutional power for the community. Sports teach many to endure, but not necessarily to build. They inspire personal excellence but often without structural returns. Meanwhile, other ethnic groups are compounding their time in STEM preparation. In Asian households, it is not uncommon for students to attend supplemental weekend academies for math and science. The same can be said of many immigrant families who prioritize educational mastery as a direct pathway to generational wealth.

This divergence begins early. By middle school, African American students already lag behind in math and science proficiency, and by high school, many have internalized the belief that they “aren’t math people.” Yet, that belief is not innate; it’s cultivated by the habits of time and attention society rewards.

The youth sports economy in the United States is now valued at over $30 billion, according to USA Today. Parents are spending thousands each year on club fees, travel tournaments, gear, and coaching — often with dreams of athletic scholarships or professional contracts that statistically almost never come. A 2025 USA Today report noted that many parents invest between $5,000 and $10,000 annually per child in competitive sports, hoping to secure a college scholarship. Yet, NCAA data show that less than 2% of high school athletes earn athletic scholarships, and an even smaller fraction go on to professional sports.

When those numbers are mapped against household wealth, the economic irony becomes staggering. The median net worth of African American families remains around $44,900, compared to $285,000 for White families. If the average family spends $10,000 per year on youth sports for a decade, they could instead have invested $100,000 into a 529 education savings plan or a family investment fund. Compounded annually at 7%, that investment would yield roughly $196,000 by the time their child turns 18 — enough to pay for college tuition, or serve as seed capital for a business. But the investment goes into jerseys, tournaments, and sneakers. Sports is not just a pastime anymore; it’s an industry — one that thrives on hope, marketing, and the dream of ascension. For African American families, that dream often overshadows a deeper one: intellectual independence.

From the earliest ages, children internalize the models of success they see. If every hero they admire dribbles, runs, or dunks, it subtly shapes what they believe they must become to matter. The African American community has created icons in every field, but sports icons receive disproportionate visibility, media coverage, and cultural veneration. Young boys can name more NFL quarterbacks than Black engineers, scientists, or inventors. This imbalance creates a quiet but powerful feedback loop. The more the community celebrates athletic success as the highest expression of Black excellence, the fewer young people will be inspired to emulate scientific or entrepreneurial greatness. The idolization of the athlete — rather than the innovator — becomes a generational tax on imagination.

STEM confidence, like athletic skill, is built through repetition and exposure. A child who spends thousands of hours practicing sports builds confidence in their athletic identity. A child who spends thousands of hours exploring robotics or chemistry develops confidence in their intellectual identity. The problem is not talent — it’s time allocation.

If African America’s endowments are to grow, its intellectual capital must first be rebalanced. STEM fields are not just high-paying; they are high-leverage. Engineers design cities, coders build economies, and scientists control the frontiers of technology and medicine. When African American students are absent from these sectors, it isn’t just a diversity gap — it’s a sovereignty gap. Every innovation African America fails to own is an innovation it must rent from others. Every algorithm not written, every patent not filed, every lab not funded contributes to institutional dependency. Historically Black Colleges and Universities sit at a unique crossroads. While they have been strong in liberal arts, education, and social sciences, they must now pivot aggressively toward STEM dominance. Yet even they face a cultural headwind — many incoming students have been nurtured to see physical performance as validation of worth, while intellectual rigor is often seen as a burden rather than a badge.

An HBCU graduate in engineering or computer science may go on to invent, design, and build. An HBCU athlete may entertain millions. But the wealth gap between those two trajectories is not just individual — it’s institutional. Consider the compound effect of lost hours: one hour per day diverted from academic enrichment equals 365 hours per year. Over 13 years of schooling (Pre-K through 12th grade), that’s nearly 4,750 hours — more than two full school years of instruction. That’s just for one hour. Many student-athletes spend much more time — often 10 or more hours weekly — on practice, travel, and games. By high school, this could exceed 10,000 hours — the exact amount Malcolm Gladwell famously cited as the threshold for mastery in any field.

African American students are becoming masters — just not in the fields where mastery translates into institutional control or generational wealth. Imagine if even half of those hours were redirected into robotics clubs, science fairs, financial literacy programs, or coding bootcamps. The shift in intellectual and economic trajectory would be profound. Culture cannot change overnight, but it can evolve intentionally. African American parents, educators, and institutions must begin redefining what excellence looks like — and where the applause should go. Families should celebrate as loudly when a child aces a chemistry exam or builds a mobile app as when they score a touchdown. Public affirmation must follow academic achievement with the same enthusiasm it gives athletic performance.

The money spent on club sports, travel, and equipment could be partially reallocated to STEM programs, tutoring, or even early college credit courses. Financial discipline must mirror the rigor of athletic discipline. Imagine a Saturday morning robotics league with the same energy as youth basketball — complete with team jerseys, community support, and trophies. Institutions like HBCUs could sponsor regional competitions to make intellectual pursuit a spectator event. HBCUs can create mentorship pipelines connecting student-athletes with STEM majors to promote balance. Athletic departments should collaborate with STEM departments on interdisciplinary projects that merge sports analytics, biomechanics, and data engineering. Families can begin small: a weekly science documentary, math challenges at the dinner table, or trips to museums and tech expos. What matters most is that curiosity and analysis become part of the household rhythm.

America’s future wealth and power will flow through those who master technology, not those who merely consume it. The engineers designing renewable energy grids, the programmers writing AI code, and the scientists developing space propulsion systems are the ones shaping the next civilization. African America cannot afford to be absent from that frontier — nor can it afford to lose another generation to the illusion of athletic access as a substitute for academic and economic power. The cultural love of sports, once a symbol of survival and community, must now evolve into a love of systems, science, and strategy. The same passion that drives the athlete can drive the engineer. The same discipline that fuels a 5 a.m. workout can fuel a 5 a.m. study session. But only if the institutions — families, schools, and HBCUs — are intentional in redirecting that energy.

The African American community once used sports as a pathway to dignity in a segregated world. Now, the challenge is to use STEM as a pathway to dominance in a digitized one. The scoreboard has changed, and so must the game. For every hour spent on a basketball court, a track, or a field, there should be an equal hour at a computer, in a lab, or under a microscope. Not because sports don’t matter, but because the future does. To win this century, African America must love the pursuit of knowledge more than the pursuit of applause. Its children must learn to compete not just on the field — but in the lab, the boardroom, and the data center. Otherwise, the highlight reels will continue to roll, but the ownership of the next generation’s wealth and innovation will belong to someone else.

Disclaimer: This article was assisted by ChatGPT.

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Why Families Get Less Time Together Now Than They Did 40 Years Ago: Work Has Devoured Community And Family Connection

Posted on November 26, 2025 by | Leave a comment

“If you want to know how people are doing, then look at the institutions that serve them. For better or worse.” – William A. Foster, IV

The commercialization of everything has not simply weakened communities it has restructured the way people relate to each other, to time, and to the idea of a shared life. America once reserved certain days as collective pauses: Thanksgiving as a family gathering, Christmas and New Year’s as moments of reconnection, and Sundays as a weekly restoration ritual. Those pauses were essential to the glue of community. But as corporations learned how to monetize nearly every aspect of human behavior, they also learned how to monetize time. And once time is monetized, community becomes negotiable. The result is a society where the day after Thanksgiving is more about shopping than family, where Sundays revolve around televised commercial events instead of rest, and where companies treat holidays not as protected communal moments but as logistical inconveniences that employees must navigate by sacrificing their own paid-time-off.

Corporations in the U.S. used to close for multiple days around major holidays because leaders understood or at least accepted that there was social value in allowing workers time for extended connection. Today, many companies force employees to choose between working Wednesday or Friday of Thanksgiving week. Some go further, requiring workers to take PTO to cover days when the company simply prefers not to close. A corporation will not close on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, even though the value of allowing families an uninterrupted Tuesday-through-Friday stretch is obvious. Instead, the corporate calendar eclipses the communal calendar. Workers do not receive time; they must purchase it back from the company by spending their accrued PTO. What should be a gift of time becomes another transaction.

The same pattern repeats in December. Instead of closing for the week between Christmas and New Year’s, a period that, for generations, represented the one guaranteed moment families could reconnect across states and schedules many companies remain open and again force employees to use PTO if they want to reclaim what was once a near-universal cultural pause. The winter holidays have always been about re-centering the family and revisiting community, but U.S. corporations have built a culture in which reconnection is permissible only if the worker pays for it. Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve often become half-days only in name, with meetings scheduled up until the literal final hours of the year. The commercialization of everything means even time has become a commodity extracted from workers.

This commodification undermines rituals that once anchored communities. Thanksgiving’s meaning has deteriorated because U.S. corporations realized the value of turning the week into a shopping pipeline. Stores began opening earlier and earlier for Black Friday, at one point even opening on Thanksgiving Day itself, pulling millions of workers away from their families and shifting the cultural meaning of the holiday from gratitude to commercial urgency. Though some in-store openings have shifted back toward Friday, the mentality remains: Thanksgiving is now the runway for a sales spectacle. The gravitational pull of Black Friday redefines the whole week.

When a holiday is defined by commerce, its communal value becomes fragile. Families that could have enjoyed Tuesday-through-Friday together now negotiate employer schedules, travel restrictions, and school calendars that increasingly mirror the demands of the market rather than the needs of the community. The commercialization of the holiday season has created a society that knows how to shop together but not how to be together. That shift matters because a community is not sustained by consumption; it is sustained by time.

Time has always been the most essential ingredient of community. But a market-driven society reframes time not as something to invest in people but as something to extract from workers. When time becomes a commodity controlled by corporations, communities lose the ability to structure their own rhythm. Families and neighborhoods cannot coordinate shared rituals when their members’ time is fragmented by different schedules, mandatory workdays, and PTO requirements.

Sundays reveal another layer of this shift. Once the cultural pause of the week, they are now among the most commercially overloaded days in the United States. Football transformed from a pastime into a multi-billion-dollar economic engine that dominates Sundays. The sport is no longer simply a game; it is a national commercial event fueled by advertising, sponsorships, gambling partnerships, data-driven fantasy sports, and a seemingly endless suite of purchasable experiences. The day’s identity shifted from rest to consumption. Even non-fans find themselves orbiting the gravitational pull of the Sunday football economy because it shapes everything: traffic patterns, social gatherings, advertising cycles, and workplace conversations.

Fantasy sports accelerated this shift by financializing fandom. Fans no longer simply cheer for teams; they track player performance as if managing investment portfolios. The language is economic: valuations, projections, buy-low targets, sell-high opportunities. What once required nothing more than showing up and cheering now mirrors the logic of financial markets. Leisure becomes labor, and community becomes competition.

This is the deeper problem: commercialization transforms communal rituals into market events and then convinces people that those market events are the rituals. Communities once relied on shared, non-commercial practices to reinforce identity and belonging. But commercialization dilutes that belonging by replacing shared purpose with shared consumption. A community that once united around a meal now unites around a sales event. A nation that once treated Sunday as a day for collective pause now treats it as a day for collective consumption.

Commercialization does not simply erode existing rituals; it reorganizes values. A society that measures success by economic efficiency will not prioritize communal health. A corporation that sees time as a cost will not voluntarily grant extended holidays. A marketplace that thrives on attention will not tolerate moments of silence. Instead, the market expands into every cultural opening, converting the sacred into the sellable. Tradition becomes branding. Ritual becomes content. Holidays become data points in quarterly reports.

The impact on communities is devastating because community is long-term work. It requires slow, unstructured time. It requires the ability to gather without agenda. It requires rituals that reinforce shared identity rather than shared consumption. When those rituals are continuously squeezed out by commercial demands, communities become thinner, more fragile, and more transactional.

The erosion of extended holiday time is especially damaging for families that live far apart or work demanding schedules. Many households cannot afford to take multiple days of PTO just to recreate the family time corporations once protected by default. The cost of reconnection becomes another barrier to community life. Workers must decide whether to conserve PTO for emergencies or spend it trying to maintain family cohesion. When corporations determine the availability of communal time, families must purchase back their own togetherness.

This problem compounds for low-wage workers, who often lack PTO altogether or work in industries where holiday schedules are inflexible. The people who most need communal time are the least likely to receive it. And when communities lose time, they lose the ability to coordinate culture. Traditions become irregular. Gatherings become sporadic. The predictability that once held communities together dissolves.

Commercialization also changes how people inside communities view one another. When consumption becomes the primary way to participate in culture, individuals begin to see each other not as members of a shared community but as participants in a market. This mindset encourages competition rather than collaboration, individualism rather than collectivism. People learn to evaluate experiences based on personal benefit rather than shared investment. And because commercial experiences are easier to measure you either bought the thing or you didn’t they often overshadow the slower, intangible benefits of community life.

The rise of year-round commercial holidays reveals how deeply this shift has taken root. Major brands now create “shopping seasons” for Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, the Fourth of July, Halloween, and even invented micro-holidays like “Friendsgiving” or “Prime Day.” These manufactured events fill every gap on the calendar, ensuring there is always something to consume. The cultural result is a society that never pauses. A community that never pauses cannot reflect, cannot reconnect, and cannot sustain itself. It becomes a collection of individuals moving in the same direction but never meeting in the same place.

The path forward requires redefining what society values. Communities must reclaim time especially the time around major holidays and weekly communal pauses from corporate capture. That means normalizing the idea that Tuesday-through-Friday closures during Thanksgiving week are not indulgent luxuries but necessary investments in social health. It means recognizing that the week between Christmas and New Year’s should be protected for what it historically represented: the one time families could reconnect without the market intruding. It means acknowledging that time is not merely a work resource but a community resource.

Rebuilding community in an era of commercialization requires treating time as sacred. Communities must defend it from monetization, protect it from corporate schedules, and structure their own rituals around it. When people reclaim time, they reclaim each other. When they reclaim each other, they reclaim the possibility of community.

Commercialization wants everything every hour, every holiday, every Sunday, every tradition. Communities cannot survive if they surrender all of it. They can only survive by choosing what will remain unmonetized, unbothered, and unbought. When communities choose to reclaim time, they choose to reclaim themselves.

Five suggestions on how government, new entrepreneurs, and families can recenter:

1. Government Should Legislate Protected Communal Time, Not Just “Holidays”

The U.S. treats holidays as economic opportunities, not civic responsibilities. Government can reverse the trend by formally protecting stretches of time — not single days — around core holidays.

  • Make the Tuesday–Friday of Thanksgiving week a state or federally protected family recess period.
  • Require companies to close without forcing workers to use PTO for the days before or after a federal holiday.
  • Extend similar protected time around Christmas–New Year’s, where many countries already guarantee weeklong holiday pauses.

This isn’t merely cultural; it’s economic. Countries with structured rest periods have higher productivity, lower burnout, stronger communities, and more resilient small-business ecosystems because people actually have time to engage in them.

2. Entrepreneurs Should Build Businesses Designed Around Community Rhythms, Not Quarter-by-Quarter Profit Cycles

New companies — especially those led by first-generation founders, Black founders, or mission-driven founders — can differentiate themselves by rejecting the “always open, always available” business model.

Innovative entrepreneurs can:

  • Design businesses that voluntarily close on Sundays and holidays, signaling that community time is part of the brand identity.
  • Give employees extended family leave during core cultural seasons, even if competitors do not.
  • Build loyalty by centering humanity over profit, a competitive advantage in a burned-out nation.
  • Create new economic sectors around rest: wellness retreats, community gathering hubs, shared childcare cooperatives, book lounges, family learning centers.

Companies that protect human time will attract workers, customers, and long-term loyalty far more effectively than companies that burn people out.

3. Families Should Reinstate Non-Commercial Rituals and Treat Them as Sacred

Families have more power than they realize. The market can only colonize a holiday if people participate.

To resist:

  • Institute device-free meals, especially on Sundays and during holiday weeks.
  • Declare certain traditions non-negotiable and non-commercial, such as potluck dinners, storytelling nights, board game evenings, cooking days, or family walks.
  • Celebrate holidays at home instead of at malls, theaters, or commercial venues.
  • Mark specific days as “no-buy days” to teach children that value is not tied to consumption.

Families that reclaim ritual reclaim identity — and identity is the strongest defense against commercialization.

4. Communities Should Rebuild Local Institutions That Compete With Commercial Time

When local institutions weaken, corporate culture fills the vacuum. Communities can counter by strengthening their own non-commercial options:

  • Community centers that stay open on Sundays for gatherings and learning.
  • Neighborhood potlucks, block dinners, or seasonal festivals not sponsored by corporations.
  • Skill-sharing circles where neighbors teach each other cooking, budgeting, repairs, gardening, and history.
  • Mini-libraries, micro-museums, and small-town storytelling or history nights.

These spaces create a social gravity that pulls people away from fantasy sports, retail calendars, and weekend consumer rituals.

5. National Culture Makers — Writers, Schools, Platforms, HBCUs — Should Reframe Rest as a Citizenship Value

The U.S. treats rest as laziness, even though rest is the foundation of creativity, productivity, and community.

New institutions can step in and shift the narrative:

  • Schools can teach the social history of holidays, not just their dates.
  • Universities (especially HBCUs) can lead research on rest-economics, community cohesion, and commercial overreach.
  • Media outlets and creators can reframe rest as a civic duty, not a weakness.
  • Public campaigns can promote “Family Hours,” “Community Time,” or “Disconnect Days.”

When rest becomes culturally honorable, exploitation becomes culturally shameful.

Disclaimer: This article was assisted by ChatGPT.

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Owning The Diamond: Why HBCU Women Entrepreneurs Should Buy a Women’s Pro Baseball Team

Posted on November 21, 2025 by | Leave a comment

“Let us put our moneys together; let us use our moneys; let us put our moneys out at usury among ourselves, and reap the benefits ourselves.” – Maggie L. Walker, pioneering African American banker and businesswoman:

It is not enough to cheer from the stands.
IIt is not enough to cheer from the stands. If HBCU women entrepreneurs and the institutions that produced them are serious about building generational wealth, influence, and visibility in the global sports economy, then ownership, not participation, must be the goal. The emergence of the Women’s Pro Baseball League (WPBL) offers just such a moment. Four inaugural franchises in Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, and Boston mark the first professional women’s baseball league in the United States since 1954. And yet, amid this historic announcement, one question should echo across the HBCU landscape: Who will own a piece of it?

Ownership in sports is about more than trophies it’s about capital, culture, and control. While athletes inspire, it is owners who shape the economic ecosystem: negotiating television contracts, setting standards for pay equity, deciding where teams are located, and determining which communities benefit from their presence. In American sports, Black ownership remains vanishingly rare. Fewer than a handful of African Americans have ever held majority stakes in professional teams across all major leagues. Among women, ownership representation is even smaller. Yet the HBCU ecosystem comprising over a hundred institutions, $4 billion in endowment capital (though still dwarfed by their PWI counterparts), and a growing class of wealthy and capable alumni possesses both the human and institutional capital to change that reality. Buying a WPBL franchise would be a powerful signal: that African American women are no longer content to merely play or support the game, but to own the infrastructure of it.

The WPBL represents a once-in-a-century opportunity. The last women’s professional baseball league folded in 1954 when postwar America reverted to its gendered labor norms and refused to institutionalize women’s success on the field. Today, that same sport returns in a vastly different economy one defined by media fragmentation, digital storytelling, and institutional investing that rewards niche audiences and strong narratives. Women’s sports are on the rise. The WNBA just received a $75 million investment round from Nike, Condoleezza Rice, Laurene Powell Jobs, and others. Women’s college basketball ratings have exploded, drawing more viewers than some men’s sports. The National Women’s Soccer League has seen team valuations grow fivefold in the past five years. Investors are realizing what the data already shows: undervalued leagues often yield outsized returns once visibility and infrastructure catch up.

The WPBL sits at this exact inflection point. Early investors will not just shape the league they will define its culture, inclusivity, and profitability. This is why HBCU women entrepreneurs, backed by HBCU endowments and alumni capital, should move swiftly. Ownership here is not a vanity project it is a long-term equity position in the fastest-growing frontier of professional sports.

Start-up sports franchises are not the billion-dollar investments of the NFL or NBA. The WPBL’s initial teams are expected to sell for figures in the mid-seven to low-eight figures: expensive, yes, but feasible through a syndicate model combining entrepreneurial capital and institutional backing. A $15 million franchise, for instance, could be financed with $5 million in equity from HBCU women entrepreneurs, $3 million in matching commitments from HBCU endowments through a joint-venture investment arm, $5 million in debt financing via an African American–owned bank or credit union consortium, and $2 million in naming rights, sponsorship pre-sales, and city incentives.

Such a structure distributes risk while maximizing institutional leverage. It also allows for a reinvestment loop: returns from franchise appreciation, media deals, or merchandising could feed back into the endowments that helped fund the acquisition, growing HBCU wealth through private equity in sports. At a modest ten percent annualized return over fifteen years, a $3 million endowment investment could grow to more than $12.5 million, even before accounting for franchise appreciation. The social return of visibility, leadership, and influence would be immeasurable.

HBCU women entrepreneurs already lead some of the most innovative ventures in the country from fintech to fashion to wellness. They have built companies with leaner budgets, higher risk tolerance, and community-driven missions. That same acumen could translate seamlessly into sports ownership. A women-led ownership group rooted in HBCU culture would bring authenticity to a league whose audience is already primed for inclusive storytelling. They would not merely own a team they would shape its identity around empowerment, intellect, and cultural sophistication. Imagine a team whose executive suite reflects Spelman’s academic rigor, Howard’s creative dynamism, and FAMU’s entrepreneurial grit.

Moreover, the investment aligns with HBCU women’s long history of institution building. From Mary McLeod Bethune’s founding of Bethune-Cookman University to Maggie Lena Walker’s creation of the first Black woman–owned bank, African American women have always been at the forefront of merging mission with market. Buying a professional sports franchise is simply a modern continuation of that legacy.

Most HBCU endowments remain undercapitalized. Collectively, they total roughly $4 billion, compared to Harvard’s $50 billion alone. That gap underscores why traditional endowment investing centered on conservative asset classes may not close the wealth chasm. Sports equity, particularly in emerging women’s leagues, represents a hybrid investment: cultural capital meets growth asset. Endowments could carve out a modest allocation for strategic co-investment vehicles aimed at ownership in minority- or women-led sports ventures. Such a move would not only produce potential returns but reposition HBCU endowments as active agents in wealth creation, mirroring how elite universities use their endowments as venture capital arms. The same institutions that once nurtured the first generations of African American scholars could now nurture the first generation of African American women sports owners.

The path to ownership would unfold in phases: coalition building, institutional partnerships, financial structuring, branding, and media engagement. The first step would be forming an HBCU Women Sports Ownership Council an alliance of HBCU alumnae entrepreneurs, investors, attorneys, and sports professionals. Its mission would be to identify a WPBL franchise opportunity, conduct due diligence, and negotiate terms. Next, endowments, foundations, and alumni associations could serve as anchor investors via a pooled HBCU Sports Ownership Fund. African American–owned financial institutions would provide credit facilities, ensuring that capital circulation strengthens Black banking. The team’s branding could reflect HBCU values of intellect, resilience, and excellence. Annual “HBCU Heritage Games,” scholarships for women in sports management, and partnerships with K–12 baseball programs would ensure the franchise deepens institutional impact.

By the time Opening Day 2027 arrives, the vision becomes real. A stadium in Atlanta or Houston cities with deep HBCU roots roars with excitement. The team, perhaps named The Monarchs in tribute to the Negro Leagues, takes the field in uniforms stitched by a Black-owned apparel company. The owner’s suite is filled not with venture capitalists, but HBCU women—founders, engineers, bankers, educators—raising glasses to history. Every ticket sold funds scholarships. Every broadcast includes HBCU branding. Every victory multiplies across the ecosystem, from the university’s endowment statement to the little girl in the stands whispering, “She looks like me.” That is the multiplier effect of ownership.

A defining mark of this ownership group’s legacy should not only be who owns the team but who benefits from it. When an HBCU-led syndicate buys a women’s professional baseball team, it must ensure that every dollar of the fan experience circulates through Black and HBCU-centered businesses. Ownership without ecosystem-building simply recreates dependency; real power multiplies through participation.

An HBCU women’s ownership group has the chance to build an authentically circular sports economy, where concession stands, catering services, and retail vendors reflect the same entrepreneurial DNA as the team itself. The model for this begins with women like Pinky Cole, founder of Slutty Vegan, who transformed plant-based dining into a cultural and economic phenomenon through purpose-driven branding and community investment. Her ability to merge food, culture, and empowerment offers a blueprint for how HBCU women entrepreneurs could anchor the ballpark experience in ownership and identity.

Complementing this vision is the role of HBCU-owned service enterprises like Perkins Management Services Company, founded by Nicholas Perkins, a Fayetteville State University alumnus and owner of Fuddruckers. Perkins Management operates food services across HBCUs and federal institutions, combining operational scale with cultural competence. Partnering with Perkins Management to run stadium concessions or hospitality would ensure that the team’s operations mirror the ownership group’s values efficiency, reinvestment, and excellence.

Such an approach would transform the stadium into an economic hub for HBCU enterprise. Food vendors would come from HBCU alumni-owned companies. Uniform suppliers could source from HBCU textile programs. Merchandise stands could feature HBCU student designs. Hospitality contracts would prioritize HBCU-affiliated culinary programs. The music during games could feature HBCU marching bands or alumni artists. Even the stadium’s artwork could highlight HBCU painters and photographers, ensuring every sensory detail honors the ecosystem that made the ownership possible. A fan buying food or merchandise would not just be a consumer they’d be participating in a shared mission to strengthen African American institutions.

This reimagined sports environment would also offer internships, apprenticeships, and consulting opportunities for HBCU students and faculty. Business students could study operations. Communication majors could intern with the PR team. Engineering departments could advise on stadium energy efficiency. Each partnership would turn the franchise into a living classroom of applied HBCU excellence.

At a time when major leagues outsource globally, a women’s baseball franchise owned by HBCU women could reimagine localization and reinvestment as competitive advantage. Every game day would circulate dollars through a self-sustaining ecosystem that feeds back into HBCU entrepreneurship. Because when the ballpark itself is powered by HBCU women’s enterprise from boardroom to concession stand it ceases to be a venue. It becomes a living institution.

If the Women’s Pro Baseball League truly takes off, early ownership will be the golden ticket. African American investors have often entered markets too late once valuations skyrocket and access narrows. Now, before the WPBL matures, is the time for HBCU institutions and their entrepreneurial alumnae to act collectively. The call is not for charity but for strategy. Pooling even a fraction of the capital that circulates annually among HBCU alumni could change the power dynamic in sports forever. Endowments could stake equity. Alumni could invest through private funds. Students could study the economics of their own institution’s franchise. The result would be a feedback loop of wealth, wisdom, and visibility.

The first women’s professional baseball league in seventy years deserves first-of-its-kind ownership and no community is more qualified to deliver it than HBCU women. Because when HBCU women own the field, the entire game changes.

Disclaimer: This article was assisted by ChatGPT.

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Are New Mexico, Maine, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands the Only Social, Economic, and Politically Safe Territories for African Americans?

Posted on November 14, 2025 by | Leave a comment

“Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.” — Harriet Tubman

For African Americans, safety has never been an assumed part of citizenship. It has always been an earned condition won through vigilance, strategy, and often migration. Whether fleeing the violent collapse of Reconstruction or the economic despair of the Jim Crow South, Black Americans have long measured geography as a question of survival. Today, in an America increasingly polarized by race, ideology, and inequality, that calculation has returned. Many are quietly asking: where can African Americans live, work, and raise families with peace of mind? The answer, surprisingly, may not be in traditional Black strongholds like Atlanta, Washington, D.C., or Houston, but in four unlikely places—New Mexico, Maine, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands—where moderation, multicultural coexistence, and relative political calm offer something rare: a sense of safety that is not performative, but lived.

New Mexico’s reputation as a cultural crossroads has made it one of the few states where African Americans can exist without being framed entirely through America’s racial binary. Its tri-cultural balance among Native American, Hispanic, and White populations disperses dominance. Here, no single identity owns the political landscape. For African Americans who comprise about two percent of the population that means a degree of breathing room. Racial prejudice still exists, but it rarely defines every interaction. The social climate is cooperative, rooted in shared marginalization rather than supremacy. Albuquerque, Las Cruces, and Santa Fe have become quiet havens for African American educators, small-business owners, and retirees seeking both affordability and dignity.

Economically, New Mexico offers something most metropolitan centers have lost: a manageable cost of living and accessible capital. Housing remains attainable. Land ownership long denied to African Americans through discriminatory lending remains within reach for the working and middle class. The rise of renewable energy, sustainable agriculture, and technology hubs has also created new entry points for Black entrepreneurship. In Albuquerque’s South Valley or near Santa Fe’s art cooperatives, one can find a small but visible community of African Americans carving lives that are not merely about surviving but thriving without the constant defensive posture that characterizes so many other states. Safety here is less about walls and more about balance, a social equilibrium where race is a fact, not a fault line.

Maine, on the other hand, is proof that peace can coexist with isolation. Its African American population is minuscule, but its civic culture is built on moderation and integrity. The state’s “town meeting” governance style, where citizens vote directly on local issues, nurtures accountability rarely seen elsewhere. For African Americans who relocate to Portland, Bangor, or Augusta, that transparency matters. Racism in Maine exists, but it lacks institutional depth. More often, African Americans report curiosity over hostility, and when discrimination does occur, it tends to meet public rebuke rather than official silence.

Politically, Maine is refreshingly pragmatic. It elects moderates and independents, resists extremist rhetoric, and maintains a social compact where neighbors generally still speak to each other across ideological lines. For African Americans weary of coded politics, it feels like a return to something America once promised, a functioning democracy. The result is a form of safety rooted not in numbers, but in governance. A place where you can walk, vote, and live without fearing that tomorrow’s election will determine whether your humanity is negotiable.

But safety does not always mean the mainland. Beyond the continental U.S., Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands present another dimension of refuge one built on shared African lineage and the lived realities of Caribbean identity. For African Americans seeking both cultural familiarity and distance from America’s racial fatigue, these territories offer a paradoxical safety: not post-racial, but post-obsessive.

Puerto Rico, long a bridge between Latin America and the U.S., exists in an in-between space that defies racial simplification. Its majority Afro-Latino population gives race a different vocabulary one where color is noticed but hierarchy is more fluid. African Americans arriving there encounter both kinship and complexity. In cities like San Juan or Ponce, African American expatriates blend into an Afro-diasporic continuum that feels familiar yet distinct. The island’s economic struggles are real: bankruptcy, hurricanes, and colonial neglect have left deep scars but its community resilience and shared sense of oppression produce solidarity rather than hostility. For African Americans, that means an environment where “Blackness” is neither exoticized nor demonized, but part of the island’s social DNA.

Economically, Puerto Rico also provides opportunities for African Americans seeking new beginnings in real estate, tourism, or renewable energy sectors. The island’s special tax status and evolving investment laws have attracted mainland professionals and entrepreneurs, some of whom are African American innovators bringing capital and ideas into local partnerships. In this sense, Puerto Rico is not only a sanctuary but also a frontier, a place where the African Diaspora’s ingenuity can meet an economy in reinvention. For those seeking cultural reconnection, the island’s Afro-Boricua traditions like bomba music, Loíza’s festivals, and the rhythms of African pride create an echo of belonging that many African Americans have long been denied in the continental United States.

Then there is the U.S. Virgin Islands, a cluster of Caribbean jewels that quietly symbolize what safe, small-scale Black governance can look like. On St. Thomas, St. Croix, and St. John, African-descended people form the majority. That demographic fact changes everything. Here, African Americans are not minorities but members of a larger Black polity with its own traditions, institutions, and history. The islands’ governance, while tied to Washington, reflects local leadership rooted in Afro-Caribbean sensibilities. For African Americans relocating from the mainland, this translates into a rare psychological experience: existing in a majority-Black jurisdiction where public policy, education, and business life are not filtered through White validation. Safety here is political self-determination.

Economically, the U.S. Virgin Islands are not without challenge like high import costs, hurricane vulnerability, and limited diversification test resilience but they offer something profound in return: cultural sovereignty. African Americans who move there often describe an adjustment period followed by a deep sense of exhale. The smallness of scale fosters community accountability, and the absence of constant racial tension allows ambition to flow without invisible friction. One can walk into a bank, a classroom, or a government office and see reflections rather than reminders of marginalization.

Taken together, New Mexico, Maine, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands form a loose constellation of calm, a diaspora of safety within the larger storm of American contradiction. What unites them is not homogeneity, but a commitment to civility and shared humanity. Each location offers a different version of safety: political moderation in Maine, cultural equilibrium in New Mexico, diasporic kinship in Puerto Rico, and demographic sovereignty in the Virgin Islands. For African Americans navigating the exhaustion of a national identity under siege, these places suggest that peace might still be found without surrendering pride or progress.

The broader question, however, remains: why must African Americans still seek safety within the very nation they helped build? The resurgence of racial authoritarianism, book bans, and economic inequality reveals a hard truth that safety for African Americans is still conditional, still regional, still a choice rather than a guarantee. Yet, migration has always been the community’s answer to oppression. From the Underground Railroad to the Great Migration, movement has been both resistance and renaissance. Harriet Tubman’s words remain instructive: “Every great dream begins with a dreamer.” Migration, for African Americans, has always been dreaming in motion.

New Mexico and Maine show what governance without racial hysteria looks like. Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands show what culture looks like when Blackness is normalized rather than marginalized. Together, they present a vision of what the United States could be if its diversity were truly reconciled with its democracy. They remind African America that safety is not about retreating from the nation but reimagining its geography of belonging.

Still, each of these places carries limitations. In New Mexico and Maine, African Americans may find safety but also scarcity with few cultural institutions, churches, or schools designed with them in mind. In Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands, economic instability and natural disaster risks complicate long-term security. Yet, in all four, there exists something invaluable: the absence of daily racial siege. That reprieve can be transformative. It gives space for creativity, family stability, and the rebuilding of wealth without the constant drag of social mistrust.

As the nation’s politics grow more volatile, African American institutions (HBCUs, banks, and foundations) should view these geographies not simply as refuges but as development frontiers. Instead of imagining new HBCU presences in the Caribbean, they can expand partnerships with the University of the Virgin Islands already a proud HBCU anchoring the region to create joint research programs, faculty exchanges, and diasporic economic initiatives that strengthen both the mainland and the islands or research partnerships with Puerto Rican universities. Imagine Black-owned renewable energy firms anchoring in New Mexico, or a cooperative investment network expanding into Maine’s emerging industries. Safety, after all, is not just the absence of harm it’s the presence of opportunity.

There is a growing possibility that the 21st-century African American migration will not be toward cities of hustle, but toward territories of harmony. Where one can walk into a classroom, café, or coastal market and not feel their presence as provocation. Where the conversation around “diversity” is not theoretical but lived. The call of these four places is subtle but powerful: build where you can breathe.

If history is cyclical, then the current search for safety is not retreat but renewal. Each of these geographies offers a mirror to what African America has always done transform uncertainty into community. From the deserts of the Southwest to the coasts of New England and the Caribbean, a new map of refuge is emerging. Whether the destination is the Sandia Mountains, Casco Bay, San Juan’s Old Town, or Charlotte Amalie’s harbor, the journey is the same: toward dignity.

In the end, the question may not be whether these are the only safe places, but whether they are the first to show what safety could mean in practice. For a people whose freedom has always been self-forged, safety is never static it is strategy. And in that strategy, migration remains both memory and mission.

Disclaimer: This article was assisted by ChatGPT.

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