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African American Tuition Valued At $64 Billion; But HBCUs Receive Less Than $6 Billion Annually

Posted on April 17, 2026 by | Leave a comment

HBCUs are more than just schools, they are a home. – Chadwick Boseman

The paradox is impossible to ignore: African American communities consistently champion the importance of buying Black and supporting Black-owned businesses, yet when it comes to what may be the largest purchase of a lifetime, a college education, the overwhelming majority of Black families choose to invest those dollars elsewhere. This decision has profound consequences for the survival and strength of Historically Black Colleges and Universities, institutions that remain pillars of Black achievement, economic mobility, and community power.

As of Spring 2025, approximately 19.4 million students are enrolled in U.S. colleges and universities, with about 15 million undergraduates and over 3 million graduate students, according to data from the National Student Clearinghouse Research Center reported by NPR and BestColleges. This enrollment represents a recovery from pandemic-era declines, though numbers remain below 2010 peaks. African American students comprise roughly 13-15% of this total enrollment, representing approximately 2.5 to 2.9 million students across all institution types. When we calculate the economic value of these students based on current tuition rates, the numbers are staggering.

For the 2024-2025 academic year, public four-year institutions charge approximately $11,950 for in-state students and $31,880 for out-of-state students. Private nonprofit four-year schools average around $45,000 in tuition and fees. Public two-year colleges, which experienced a 3% enrollment increase in Fall 2024 according to USA Today reports, charge an average of $4,150 for in-district students. When you factor in room and board expenses, which averaged $13,310 for 2024-2025, the total cost of attendance reaches approximately $27,146 at public four-year institutions and $58,628 at private nonprofit four-year schools. Using a weighted average cost of attendance of approximately $26,000-$28,000 per year across all institution types, African American students and their families collectively spend approximately $64 billion annually on higher education. This represents enormous purchasing power—power that could transform Black institutions and communities if redirected strategically.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: of that $64 billion, African American students at HBCUs represent only about $6 billion in tuition revenue and that $6 billion is essentially all HBCUs have to work with. Unlike predominantly white institutions with massive endowments, substantial state funding, and robust donor bases, HBCUs are almost entirely tuition-dependent. This means that more than 90% of African American education dollars approximately $58 billion annually flow to institutions that were not built for us, by us, or with our advancement as their primary mission.

We talk extensively about supporting Black businesses, banking Black, and keeping dollars circulating in our communities. Yet when families sit down to make college decisions, often the single largest financial investment they will make outside of purchasing a home, the conversation shifts. Suddenly, the narrative becomes about rankings, prestige, resources, and opportunities at predominantly white institutions, while HBCUs are considered as backup options or dismissed entirely.

This pattern has devastating consequences. The approximately 222,300 African American students currently enrolled at HBCUs generate roughly $6 billion in tuition revenue and for most HBCUs, that tuition revenue represents the vast majority of their operating budgets. Unlike well-endowed predominantly white institutions that rely heavily on endowment returns, substantial state appropriations, federal research grants, and robust alumni giving, HBCUs are critically dependent on tuition dollars just to keep their doors open. When Black students choose to take their tuition dollars elsewhere, it directly threatens these institutions’ survival, limiting their ability to maintain programs, hire faculty, upgrade facilities, and provide student services.

The impact extends far beyond immediate operating budgets. Every student who chooses a predominantly white institution over an HBCU represents not just lost tuition revenue today, but lost philanthropic potential tomorrow. Alumni giving is the lifeblood of institutional endowments, and alumni tend to give most generously to the institutions they attended. When successful Black professionals graduate from predominantly white institutions, their alumni donations when they give at all flow back to those schools. Harvard, Yale, Stanford, and other elite institutions benefit from the success of Black graduates who might have attended HBCUs if those institutions had received even a fraction of the resources concentrated at the top of higher education’s hierarchy. Meanwhile, HBCU endowments remain comparatively microscopic, not because their graduates are less successful, but because there are fewer of them writing checks back to their alma maters.

This creates a vicious cycle. Smaller enrollment means less tuition revenue and for institutions operating almost entirely on tuition, this is an existential threat. Fewer graduates means smaller donor pools. Smaller donor pools mean smaller endowments. Smaller endowments mean even greater dependence on tuition revenue and less money for scholarships, facilities, and programs. Less competitive resources make it harder to attract students. And the cycle continues, generation after generation.

The wealth gap between HBCU endowments and those of predominantly white institutions is staggering and growing. Howard University recently became the first HBCU to cross the $1 billion endowment mark, a milestone that should be celebrated but instead highlights the crisis. The top 10 HBCU endowments combined total approximately $2.6 billion. Meanwhile, Harvard University’s endowment alone exceeds $50 billion, and the top 10 predominantly white institutions hold a combined $336 billion in endowments. The PWI-to-HBCU endowment gap stands at 129 to 1. Only one HBCU has an endowment over $1 billion, while 148 predominantly white institutions have endowments exceeding that mark. This disparity means that while HBCUs scrape by on tuition revenue with minimal endowment support, elite PWIs can offer generous financial aid packages funded by massive investment returns, making them appear more affordable even as they siphon Black student dollars away from Black institutions.

In barbershops and beauty salons, at family gatherings and community events, the conversation about economic empowerment is constant. We discuss the importance of circulation of Black dollars, the need to build generational wealth, and the imperative of supporting institutions that support us. Social media amplifies calls to buy Black, support Black-owned restaurants, use Black banks, and patronize Black professionals. Yet somehow, this collective consciousness evaporates when it’s time to choose a college. Parents who wouldn’t think twice about driving across town to support a Black-owned business will encourage their children to attend predominantly white institutions without seriously considering HBCU alternatives. Students who wear “support Black business” t-shirts apply exclusively to schools where they will be a small minority, where their history may be marginalized, and where their dollars will fund institutions with no historical commitment to Black advancement.

This isn’t about judgment these are rational decisions made by families trying to secure the best possible future for their children in a competitive world. The problem is that these individual rational choices, when aggregated, produce a collective outcome that weakens the very institutions most committed to Black success.

Consider what HBCUs accomplish with their fraction of African American education dollars. These institutions enroll approximately 10% of all African American college students but produce nearly 20% of Black graduates. They generate an even higher percentage of Black professionals in critical fields like engineering, medicine, and education. The majority of Black doctors, a disproportionate share of Black lawyers, and a significant portion of Black educators earned their degrees from HBCUs. HBCUs create environments where Black students see themselves in positions of leadership, where their history and culture are centered rather than marginalized, and where they build networks that last lifetimes. Research consistently shows that Black students at HBCUs report higher levels of engagement, stronger sense of belonging, and greater confidence in their abilities compared to Black students at predominantly white institutions.

They accomplish all of this while operating on budgets that would be considered inadequate at any predominantly white institution. They make miracles happen with limited resources, outdated facilities, and faculty salaries that make it difficult to compete for top talent. Imagine what they could do with just a fraction of that $64 billion currently flowing elsewhere.

The numbers tell a stark story. Approximately 292,500 students currently attend HBCUs, with African American students comprising about 76% of that enrollment roughly 222,300 Black students. At an average cost of attendance of $26,000-$28,000 annually, these students represent approximately $6 billion in tuition revenue flowing to HBCUs each year. Meanwhile, the remaining 2.3 to 2.7 million African American college students roughly 90% of all Black college students generate approximately $58 billion in tuition revenue for predominantly white institutions.

Think about that ratio: $6 billion staying in Black institutions versus $58 billion leaving them. This isn’t about equity or fairness this is about economic power and where we choose to deploy it. Every semester, Black families collectively make purchasing decisions that send nearly ten times more money to institutions with no historical commitment to Black advancement than to institutions that were literally built to educate us when no one else would.

The enrollment landscape is shifting. Spring 2025’s 19.4 million total enrollment shows growth in both undergraduate and graduate programs. Particularly significant is the 3% surge in community college enrollment in Fall 2024, suggesting that cost considerations are increasingly driving educational decisions. This cost consciousness presents an opportunity. As families become more aware of student debt burdens and question the return on investment of expensive predominantly white institutions, HBCUs offer compelling value propositions. But they can only compete if they have the resources to tell their stories effectively, maintain quality programs, and provide the support services today’s students expect.

The net price reality adds another dimension. While published tuition rates provide a baseline, actual costs after financial aid vary significantly, typically ranging from $17,000 to $25,000 depending on institution type. However, African American students often face higher net prices than their peers at the same institutions due to lower family wealth and less access to non-loan aid. This means Black families are stretching further financially, taking on more debt, and working more hours often to attend institutions with no particular commitment to Black student success.

The solution requires a fundamental shift in how we think about educational choices. White families don’t agonize over whether to “give HBCUs a chance” they automatically prioritize their own institutions. They attend state flagships, legacy schools where their parents and grandparents went, institutions that have accumulated centuries of wealth from their community’s investment. They don’t need to be convinced to support their own. Yet somehow, Black families have internalized a narrative that HBCUs are noble but limited, worth considering but not prioritizing, respectable but not prestigious. This is the mental colonization that costs us $58 billion annually.

We need to be as intentional about our education spending as we claim to be about supporting Black businesses. This means making HBCUs the default choice, not the backup plan. It means understanding that when white families send their children to their flagship state universities and legacy institutions, they’re not making a sacrifice they’re making an investment in institutional power that compounds over generations. Black families deserve the same mindset. The choice of where to spend education dollars is an economic decision with ramifications far beyond individual degree attainment. It’s about building institutional power that can withstand political and social headwinds.

Institutional strength matters. Strong HBCUs create jobs in Black communities, anchor local economies, generate Black wealth through employment and contracts, and serve as catalysts for community development. They provide platforms for Black intellectual leadership, preserve and advance Black culture, and create networks of mutual support that span generations and geographies. In an increasingly uncertain social and political environment, the importance of strong Black institutions becomes even more apparent. When external support proves unreliable, when political winds shift, when social progress reverses, communities need institutions they control and can depend on. HBCUs represent exactly that kind of institutional foundation.

The question isn’t whether HBCUs deserve support their track record speaks for itself. The question is whether African American families will align their spending decisions with their stated values around Black economic empowerment. That $64 billion represents power—power to build, strengthen, and sustain institutions that have proven their commitment to Black success. How we choose to deploy that power will determine whether HBCUs merely survive or truly thrive in the generations ahead.

The choice is ours. The power has always been ours. The question is whether we’ll use it.

Disclaimer: This article was assisted by ClaudeAI.

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Two Pillars Fall: The Loss of Columbia Savings and Adelphi Bank and What It Means for African American Communities

Posted on March 27, 2026 by | Leave a comment

We are watching the absolute collapse of African American institutions and our absolute dependency on Others’ institutions. It once felt like a slow train wreck, now it feels like a supersonic missile. – William A. Foster, IV

The 2025 African American Owned Bank Directory carries an absence that numbers alone cannot fully convey. Two institutions that appeared in last year’s listing — Columbia Savings and Loan Association of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and Adelphi Bank of Columbus, Ohio — are no longer among the ranks of African American-owned financial institutions. Together, they represented nearly $130 million in assets: Columbia Savings at approximately $22 million and Adelphi Bank at approximately $106 million. Their departure is not merely a bookkeeping change. It is a geographic and community wound, one that leaves both Ohio and Wisconsin without a single African American-owned bank.

Founded on January 1, 1924, Columbia Savings and Loan Association was one of the oldest African American-owned financial institutions in the United States. A savings and loan chartered over a century ago in Milwaukee, it survived the Great Depression, the urban upheavals of the mid-20th century, the savings and loan crisis of the 1980s, and the 2008 financial collapse. It did not survive 2025. In our 2024 directory, Columbia carried $24,097,000 in assets, already down 12.0 percent from the prior year. By the time 2025 data was compiled, its assets had further declined to approximately $21,998,000 — a figure that, alongside declining capital levels, signaled an institution under extraordinary strain. For a savings and loan of its size, operating in a competitive market without the capital buffers available to larger institutions, the math had become unforgiving.

Milwaukee’s African American community is substantial, Black residents make up roughly 39 percent of the city’s population and yet they now have no African American-owned bank to call their own. This is not a small thing. African American-owned banks and savings institutions have historically served as anchors for communities that mainstream financial institutions have underserved or outright ignored. They have written mortgages in redlined neighborhoods, provided small business loans to entrepreneurs who couldn’t get a second meeting at a downtown bank, and offered a financial home to people who needed more than a transaction they needed trust.

If the loss of Columbia Savings is a story of a century-old institution exhausted by time and capital constraints, the loss of Adelphi Bank carries a different kind of grief. Founded on January 18, 2023, in Columbus, Ohio, Adelphi was the newest African American-owned bank in the country at the time of our 2024 directory. Prior to its founding, no new African American-owned bank had been chartered in 23 years. Adelphi’s launch was celebrated for exactly that reason: it represented a renewal, a sign that the community had not given up on building the financial infrastructure it needs.

In 2024, Adelphi reported $68,154,000 in assets, up 55.1 percent from the year prior, a remarkable growth trajectory for a de novo bank. By 2025, that figure had risen further to $106,369,000. And yet, despite that asset growth, the bank was no longer majority African American-owned by the time 2025 statistics were compiled. A growing balance sheet does not automatically translate into ownership stability. New banks are capital-intensive, and the pressures to bring in outside investors can, over time, dilute or displace founding ownership structures.

The result is that Ohio, the state that just two years ago was celebrating the founding of its first new African American-owned bank in over two decades, now has none. Columbus, the state capital and one of the fastest-growing cities in the Midwest, has no African American-owned bank. And critically, neither does the surrounding region that includes two of Ohio’s most important Historically Black Colleges and Universities: Central State University and Wilberforce University.

The relationship between African American-owned banks and HBCUs has long been identified by HBCU Money as one of the most underdeveloped partnerships in the Black economic ecosystem. HBCUs are intellectual and economic anchors for their communities. African American-owned banks are the financial connective tissue that can translate education, entrepreneurship, and homeownership aspirations into capital. When both are present in a region, the possibilities compound. When one disappears, the other is diminished.

Central State University and Wilberforce University sit in Greene and Xenia, Ohio, both within the orbit of Columbus and Dayton. Their students, faculty, staff, and alumni represent tens of thousands of people who need mortgages, small business loans, car notes, savings accounts, and lines of credit. Without an African American-owned bank anywhere in Ohio, those needs will be met if they are met at all by institutions with no particular relationship to their communities, no cultural competency born of shared experience, and no structural incentive to reinvest in the neighborhoods and towns these HBCUs serve. And if they are met, the profits and institutional ownership and influence will be to the benefit of Others and not the African American ecosystem. Once again, we will be subsidizing everyone else.

This is not a hypothetical harm. Research has consistently shown that African American-owned banks direct a greater share of their lending to African American borrowers and African American-owned businesses than Others’ institutions. They are not perfect, and they are not substitutes for broader policy change. But they are irreplaceable in the role they play, and their absence is felt in the very specific, very practical ways that matter most: a loan denied, a mortgage not written, a business that never got started.

The 2025 directory does carry one encouraging entry: Redemption Bank of Salt Lake City, Utah, founded February 20, 1974, and now appearing in the African American-owned bank listing with approximately $72,205,000 in assets under the FDIC’s San Francisco region. Its inclusion partially offsets the $128 million in assets lost with Columbia and Adelphi. Redemption Bank’s presence in Utah is notable given the state’s relatively small African American population and its distance from the major African American economic corridors. Its listing is a reminder that African American financial institution-building can and does happen in unexpected places.

But Redemption Bank’s $72 million in assets does not replace what was lost in Ohio and Wisconsin. It does not fill the geographic gap. It does not serve the students at Central State or Wilberforce, or the African American residents of Milwaukee’s north side. The net loss to African American institutional financial capacity in the Midwest is real, and no amount of welcome news from the Mountain West changes the map that communities in Columbus and Milwaukee are now looking at.

As noted in our 2024 directory, African American-owned banks hold approximately $6.4 billion of America’s $23.6 trillion in bank assets — roughly 0.027 percent. The apex of African American-owned bank assets, as a share of total U.S. banking, was 1926, when the sector held 0.2 percent — ten times today’s proportion. Nearly a century later, the sector has not recovered.

The structural disadvantages are well-documented: chronic undercapitalization, concentration in communities with lower median wealth, limited access to the interbank credit markets that larger institutions tap freely, and a customer base that has been systematically excluded from wealth-building for generations. These are not problems that individual bank managers can solve through hustle and grit alone. They require deliberate policy support, sustained community deposits, and coordinated investment from the HBCU ecosystem, African American businesses, and public-sector partners.

The post-2020 wave of corporate pledges to African American financial institutions provided some relief. Many of the banks in our directory saw asset growth between 2023 and 2024 partly as a result of those deposits. But corporate commitments are not permanent, and the institutions that did not receive them or that received too little too late remained exposed. Columbia Savings, with $24 million in assets and a 12 percent annual decline already in evidence by 2024, was unlikely to attract the kind of large-scale corporate or philanthropic deposit that might have stabilized it.

The loss of Columbia Savings and Adelphi Bank should be understood as a call to action, not an occasion for eulogy alone. Several things must happen.

First, the HBCU community in Ohio must begin conversations now about what it would take to support a new African American-owned financial institution in the state. Central State and Wilberforce cannot simply wait for the private sector to solve this. HBCU endowments, alumni associations, and institutional deposits are tools of economic development. Directing even a fraction of those resources toward a future Ohio-based African American-owned bank would be a meaningful first step.

Second, community organizations, African American business associations, and civic leaders in Milwaukee must assess whether a new chartered institution, a credit union, or a community development financial institution (CDFI) can fill some of the void left by Columbia Savings’ departure. Milwaukee’s African American community is large enough and its economic needs acute enough that the absence of a community-controlled financial institution is not sustainable.

Third, the national conversation about African American-owned banks must move from celebration to infrastructure. Every time a new institution is chartered, and Adelphi’s founding in 2023 was genuinely exciting, it must be supported with the capitalization, deposit commitments, and technical assistance that give it a fighting chance past its first few years. A bank that grows in assets but loses its founding ownership structure has not fulfilled its promise. The community has to be in the room, and at the table, not just at the ribbon-cutting.

Finally, we should note what these two losses mean for the map of African American financial geography. States absent from our 2025 directory now include Ohio, Wisconsin, Maryland, Missouri, New York, and Virginia — a list that encompasses some of the largest African American urban populations in the country. That map is a challenge and an indictment in equal measure. African Americans live and work and build in every corner of this country. Their financial institutions should too.

Columbia Savings and Loan Association (Milwaukee, WI) — Founded January 1, 1924 | 2024 Assets: $24,097,000 | 2025 Assets: $21,998,000

Adelphi Bank (Columbus, OH) — Founded January 18, 2023 | 2024 Assets: $68,154,000 | 2025 Assets: $106,369,000

Redemption Bank (Salt Lake City, UT) — Founded February 20, 1974 | 2025 Assets: $72,205,000 [New to directory]

Disclaimer: This article was assisted by Claude (Anthropic).

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Mapping the Gap: The Geography of African American Banks and Credit Unions in 2025

Posted on March 21, 2026 by | Leave a comment

African Americans navigating their financial lives are operating inside two fundamentally different types of institutions, and understanding that difference is not academic it is strategic. JPMorgan Chase, the largest bank in the United States with over $3.9 trillion in assets, is a publicly traded corporation owned by shareholders. Its mandate is profit. It can accept corporate deposits, underwrite municipal bonds, finance international trade, issue letters of credit that move goods across oceans, syndicate billion-dollar loans, and operate in 100 countries. When a city government needs to finance a new highway, when a developer needs to close on a $200 million mixed-use project, when a corporation needs to hedge currency risk across three continents — JPMorgan is in that room. Navy Federal Credit Union, the largest credit union in the United States with approximately $180 billion in assets, is a member-owned cooperative. Its mandate is service to its members, who must meet eligibility requirements tied to military affiliation. It offers mortgages, car loans, checking accounts, and credit cards often at better rates and lower fees than JPMorgan but it cannot write a commercial real estate construction loan for a developer, cannot underwrite a municipal bond for a city, cannot finance an export contract for a manufacturer shipping goods to West Africa, and has no presence in international capital markets. Navy Federal is a powerful institution for what it does. It simply does not do what JPMorgan does, and JPMorgan does not do what Navy Federal does at the community level. For African Americans, this distinction carries enormous consequence. A community with only credit unions has access to consumer financial products; mortgages, auto loans, personal savings but lacks the commercial banking infrastructure needed to finance business growth, real estate development, institutional deposits, and economic expansion. A community with only banks, and specifically only large national banks with no cultural accountability, has access to products but not necessarily to equitable underwriting, community reinvestment, or the trust that comes from shared ownership. The absence of an African American-owned bank in Ohio or Wisconsin is not just symbolic. It means no institution with a community mandate is positioned to finance the next African American developer, fund the next HBCU-adjacent business corridor, or serve as a depository for the growing institutional wealth of Black organizations in those states.

When the geography of African American banks and credit unions is examined together, a more complete — though still incomplete — picture of Black financial infrastructure emerges across the United States. The 2025 African American Owned Bank Directory covers 17 institutions across 15 states and territories. The 2025 NCUA data on African American credit unions adds 205 institutions across 29 states and territories, carrying $8.15 billion in assets and serving approximately 727,000 members. Combined, the two sectors represent over 220 institutions and more than $14.8 billion in assets operating across 31 states and territories. But geography, not just totals, is where the real story lives.

Thirteen states have both an African American-owned bank and at least one African American credit union: Alabama, the District of Columbia, Georgia, Illinois, Louisiana, Michigan, Mississippi, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Texas. These are the states with the fullest financial ecosystem — where a community member can choose between a bank product and a credit union product from an institution with cultural roots in their community. Louisiana stands out, with one bank and 25 credit unions, the most of any state in the credit union count. Illinois follows with one bank and 23 credit unions.

Two states have African American banks but no African American credit unions in the NCUA data: Massachusetts, home to OneUnited Bank, and Utah, newly represented by Redemption Bank. These institutions serve their communities without the complementary infrastructure of a credit union network. Conversely, 16 states and territories have African American credit unions but no African American-owned bank: Arkansas, California, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Indiana, Maryland, Minnesota, Missouri, New Jersey, New York, Ohio, Virginia, the U.S. Virgin Islands, West Virginia, and Wisconsin.

The cases of Ohio and Wisconsin, discussed at length in the bank directory analysis, illustrate the limits of credit union coverage as a substitute for bank presence. Ohio has four African American credit unions with combined assets of approximately $18.3 million: Mahoning Valley in Youngstown, Mt. Zion Woodlawn in Cincinnati, Cleveland Church of Christ in Cleveland, and Toledo Urban in Toledo. Of these, Toledo Urban is the only institution of meaningful scale at $17.2 million in assets with 4,324 members. The other three are micro-institutions, each under $600,000 in assets and under 400 members. Wisconsin’s single credit union, Holy Redeemer Community of SE Wisconsin based in Milwaukee, holds just $764,689 in assets and serves 239 members. For a city where African Americans comprise roughly 39 percent of the population, that represents an institutional void that one small credit union cannot fill. Neither Ohio nor Wisconsin has an African American financial institution capable of writing a commercial real estate loan, funding a startup, or underwriting a mortgage for a first-generation homebuyer at any meaningful scale.

African American Financial Institutions by State, 2025

StateAfrican American BanksAfrican American Credit UnionsCombined Institutions
Alabama21214
Arkansas033
California011
Connecticut033
Delaware011
District of Columbia11011
Florida033
Georgia2911
Illinois12324
Indiana055
Louisiana12526
Maryland077
Massachusetts101
Michigan145
Minnesota022
Mississippi11112
Missouri044
New Jersey099
New York01515
North Carolina123
Ohio044
Oklahoma112
Pennsylvania189
South Carolina156
Tennessee156
Texas11415
Utah101
U.S. Virgin Islands044
Virginia01313
West Virginia011
Wisconsin011

Maryland presents a striking and instructive contrast. It has no African American-owned bank, a gap noted in the 2025 directory, yet it is the single largest state for African American credit union assets, hosting seven institutions with a combined $4.47 billion in assets. That figure is driven primarily by two institutions: Andrews Federal Credit Union in Suitland with $2.47 billion in assets and 142,076 members, and Municipal Employees Credit Union of Baltimore with $1.26 billion in assets and 98,358 members. Maryland’s credit union sector is, in asset terms, larger than the entire African American bank sector nationally. This is remarkable. It is also a reminder that credit unions and banks occupy different structural roles. Andrews Federal and MECU of Baltimore are large, sophisticated institutions with product offerings that approach commercial banking but they are member cooperatives, not banks, and their ownership structure, regulatory environment, and community lending mandates differ accordingly. Maryland’s absence from the bank directory is still a gap worth addressing, even with $4.47 billion in credit union assets in the state.

Virginia and Missouri follow a similar pattern to Maryland, albeit at smaller scale. Virginia has 13 African American credit unions with $471 million in assets but no African American-owned bank. Missouri has four credit unions with $481 million in assets, anchored by St. Louis Community Credit Union at $431.5 million, and also no bank. New York has 15 credit unions with $76 million in assets and no African American bank, a particularly stark figure given the size of New York’s African American population and its status as the financial capital of the country.

The states that are entirely absent from both the bank and credit union directories deserve attention. While the combined coverage of 31 states and territories is broader than either sector alone, large portions of the country remain without any African American-owned financial institution. States like Nevada, Arizona, Colorado, Washington, Oregon, and much of the Mountain West and Pacific Northwest have no representation in either directory. As African Americans continue to migrate to new metros — Las Vegas, Phoenix, Denver, Seattle — the absence of community-controlled financial institutions in those corridors becomes a growing concern.

The combined picture is this: African American banks and credit unions together hold approximately $14.8 billion in assets, serve over 700,000 credit union members and the deposit base of 17 banks, and operate across 31 states and territories. The credit union sector, at $8.15 billion in assets across 205 institutions, is actually slightly larger than the bank sector’s $6.72 billion across 17 institutions, a reflection of the credit union model’s greater accessibility and the longer runway some of these institutions have had to grow. But the two sectors are not interchangeable. Banks can hold commercial deposits, write business loans, issue letters of credit, and serve as the financial backbone of an entrepreneurial ecosystem in ways that most credit unions cannot. Credit unions, in turn, offer member ownership, lower fees, and community accountability that publicly or privately held banks may not. The African American community needs both, in every state where its population is substantial. Right now, it has neither in too many places that matter.

Sources: HBCU Money 2025 African American Owned Bank Directory; 2025 NCUA African American Credit Union Institutions data. Asset figures in U.S. dollars.

Disclaimer: This article was assisted by Claude (Anthropic).

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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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Give Black App: A Digital Gatekeeper For African American Philanthropy & Institutional Capital

Posted on September 12, 2025 by | Leave a comment

“We must invest in ourselves. Without our own institutions, we will always be at the mercy of others.” – Mary McLeod Bethune

In the long arc of African American economic life, a recurring pattern emerges: the institutions most critical to our survival are consistently starved of capital, while the broader society thrives off of our labor, culture, and creativity. From Reconstruction-era mutual aid societies to the undercapitalized HBCUs of today, the struggle has never been whether African Americans are generous, but whether that generosity is systematically directed into institutions that can build durable power.

The Give Black App, founded by David C. Hughes, Alexus Hall, and Fran Harris, positions itself at this inflection point. It is not simply an app but a digital strategy—one attempting to reshape the flow of African American philanthropy and donations by curating, centralizing, and amplifying support for Black-led institutions.

The Context of Underfunding

African American nonprofits receive disproportionately less funding compared to their White counterparts. A 2020 Bridgespan study found that unrestricted net assets of White-led nonprofits were 76% larger than those of Black-led nonprofits, while revenues were 24% higher. These disparities compound over time. For HBCUs, the story is even starker: the endowments of all 100+ HBCUs combined is less than 1/10th of Harvard University’s alone.

Despite African America’s estimated $1.8 trillion in annual buying power, only a fraction is captured by its own institutions. Much of African American giving remains individual-to-individual or church-centered, providing immediate relief but not the kind of long-term institutional scaffolding needed to compete with White or global capital. Platforms like Give Black attempt to redirect that generosity into a framework where dollars reinforce permanence.

Building the Infrastructure of Giving

Give Black’s strength lies in infrastructure, a word often overlooked in philanthropy. The app operates as a digital gatekeeper, cataloguing Black-led nonprofits and enabling donors—whether individuals, alumni associations, or grassroots organizations—to find and fund them with ease.

This may seem simple, but its implications are profound. In an environment where discoverability is one of the greatest barriers for Black-led organizations, Give Black centralizes attention. For the countless nonprofits that lack robust marketing budgets, development officers, or national visibility, the app provides a seat at the table they would otherwise be denied.

The team itself reflects intentional design. Hughes, a Morehouse and Prairie View alumnus, carries the academic gravitas to engage institutions; Hall, with a background in cybersecurity and software sales, grounds the platform’s technical operations; Harris, a lifelong advocate of Black love and economic empowerment, provides the cultural grounding and marketing voice. Alongside them stand directors rooted in community engagement, finance, athletics, and science. Together, they represent a cross-section of African American life that mirrors the very community the app seeks to serve.

Philanthropy Meets Technology

Unlike GoFundMe or Benevity, which serve broad audiences, Give Black narrows its focus: African American-led institutions. This specificity is both its greatest strength and its potential vulnerability. By making African American philanthropy visible and trackable, the app attempts to normalize institutional giving within the community itself.

African American donors, long used to personal giving—funeral funds, tuition help, emergency assistance—are now asked to see their dollars not just as charity but as investment. An app that allows for transparency, accountability, and impact measurement may finally bridge the gap between intent and sustained institutional support.

Technology also democratizes giving. Younger generations, accustomed to digital wallets and mobile donations, are unlikely to write checks or mail contributions. By existing where they already transact, Give Black normalizes philanthropy as part of daily life. With proper marketing, it could serve as a digital equivalent of the collection plate—except one that sends dollars to Black think tanks, schools, health clinics, and endowment foundations rather than solely to Sunday offerings.

The Role of Fran Harris

Much of the initial confusion about Give Black’s leadership arises from Fran Harris’s name. She openly jokes about it—she is not the Fran Harris who was a WNBA champion or Shark Tank winner, though many assume otherwise. Instead, she distinguishes herself as someone whose “entire life has been about Black love and economic empowerment.”

That distinction matters. Whereas celebrity often drives visibility in African American philanthropy, Harris positions herself not as a star but as a steward of a broader vision. Her work focuses on the storytelling and cultural marketing needed to align African American giving with institutional capital. In a sense, her humor in addressing the name confusion underscores the seriousness of her actual role: grounding the app’s message in authenticity rather than celebrity.

The Gaps in the Strategy

Despite its promise, Give Black faces hurdles. First, fundraising expertise at the highest level appears limited within the core team. Major philanthropy is an industry of its own, requiring seasoned development officers capable of cultivating seven- and eight-figure gifts. Without this, Give Black risks becoming a platform for small-dollar giving—important, but insufficient for closing institutional capital gaps.

Second, technological depth must match ambition. While Hall’s cybersecurity background provides operational credibility, scaling a fintech-style platform requires CTO-level leadership. Issues of compliance, data integrity, and user trust are not optional—they are the foundation of sustainability.

Third, policy and compliance matter. Donations intersect with financial regulations, nonprofit law, and IRS oversight. To become the definitive gateway for Black giving, Give Black must not only build a sleek front end but also a back-end architecture that can withstand regulatory scrutiny and instill donor confidence.

Where the Opportunities Lie

The greatest opportunities for Give Black lie in institutional self-reliance.

One clear pathway is through alumni networks. HBCU alumni giving rates remain in the single digits, compared to 20–30% at elite PWIs. If Give Black positioned itself as the official conduit for alumni donations, it could help double or triple those rates over time. That alone would shift millions into endowments and operating budgets across the HBCU ecosystem.

Another opportunity lies in membership-based organizations—from professional networks to civic associations. Instead of dues going solely toward programming, portions could be funneled into long-term institutional giving through Give Black, creating a culture of collective philanthropy.

The Pan-African Diaspora represents yet another opening. African and Caribbean communities abroad are increasingly connected digitally. Give Black could expand to become a Pan-African philanthropic bridge, enabling solidarity between African Americans and global Black communities. Diaspora donors, often seeking trustworthy channels for giving, could find in Give Black a centralized, transparent platform.

Finally, the most transformative opportunity is to integrate endowment-building features directly into the app. Too much African American giving is trapped in the cycle of operating expenses. By redirecting portions of donations into permanent capital funds, Give Black could help institutions create reserves that outlast political climates and economic downturns.

Lessons from History

The urgency of Give Black’s mission must be seen against history. During the early 20th century, White-controlled philanthropy dictated the survival of many HBCUs. Institutions like Hampton and Tuskegee often relied on Northern industrialists whose donations came with ideological strings attached. The absence of African American-controlled philanthropic infrastructure meant dependency—and dependency always meant vulnerability.

Today, African American institutions still operate under the shadow of that dependency. Foundation funding remains racially skewed, and government support is often politically weaponized. Give Black, by offering a decentralized and community-driven alternative, challenges that cycle.

But history also warns: movements that lack discipline or scale are easily absorbed or ignored. Just as the Negro Leagues produced baseball talent but lacked the capital to maintain independence, so too can African American philanthropy generate excitement but fail to sustain institutional life if it is not channeled strategically.

The Verdict

Give Black App is not merely a digital donation tool. It is a test case: can African America leverage technology to redirect its wealth into its own institutions? The team’s composition, heavy in HBCU roots, marketing authenticity, and community engagement, suggests it understands both the stakes and the culture.

Still, the app must avoid the trap of becoming a feel-good project without measurable institutional outcomes. Its long-term success will be determined by whether it can:

  1. Secure partnerships with HBCUs, alumni associations, and membership-based organizations.
  2. Develop deep fundraising and compliance infrastructure.
  3. Normalize institutional giving across African American households.

If it does, Give Black could evolve into a cornerstone of African American institutional development—a kind of digital Freedman’s Bureau, redistributing not charity but power.

For African America, the stakes could not be higher. In an era where White nonprofits sit on multibillion-dollar endowments, while Black nonprofits scrape for survival, the question is not whether we are generous. It is whether our generosity is building the kind of institutions that ensure survival for centuries, not just survival for today.

Give Black, if scaled with vision and discipline, may finally provide the infrastructure to answer that question with a resounding yes.

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