Grievance & Justice: Continuing King's Legacy
Introduction by: Rafiq TaylorWhen I think about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I often find myself dissecting the nature of his legacy, the manipulation of his image over time, and the national symbolism he’s come to represent.
The Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial stands prominently on Independence Avenue.
Within this iconography, King’s image and beliefs have often been sanitized, overemphasizing his vision for peaceful coexistence; obscuring his anger – his fierce indignation against the injustices he experienced.
As he declared in an early, lesser-known portion of his "I Have a Dream" speech, “It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual.”
This series of editorials examining the events of 2024 and written by students Mycah Hart-Powell, Arija Martin, and Reenua Jones, represent and honor King’s legacy by giving voice to grievance with determination.
ReAction(s) to the Repeal of Affirmative Action
by Mycah Hart-Powell
Students march on Chapel Hill during this landmark ruling.
The Supreme Court's recent decision to repeal affirmative action policies in higher education has triggered widespread concern among students of color. Many fear the ruling may reinforce Jim Crow-like barriers to educational opportunities and workplace diversity.
"This is a slap in the face to my ancestors who fought hard to give me and my siblings opportunities," says Michelle Longlie, a senior at Howard University. As a Black woman, Longlie emphasizes how she has already worked exceptionally hard to prove herself in a society segmented by barriers.
The Court's decision effectively ends race-conscious admission policies that were first implemented under President Lyndon B. Johnson. The Johnson administration designed the legislation to combat racial inequality in educational and professional institutions. These policies had been credited with helping to create generations of "firsts”—pioneering leaders hailing from different colors and genders across various industries and academic institutions.
Malcolm Ferrouillet, a sophomore PR major at USC, expresses concern about the ruling's impact on future generations. "The Court's decision will crush the dreams of so many who planned on being the first in their family to attend college," he explains. "Students are now doubting whether to apply to various universities because they're told that who they are doesn't matter in a college application." When, in fact, it is our experiences—good or bad—based on our race, gender, age, and class that directly shape who we are. And the court's decision to be blind to this is to be blind to the systems and biases that continue to target us based on these identifying factors.
The implications of this reversal extend beyond academia into the professional world, as illustrated by ongoing hiring disparities. Consider the case of “Dwight” Jackson. After working in the luxury hospitality industry for several years, he applied for multiple positions at a luxury hotel. He never received an interview. However, he was invited for multiple interviews after changing his name to one that sounded more “Caucasian.”
Critics argue that the Court's decision, ironically made on the grounds of promoting inclusivity, may instead reinforce existing inequalities. They contend that while the Constitution theoretically protects all groups, affirmative action policies undermine these protections by excluding “majority groups,” such as white males.
The ruling's supporters claim it advances constitutional principles of equal treatment. However, many students and educators worry this interpretation overlooks the continuing need for proactive measures to ensure genuine equality of opportunity in American education and workplace settings.
As the immediate effects of this decision begin to unfold, many see parallels to historical patterns of systemic inequality. While affirmative action was not a perfect solution, it represented an important effort to level the playing field in a society still chained by the manacles of systemic racism.
Black in America or POC in America?
by Arija Martin
A manifold of racial categories are listed on a census.
In conversations about race and ethnicity, the term “POC” — people of color — often replaces identifying a particular group. You hear it everywhere these days: companies, universities, and even well-meaning individuals using POC to describe anyone who isn’t white. It’s a catch-all, a way to make conversations about race easier or less uncomfortable for people on the outside looking in. But what strikes me as odd is how, in doing this, we end up erasing the critical differences between racial groups, particularly when it comes to Black people and the Black experience.
As a Black woman, I’ve had people of color try to speak on my experiences, sometimes equating their struggles to mine or, worse, playing the unspoken game of “whose trauma is worse.” There’s something incredibly problematic about this. No one’s experiences are the same, nor should they be treated that way. It got me thinking: why do we continue to use the term POC when discussing issues that disproportionately impact Black people? Using a blanket term like POC in these contexts diminishes and generalizes unique, deeply personal experiences. It makes it harder to heal from specific racial traumas, discrimination, and disrespect we face.
Think about it: language matters. The way we communicate, especially when it comes to understanding intersectional identities and experiences, shapes the conversations we have and the actions we take. Historically, Black people in the US have been labeled with various terms — from “colored” to “negro” to “African American,” each reflecting the era’s social climate. Today, we’ve arrived at people of color, a term that is predominantly used in the US and Canada to describe anyone who is non-white. It’s supposed to highlight shared experiences of systemic racism among non-white people, but it also reinforces the racial hierarchy that has existed since the days of European colonization.
This one-size-fits-all label does more harm than good. It lumps everyone into one category, erasing individual groups’ specific experiences and histories. For instance, you wouldn’t say that I, a Black woman, and a Pakistani woman have the same experience in America. Similar in some ways? Maybe. But not the same. This lazy categorization ignores the racialized hierarchy that still impacts Black people more severely than any other group in this country. Until we go beyond the surface level to address these issues, the language we use will continue to reflect America’s struggle to reckon with its embedded racism and white supremacy.
There’s no denying that being a non-white person in America comes with its own set of challenges, discrimination, and shared struggles across different identities. But as one Asian-American advocate put it,
“Being Black in America is not the same as being any other race in America.”
There’s a long and nuanced history behind that statement. Black people were at one time considered three-fifths of a person under the US Constitution. They were denied rights to their bodies and access to generational wealth via discriminatory policies like redlining and gentrification that are still enacted today.
And then there’s the everyday discrimination that inspired the passing of legislation like the CROWN Act that enables Black people to wear their natural hair without facing employment discrimination or bias. Or the fact that in many American cities, the location of their Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd is often used to connotate low-income Black neighborhoods intentionally overlooked by local governments.
Even my personal experiences show how the term POC doesn’t account for the specifics of Black life in America. For example, one day, when my sister and I were at a store, the cashier — a person of color — looked at her and asked if she was planning to steal the chocolate bar in her hand. Out of all the customers in the store, he singled her out. Incidents like this are constant reminders that, no, we are not all in the same boat, even if we’re all classified as POC.
In these moments, it becomes clear how the term can even enable other people of color’s anti-Blackness. The broad use of POC serves as a shield, allowing them to avoid confronting their own biases. It’s not just performative activism; it’s a sidestep around essential, uncomfortable truths. The term might have started with good intentions, but it’s often used to soften conversations that should be more direct.
Ultimately, the term POC isn’t inherently wrong, but it does erase specificity. To heal from the deeply rooted traumas that different racial groups face, we need to name them for what they are. Black experiences, in particular, require space for their narratives, not just a seat under the umbrella of “people of color.” Until we can speak about racial issues with the precision they deserve, we’re stuck using language that feels comfortable for everyone except the people most affected. And that’s a problem we must face head-on if we ever hope to move forward.
Hang It Up: Retiring the Cape of Black Women
by Reenua Jones
A single figure watches as the American flag melts into a puddle.