"Before moving to Las Vegas, the word progressive wasn’t a constant part of my vocabulary, and I didn’t see my own work through that lens. I studied historical movements and understood that Black liberation mattered deeply, but I didn’t label my advocacy as “progressive.” In college, I envisioned myself as an aspiring scholar of Black consciousness—an idea some called “woke.” I drew inspiration from thinkers like W. E. B.  Du Bois, Malcolm X  Shabazz, James Baldwin, Shirley Chisholm, and Niam Akbar, viewing their legacies as part of a broader arc that shaped policies and opened pathways for social change. 

Liberation felt inherently progressive—perhaps radical to some—yet I believed I was simply doing what a Black person is often expected to do: act, advocate, and pursue justice. That sense of duty had roots in my upbringing and in my time at the University of Central Missouri, where the frame of justice felt embedded in me even before I had a name for it."

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"The complexity of these 'progressive' spaces fascinated me, revealing a persistent duality: theories and labels could sound inclusive, yet the lived realities and priorities of Black communities could diverge or be scape-goated. Lastly, the reality that BIPOC people also experience harm, isolation, and othering within progressive spaces added another layer of complexity to this phenomenon. Navigating this terrain felt like a constant negotiation—between identity and advocacy, between Black liberation and broader social change, between inclusive language and lived practice. It wasn’t a clean path, but the tension became a teacher, shaping how I understood myself within both progressive and Black spaces."