Born in our nation’s capital and raised along the banks of the Mighty Mississippi, I am a daughter of the Deep South. I grew up in abject poverty, drinking powdered milk that never quite dissolved in water, eating canned beans on a two-burner hot plate, and slicing thick blocks of government cheese. Yet even in that scarcity, I was surrounded by a community who refused to surrender — people who marched, organized, and believed they could bend the world toward justice. 

On tiny legs, I walked to City Council and school board meetings, marched to the Lorraine Motel long before it became a museum, and sang freedom songs. “We shall overcome some daaaay!” I huddled in the backseat of Marshmallow Jet, our white Chevy Impala, to visit my stepfather at the Shelby County penal farm where guards searched our bags and waved us through. But there were still places of tenderness and care. I built campfires as a member of Troop 144, the only all-Black Girl Scout troop in Memphis, Tennessee and played hopscotch on the black and white tiles at the local laundromat. 

Activism wasn’t something I learned. It was the language of my earliest years, the rhythm that shaped how I see the world and continues to move through everything I create. Even then, I understood that change doesn’t begin in the halls of power. It begins with the people choosing to care enough to do something. 

Beyond campus, my creative life became a platform for justice. I co-owned an art gallery in Winston-Salem, a gathering space for artists, activists, and truth tellers. We hosted exhibitions on race, belonging, and liberation, transforming art into dialogue and community into possibility.

When I later moved to Jacksonville, Florida, the fight for equality grew louder. The city was divided over the Human Rights Ordinance that would protect LGBTQ+ people in housing, employment, and public accommodations. I co-founded We Are Straight Allies, a campaign that used storytelling and visibility to make allyship both public and principled. Corporate leaders, faith voices, and everyday citizens joined the call. The campaign garnered national attention and support from the Human Rights Campaign and the Gill Foundation, and in 2017 the ordinance finally passed.

Inspired by the growing need for truth and accountability, I created White and Woke, a movement that calls white people to confront their complicity in systemic racism and take responsibility for dismantling it. 

Years later, that same commitment to truth and justice placed me at the center of a landmark lawsuit against Florida Governor Ron DeSantis and the state’s Stop WOKE Act, legislation created to restrict workplace conversations about race, equity, and history. As one of three plaintiffs, I successfully helped halt the enforcement of the law. 

I am also producing a documentary titled Why Is Washington [Still] Burning? The film illuminates the untold story of my mother, Sue Orrin, and Rabbi Arthur Waskow, who in the aftermath of Dr. King’s assassination organized a week-long movement of white and Jewish allies in Washington, D.C. to protect, heal, and stand in solidarity with the Black community. Drawing from newly uncovered government archives and personal testimony, Why Is Washington Still Burning reveals how acts of conscience can alter the course of history 

Each of these chapters deepened my understanding of justice, not as an abstract ideal but as a living practice. It set the stage for what would become my next evolution: a journey across nations, waters, and cultures in search of connection, truth, and radical joy.