Reporter's Notebook: Black Lives Matter's disconnect with America's struggling neighborhoods

Several weeks ago, I traveled to Woodlawn on the South Side of Chicago, and as I drove through the icy streets past businesses and homes, I did not see a single Black Lives Matter sign. After parking my car on King Drive, I entered the New Beginnings Church where Pastor Corey Brooks greeted me. I joked that I thought Black Lives Matter would see more support in this neighborhood, and he just smiled. Then I asked if his nonprofit, a community center called Project H.O.O.D., had received any of the $90 million that Black Lives Matter had raised since the death of George Floyd -- and he let out a drawn-out, "nooooo."

His community had suffered horribly after the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis last May. Pharmacies and grocery stores were looted and trashed, leaving residents, many of them poor, without basic necessities. The pastor organized for church members to shuttle their fellow neighbors to pharmacies and stores in other towns so they would not have to go without medicines or food. 

The pastor wondered if the looted stores would ever come back. He had spent the last two decades in this neighborhood improving it every possible way so businesses would set up shop and provide countless employment opportunities to the locals. But, who would invest hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not millions, only to lose everything in a night of violence?

It is indisputable that Black Lives Matter took America by storm after the death of George Floyd and still continues to do so. Several of my neighbors in Los Angeles who had never given much thought to race suddenly put up Black Lives Matter signs in their yards or windows. One of them wrote, "I see you," on her sign and let it drop during our conversation that she donated $500 to Black Lives Matter. I told her there were many worthy organizations that had been toiling to uplift the lower class long before the arrival of Black Lives Matter. I mentioned Project H.O.O.D. and I also let her know that several admirable nonprofits in Ferguson, Missouri, the town that put Black Lives Matter on the map, had not received a dime from that organization. My neighbor’s face tensed up noticeably, leaving me puzzled. Maybe she had wanted unconditional praise for her generosity. Or, maybe she wanted to see only what would directly benefit her. 

I left that conversation feeling frustrated. I had suggested the other organizations because Black Lives Matter was more of an ideological movement that lacked the infrastructure to truly impact the people on the ground. Still, she did not care. She likely lacked the self-awareness or education to know that she was the latest incarnation of the "White Savior" who preferred the illusion of "doing good" to the far more difficult reality of making real and lasting change in a person or neighborhood.
The chasm between her illusions and the reality that Pastor Brooks has experienced could not be wider.


In 2012, a depressed motel — ironically named Super Motel — with ugly yellowish paint sat directly across the street from Pastor Brooks’ church and was home to prostitution, drugs and murder. Innocent children often saw obscene sights as they passed by on their way to school. 

The pastor refused to accept this fate for his neighborhood. He led his community on several marches past the motel, and when that failed to stop the illegal activities, he took to the roof. In the interviews that I saw, the pastor revealed that his dream was to replace the motel with a community center known as Project H.O.O.D. He explained that H.O.O.D. meant "Helping Others Obtain Destiny," and that his goal was to end the violence and restore youngsters onto the path toward the American Dream. 

There was much to admire about the pastor’s moxie, and when he finally came down after 94 cold and wet days on the roof with enough donations to buy and tear down the motel, the promise in the air was electric. The community was so proud of itself, and everybody believed it would only be a matter of time before the Project H.O.O.D. community center was built.