These Are Big Emotions
Home to the Grant Street Community whose families have been in this place for 100+ years. (Durham, NC)
Erin Dooley is the co-founder of BLK South and Neighborhood Chaplain in Durham, NC. With over twenty years in nonprofit leadership, pastoral ministry, and strategic communications, she has led numerous faith-based and community initiatives. A Master of Community Leadership graduate at Eden Theological Seminary, Erin’s work explores the intersection of theology, human behavior, and social change—creating spaces of healing and belonging for historically marginalized communities. Learn More
Sometimes, I feel like the walls are caving in. It gets harder to breathe—frustrated and irritated and frustrated and irritated.
Frustrated because the people who have the resources to solve the problems in our neighborhood, for some reason, won’t share them. Frustrated because the people you think should be giving to this work aren’t, haven’t, or are hoarding when you know they have excess.
When you know they aren't struggling. When you know they are milking your neighborhood like a cash cow. When you know they are—excuse my language—raping our neighborhood, taking what they can get and moving to the next neighborhood to make a quick buck, leaving us behind and not truly caring about the long-term flourishing of everyone who lives here. They only care enough to keep their business “in good standing” with community.
Frustrated because the accurate truth was told to me by a Black woman city employee: “unless white folks are making money, nothing really gets done in Black neighborhoods.”
Irritated because I’ve given up everything to do this work, because I believe in the value of this place and I see the beauty of her story. Irritated because new white folks and their dogs keep walking in our neighborhood—and if that’s not a sign of more gentrification on the rise, I don’t know what is.
But I also feel hopeful.
Hopeful that we are organizing. Hopeful that we are making a way out of no way. Hopeful that we are meeting new neighbors and building power and a sense of community. Hopeful for the people who are giving. Hopeful for the people who do believe in the vision. Hopeful for the dreams of our elders and long-term residents beginning to come true.
Hopeful that we can do something. Hopeful that we can get something done.
Hopeful that by the end of this year we will break ground on a park and church collaborative renovation project. Hopeful that we will have a land bank for the neighborhood—a community-centered opportunity for property stewardship and land protection.
Hopeful that people will finally start to see that Grant Street Community is made up of residents who never left. Who never fled. Who never moved away. Who never doubted the value of their own neighborhood. Who never stopped seeing the value within themselves.
Who never left.
Who never left.
Who never left.
I feel irritated and frustrated, but also hopeful. I can’t change everything in the world, but I can do something about my neighborhood. I can join others who have sought the good of this place for a long time. And maybe my small part can add a little wind, a little fire, and a little momentum to carry the work forward.
Monument of Faith Church has been in this neighborhood since 1933.
Hopeful that we are elders in the making.
Hopeful that we are the future of Grant Street Community. That we can carry on the legacy and continue to tell the story.
Hopeful that the “plane is flying,” and regardless of who’s with us and who isn’t, we will keep flying and get it done—because that is the legacy of the people I come from.
Hopeful because I am magic.
Hopeful because I am beautiful.
Hopeful because I can make a way out of no way.
Hopeful because I am connected to a God who makes a way out of no way, who can make rivers in the desert. Hopeful because I can turn $1 into $100. Hopeful because I am connected to a community that carries that same magic—people who share the little extra they have so that all of us can thrive.
Hopeful that my definition of abundance is changing. That abundance is not living in excess, but having enough to share with my neighbor—and that neighbor will share it with another neighbor.
Hopeful because the miracle of the two fish and five loaves was that someone was willing to share what they had, no matter how little it was. They were willing to share it with someone else, and that act itself was the miracle that multiplied.
Hopeful because even though we live in a capitalistic system which projects scarcity from every side, it doesn’t have to be that way.
Hopeful because the elders in our neighborhood are living testaments of what it means to hold on…just a little while longer.
Hopeful that they’ve been praying for people like us to move here—and God knows we prayed for people like them to still be here when we arrived.
Hopeful that we are making it happen.
Hopeful that even though we don’t have what we feel like we need, we have what we need—and we are doing the work.
So if I’m paying attention to what I feel, I feel a lot of different things. As my sister would say to her young children, these are big emotions.
It’s okay to cry sometimes, because if this is what it feels like on a local level—on my block—I don’t have shoulders big enough to carry the war this administration is instigating. I don’t have shoulders or emotions big enough to carry all the weight of the world.
But I have enough shoulder space for my block. For this neighborhood. For my people and my community.
And I can do what my elders have done:
Just hold on…a little while longer.
Reflection Questions:
What does it look like for you to “hold on a little while longer” in the place and community you love?
Where do you see signs of hope—however small—in your own neighborhood, and how might you help nurture them?
R E C O M M E N D E D R E A D I N G
