Thank you Hilleary Z., Jill Branton, Alexis Godfrey, and many others for tuning into my live video! Join me for my next live video in the app. Education Is Elevation. Today I got a nice, intentional conversation with y’all about Texas freedmen colonies, about the over 500 places where Black people started their own towns after emancipation, about the word colony and everything that word carries, about dancing and art and the safe communities Black people been building since before this country decided we was citizens, and about whether taking care of each other is socialism or just survival, because the answer, as we gone see, is both. This ain’t nostalgia. This is evidence. Research over MeSearch means we start with the receipts and not the vibes, so let me lay the foundation first. A freedom colony, according to the Texas Freedom Colonies Project, the scholarship and the brainchild of Dr. Andrea Roberts, is a historically significant community where Black people post emancipation were able to purchase land or were given land to start their own town. We are talking 1865 through the 1930s, Reconstruction through the Great Depression, and as of now 557 sites have been located in Texas alone, with the number still growing as descendants and researchers keep walking the county lines and reading the deed books. These communities carried a few key identifying markers: a school, a church, a cemetery. Sit with that for a second. The first three things our people built when they got a piece of ground was a place to learn, a place to worship, and a place to honor the dead, and that right there is a whole philosophy of life, authored by people who was one generation, sometimes one season, out of bondage. Some of these places are still very much active, and some have ceased to exist in their original form due to gentrification, environmental destruction, and displacement in general. The map is scarred, but the map is real, and you can read it yourself on the Project’s Atlas. Now let me handle the language, because words is where the fight starts. When you hear freedmen and colony pressed together, it almost sounds oxymoronic, feel me, because colony evokes colonizer, colonization, settlement on somebody else’s land. Some folks say freedmen town, some say freedmen settlement, some reach back further and say maroonage, the tradition Beatriz Nascimento traces through Brazil and that runs through Africatown in Alabama and every swamp and hill where stolen people made themselves free. Town, though, invokes a certain level of colonial formality, a municipality, a charter, a mayor, a governance the state and federal apparatus may recognize. Colony, in Roberts’ usage, is an invitation to think more expansively, because self governance could be me, you, my mama, my cousin and my aunties holding a plot of land and making decisions together intentionally, with no post office and no city council in sight. Ahh, but there is a tension we cannot skip, and my debate training will not let me skip it: every acre our people built freedom on was land Indigenous nations was removed from first. There was people here before. Holding both truths at once, the maroon dream and the settler grid it had to grow inside of, is not a contradiction, it is the assignment. Free in 1865, Building by 1866: The Critical Historical Context You cannot understand the freedom colony without understanding what Texas is. Texas was its own country, and that is the reason the state flag flies at the same height as the national flag, for better or for worse. Mostly for worse, because Texas broke from Mexico primarily to keep our ancestors enslaved, after Mexico moved against slavery, and the treaties Native nations had negotiated was with the Mexican government, which means Texas independence was built on a double foundation of Indigenous erasure and the preservation of bondage. Then freedom came late and came walking. Juneteenth, June 19, 1865, arrived in Galveston two and a half years after the Emancipation Proclamation was signed, and Texas loves to celebrate being the home of Juneteenth while the seventh grade curriculum barely whispers the word slavery. Freedom from what, and from whom. Then the state got busy making sure freedom stayed theoretical. The promise of forty acres and a mule never materialized. The Texas Black Codes and the 1866 Homestead Act specifically excluded African Americans from accessing public land, which means the government said out loud, in statute, that the people who had cleared and worked this soil for generations could not have any of it. So freedpeople bought land with cash wages, claimed land through adverse possession, and accepted the flood prone bottomlands at the edges of plantations and city boundaries, the swamps and county line margins white settlers did not want. The Texas State Historical Association will tell you that plainly. Our people took the land nobody wanted and made lemonade, lemon meringue, lemon pie, a whole way out of no way. Shankleville in Newton County. Kendleton in Fort Bend County. Barrett Station in northeast Harris County. Independence Heights and Freedmen’s Town in Houston. Givens Hill near Crockett, where Mary Allen College also stood. County Line communities scattered like seeds. In Panola County, a community my guest Stacey Allen’s own family comes from, called 1100, because eleven families pooled together and secured one hundred acres and started a community, and some of that family still owns their property there. Eleven families. One hundred acres. That is not folklore, that is a business plan, a mutual aid society, and a constitution, all spoken into a deed book. Let me give you the one story that carries the whole era. Jim and Winnie Shankle were enslaved on a plantation in Mississippi when Winnie was sold to a plantation in Newton County, Texas. Jim decided he was not going to live without his wife, so he escaped, crossed the Mississippi River, foraged through swamp and forest, and found her. After emancipation, Jim and Winnie Shankle and their son in law Stephen McBride bought land and founded Shankleville, a community that built churches, schools, mills, and eventually McBride College. Michael Strahan’s people come out of Shankleville. Stacey’s own children are descendants through her husband’s line, which means when her dance company performs The Fairytale Project, the love story on that stage is their family history moving in real time. Crazy how they gave us Romeo and Juliet every single year of secondary school and never once gave us Jim and Winnie. Then hold this too: Greenwood, the district y’all know as Black Wall Street in Tulsa, sits inside this same freedmen community tradition. It was not a miracle and it was not an exception, it was one node in a network of hundreds of Black towns and settlements across the South. When the 1921 massacre burned Greenwood down, other Black towns showed up and helped the survivors rebuild. The massacre gets taught, when it gets taught at all, as Black excellence destroyed. The rebuild, the mutual aid, the network, that part gets cropped out the frame, because the network is the blueprint, and the blueprint is the threat. Taking Care of Each Other Is Anti Capitalism: The Political Economy of the Colony Is this socialism, or is this just taking care of each other? Both. It is both. Capitalism is defined by private ownership and by the extraction of profit from other people’s labor, so once you have a community owned economy, once bartering happens, once resources are shared, once the harvest is distributed by need and the barn gets raised by everybody, you are already operating inside socialistic values and socialistic methodologies whether you ever read a theorist or not. The idea of I got mine so everybody got to get theirs is a very capitalistic, individual understanding, and the very structure of a freedmen community refutes it, because the community was organized around one collective question: how can we create a space of refuge and safety as a collective. Jessica Gordon Nembhard calls this collective courage, a whole hidden history of African American cooperative economics, and Fannie Lou Hamer’s Freedom Farm Cooperative carried the same DNA a century after emancipation. Apply Robinson here: racial capitalism has always needed Black labor to be extractable and Black cooperation to be unthinkable, which is exactly why the cooperative history stays untaught. Now watch the material flip side, because this ain’t just philosophy. Over eighty percent of Black owned land from the Reconstruction era to now has been taken, through deeds and heirs and straight up theft, through urban development and urban renewal, and above all through heirs property. When land passes without a will, every heir owns an undivided share, and two or three generations down, a developer only has to buy out one distant cousin to force a partition sale of everybody’s inheritance on the courthouse steps. The system that allegedly rewards individual ownership is the same system that uses individual ownership to pick us apart, because people who walk into that arena with an individual mindset are more likely to be taken advantage of than a collective force. This is not a moral failure of Black families. This is a legal technology of extraction. Which means the freedom colony methodology, land in trusts, land in cooperative structures, decisions made together intentionally, is not sentimental history, it is defensive strategy for 2026. The Seventh Grade Is a Crime Scene: Curriculum, Public Memory, and the Case for Reparations As somebody with graduate training in adult and higher education, I need y’all to understand that curriculum is never neutral, curriculum is a decision about who exists. Seventh grade Texas history contains no Black people. We do not talk about Stephen F. Austin being a colonizer and a defender of slavery, we do not talk abou