by Janell Turner
Photo by Sarah Reingewirtz/MediaNews Group/Los Angeles Daily News via Getty Images
The West Coast has been home for almost 40 years, but I still claim my Louisiana roots. Like many southern Black families of the post-civil rights era, my father and his seven siblings sought refuge from the oppressive conditions of the Deep South in California’s picturesque San Gabriel Valley. Only in adulthood have I truly come to appreciate and understand their reasons for leaving—and that my family was part of the Great Migration, a sweeping movement from 1910 to 1970 in which more than six million African Americans left the rural South in pursuit of the American dream. They carried with them the financial resources, knowledge, and youthful energy needed to rebuild their lives in the North.
All of my father’s siblings embraced this opportunity and, one by one, made the journey to Altadena, Calif., except for one devoted daughter who stayed behind to care for the elders and “hold down” the Turner family legacy. I often think of the countless relatives across the South, like my dear aunt, who stayed during this seismic shift in American history. I wonder what they endured, adapting to profound social, cultural, and political changes while grappling with the loss of family. I imagine the bittersweet tension—mourning the distance yet understanding, with heavy hearts, why their loved ones had to go.
For those who left, northern cities offered a glimmer of hope—a chance to break free from the shackles of economic oppression. Yet even in these new environments, barriers remained. As michele storms, Executive Director of ACLU of Washington, shared during a recent conversation, systemic oppression has not only stalled but, in many cases, eroded Black wealth accumulation over generations.
Still, many Black families found pathways to greater mobility. They secured higher-wage union jobs, opened businesses, and gained better access to public schools and colleges. In places like Altadena, Black-owned restaurants, barbershops, law offices, and medical practices flourished. Churches and Black neighborhoods became hubs of education, social support, and economic empowerment—an undeniable contrast to the sharecropping and domestic servitude that had defined life in the South.
Despite redlining and other structural barriers, wealth accumulation gradually led to homeownership, giving rise to a strong Black middle class in communities like Altadena and Pasadena. But on the morning of January 8, 2025, I woke to messages from friends and relatives—photos of smoke-stained chimneys standing alone among the ashes of homes that once housed generations. My childhood home on Lincoln Avenue, just blocks away from Jet Propulsion Laboratory, a well-known NASA facility, was one of the few homes that remained standing. Across the street, dear family friends had sold their home just seven months before the fire. They were grateful to have moved in time but heartbroken for their former neighbors and the family who had just begun to make it their own. These historically Black neighborhoods had been devastated by the LA wildfires, and the damage may be irreparable.
As we begin to rebuild, I worry about the fate of these communities. Will they ever be restored to their original prominence? Or will capitalism, when left unchecked and insatiable, drain the oxygen from the air, turning Altadena into yet another gentrified suburban core?
michele and I took a deep dive into this topic, exploring the impact of natural disasters on minority communities and the measures being taken to achieve equity. Our conversation was rich with history, urgency, and the human cost of systemic neglect. She painted a picture of what it truly means to rebuild—not just with bricks and mortar, but with an eye toward justice and restoration. The contrast between communities like Altadena, where working-class families are struggling to stay afloat, and affluent neighborhoods like Pacific Palisades, where recovery is often a matter of well-insured assets, underscores the deep inequalities in how wealth—and therefore recovery—is distributed.
michele emphasized that true restoration requires more than just emergency relief; it demands a reckoning with historical injustices and a commitment to long-term investment. She pointed to the Biden-Harris administration’s racial justice project, Executive Order 13985: Advancing Racial Equity and Support for Underserved Communities Through the Federal Government, as a foundational effort to address structural inequities. Signed on Biden’s first day in office, the initiative acknowledges that disparities in wealth accumulation, homeownership, and economic resilience are not accidental—they are the product of policies that have, for generations, favored white wealth-building while systematically excluding Black and brown communities. This order was reversed by the Trump-Vance administration on their first day in office, January 20, 2025.
In the wake of the LA Life fires, GoFundMe campaigns emerged overnight—a testament to the power of individual fundraising, but also a glaring reminder of the gaps in philanthropy. While philanthropy can play a crucial role in disaster recovery, the reliance on crowdfunding highlights the absence of comprehensive social safety nets, leaving many survivors to piece together support on their own. The burden of rebuilding shouldn’t rest solely on individuals and their personal networks; there must be a broader commitment to public and philanthropic investment in communities that have long been denied resources.
Recognizing this urgent need, our team at Phīla took great care to compile a resource list with vetted organizations, giving opportunities, and additional reading on equitable disaster recovery. While we typically wouldn’t direct donors to crowdfunding campaigns, in the moment, they’ve become a necessary tool for immediate relief. Therefore, we’ve included hyperlinks to individual campaigns alongside more traditional philanthropic avenues to ensure resources reach those who need them most.
As michele noted, even giving at this level cannot replace systemic change. She underscored the importance of restorative practices as a framework for addressing these disparities. Along those lines, here are specific things that philanthropist can do:
Invest in Black and brown homeowners: In Altadena, for example, this might mean giving directly to local residents, ensuring they can rebuild and remain in their communities rather than being pushed out by predatory developers.
Co-fund equitable rebuilding efforts in wealthier communities: In the Palisades, where recovery efforts are more robust, how might wealthier residents and institutions take responsibility for supporting equitable rebuilding efforts across the region.
Invest in storytelling to help drive change and motivate fellow philanthropists to give more: Storytelling is key to amplifying impact and unleashing the kind of transformation we need in the world, as noted by Phīla’s CEO Stephanie Ellis-Smith in a 2024 Forbes article, Urgent Invitation to Listen: Storytelling for a More Equitable World by Esther Choy.
Storytelling, as we discussed, is central to this work. michele reminded me that narratives shape policy, and the stories we elevate—of families fighting to hold onto generational homes, of communities organizing mutual aid in the absence of government support—can drive change. These stories must be told not as tragedies, but as calls to action. If philanthropy is to be more than just charity, it must embrace its role in reshaping these narratives and advocating for systemic solutions that go beyond individual giving.
michele left me with a powerful reminder: the fight for justice is as much about memory as it is about the future. The lessons we learn from this moment will determine whether we continue to perpetuate cycles of displacement and inequity or finally commit to true restoration.
