Tulsa Wasn’t the Only Black Wall Street

Introduction

I often hear Black Americans say, “Whenever we try to build anything, ‘they’ tear it down.” While this statement holds some truth, it’s only half true. The truth is, our communities and economies weren’t just burned down by riots or destroyed by mobs. Many were dismantled by a much quieter weapon: called integration.

Segregation and Jim Crow were oppressive and cruel. To be Black in that era meant enduring relentless hardship and discrimination simply for existing. But despite the struggles, it was also one of the most empowering times to be Black. Our people had no choice but to rely on each other, and that reliance built some of the strongest, most self-sustaining communities in history. Black businesses thrived, Black professionals served Black clients, and the Black dollar circulated within the community, creating generational wealth.

Of course, there were always some among us who drank the “white is right” Kool-Aid, seeking validation and proximity to whiteness. But the majority understood the power of ownership, unity, and collective effort. We knew that our survival and success depended on keeping our wealth within our own hands.

Then came integration, disguised as progress, but functioning as economic sabotage. The push for desegregation was rooted in a fight for equal rights, but in a capitalist society, there is no such thing as “equal” across the board. Some must be the winners, and some must be the losers, and the powers that be made sure we were on the losing end.

Money Circulation By Race

Other communities have long understood the power of keeping their money circulating among their own people, and they continue to do so today. The Jewish, Asian, and Indian communities, for example, build wealth by prioritizing group economics. Meaning they spend, invest, and hire within their own communities before their dollars ever leave.

A dollar in the Asian community circulates for nearly 30 days before leaving. In the Jewish community, it lasts about 20 days. But in the Black community our dollars barely last 6 hours. That means Black money immediately exits our hands and enters the pockets of businesses and institutions that do not reinvest in us.

These other groups practice economic loyalty. They bank with their own financial institutions, purchase from their own businesses, and create job opportunities for their own people first. They do this not out of hate for others, but out of love and strategy for their own survival and success. 

But Segregation, Jim Crow laws, and the KKK were never nightmares imposed upon the Jewish, Arabic, or Asian communities in the United States, so there was never a push for integration in these communities. That does not mean they never intentionally practiced gatekeeping of their money and resources for the purposes of their own economic survival and success. All across America, you see little Chinatowns, Koreatowns, Tijuanas, Polish towns, Greek towns, and Arab towns, but you don’t see towns with thriving Black economies anywhere. 

That’s because after integration, we were taught to seek inclusion rather than ownership. To measure progress by access to white spaces instead of control over our own.

Integrated Into a Burning House

While other groups built tight-knit economic systems that continue to sustain their people for generations, we were sold the lie that access was enough. We were told integration would be our liberation. But, true wealth isn’t about access; it’s about control. And when we lost control of our dollars, we lost control of our communities.

For Black America, integration didn’t open doors. It closed them. As soon as Black consumers began spending outside their communities, the Black dollar stopped circulating like it once did. During segregation, a dollar could circulate up to 36 times in Black neighborhoods, fueling Black businesses, banks, hospitals, and schools. Now, it leaves our hands within hours.

Black neighborhoods fell into decline. Businesses shut down because their consumers left. Schools lost funding. Families moved out in search of opportunity elsewhere, scattering the very communities that once anchored Black economic and social power. What were once thriving districts of collective progress became ghost towns, food deserts, and over-policed zip codes.

Meanwhile, other ethnic groups—many of whom came to this country long after us—stuck to their strategy: built for their people, circulated their dollars, and protected their wealth. We abandoned that blueprint, chasing validation in systems that saw our liberation as a threat, with the promise that they would uplift us.

But we weren’t always in this position. Before integration, we had a formula that worked. We knew exactly what it took to win.

We created Black Wall Streets in many cities, but today, we’re only taught about the ones that were destroyed by white violence. Our consumerism is too valuable for us to know the truth.

The truth is, before integration, we were doing just fine economically. We weren’t waiting to be accepted. We were already building. Desegregation—the removal of legal barriers—would have been the just and logical path. But forced integration wasn’t about liberation. It didn’t benefit us economically, and it didn’t heal America socially.

We lost our economies. They lost their exclusivity. And in the end, nobody gained what they thought they would. Black communities were gutted. Our businesses were abandoned, our neighborhoods destroyed, our institutions weakened. White communities didn’t want us in their spaces to begin with, and now those spaces are grappling with the very inequality integration was supposed to solve.

The cost of forced integration wasn’t just cultural—it was economic. And while we were fighting for a seat at the table, white businesses were setting up cash registers, ready to redirect the $15 billion Black businesses once survived on.

What Was Black Wall Street?

Before integration redirected Black wealth into white-owned businesses, Black communities across America built their own self-sustaining, independent, and powerful economies. These communities, known as Black Wall Streets, were living proof that Black people could create and control wealth, despite systemic barriers. They weren’t just places to live; these were economic ecosystems where Black dollars circulated multiple times before ever leaving the community.

A Black Wall Street was more than just a neighborhood—it was a fully functional economy run by Black people, for Black people. These communities had:

Black-owned businesses (grocery stores, banks, restaurants, hotels, theaters, and more) We had our own hospitals.

Black financial institutions like (banks, insurance companies, credit unions)

We had Black education systems. (schools run by Black educators, producing Black scholars and professionals)

And Black social structures such as (churches that were not funded by the white power structure, community centers that led with a Black first mindset, and organizations dedicated to uplifting the people)

These communities weren’t prospering by luck. They were run deliberately, strategically, and out of necessity. Segregation, while undeniably oppressive, inadvertently strengthened Black economic power by forcing Black people to build their own businesses, invest in each other, and support one another exclusively. Since white-owned businesses refused to serve Black people, our dollars stayed within our own communities, creating generational wealth and self-sufficiency.

But this economic strength didn’t go unnoticed. The very thing that made these Black Wall Streets powerful—self-sufficiency and economic independence—also made them a threat. Many were destroyed through racial violence, white mob attacks, and systemic sabotage, but the most devastating blow came through integration.

When integration came, the floodgates opened. Not for Black businesses to thrive, but for Black dollars to leave the community. White businesses, which once excluded us, suddenly welcomed our money, while Black businesses—many of which had been the backbone of our communities—began to close, and overnight, we went from owning our own to depending on others.

Black Wall Street wasn’t just about wealth. It was about power. Power that was stripped away when we traded self-sufficiency for inclusion.

The Familiar Story of Tulsa

In the early 1900s, Tulsa, Oklahoma was a growing oil town attracting fortune-seekers from across the country, including thousands of Black families fleeing the deep South during the Great Migration. These families weren’t just escaping violence and oppression. They were looking for opportunity, and in Tulsa’s Greenwood District, they found it. 

Within just two decades, Greenwood transformed into one of the wealthiest Black communities in the United States. The neighborhood boasted over 1,200 Black-owned businesses, including banks, hotels, law offices, grocery stores, barbershops, movie theaters, medical practices, and upscale restaurants. Black professionals owned their own homes, hired Black employees, and kept their dollars circulating within the community, sometimes up to 36 times before a dollar ever left. Tulsa wasn’t just a neighborhood; it was a self-sufficient Black economic powerhouse. 

This community was built by Black people who understood the power of collective economics. Doctors, lawyers, dentists, seamstresses, teachers, realtors, and business owners who didn’t just coexist—they collaborated. Their services were tailored for their people, and their wealth stayed in the community. At the height of its prosperity, Greenwood’s economic ecosystem was so strong that it included a hospital, two newspapers, more than twenty churches, and six private airplanes. A remarkable feat for any community at the time, let alone one made up of descendants of the formerly enslaved.

Families dressed in furs and tailored suits on Sundays. Children attended well-funded, all-Black schools with Black educators who held high standards and expected excellence from them. Entrepreneurs operated lucrative businesses that would rival today’s small enterprises. Land ownership was common, and the community built its own infrastructure—homes, streets, and systems of support—all without the aid of white institutions. What made Greenwood’s success even more radical was that it happened during the height of Jim Crow, when the world insisted Black people had no value. Yet here they were, building a city within a city, proving that Black economic independence wasn’t just possible, it was powerful.

The success of Greenwood didn’t go unnoticed. To white Tulsa, Black Wall Street wasn’t just impressive, it was threatening. The sight of well-dressed Black men driving fine cars, owning property, and running successful businesses stirred resentment. It defied the white supremacist lie that Black people were inferior. And when the opportunity came to strike, the system didn’t hesitate.

On May 31, 1921, a young Black teenager named Dick Rowland was accused of assaulting a white woman in an elevator. The allegation was never proven, but that didn’t matter. The white press inflamed the story, provoking anti-Black hatred, and a white mob assembled outside the courthouse demanding a lynching. When Black residents showed up to protect Rowland, tensions erupted into violence against the larger Black Tulsa community. Over the next 18 hours, white mobs—many deputized by city officials—looted, burned, and bombed the entire Greenwood District. They murdered up to 300 Black residents, left more than 10,000 homeless, and reduced over 35 square blocks of Black-owned homes and businesses to ashes.

The economic impact was devastating. Over 1,200 businesses and dozens of Black millionaires in today’s dollars were wiped out overnight. Families lost generational wealth. Homes, land, life savings, businesses, insurance policies—all gone. And perhaps even worse, the city and state offered no compensation, and insurance companies refused to pay out claims due to riot clauses. Survivors were forced into tent cities. The destruction of Black Wall Street was not just an act of racial terror, it was a calculated attack on Black economic power fueled by anti-Black media propaganda. 

Tulsa’s Greenwood wasn’t simply burned. It was economically lynched. And the ripple effect has lasted generations. Had that wealth been preserved and passed down, the story of Black America might look entirely different today.

While Tulsa is widely discussed, it was not an isolated tragedy, but a blueprint.

What happened in Greenwood was not the first time that a thriving Black community was destroyed under the weight of white rage and systemic complicity nor would it be the last. It set a chilling precedent: whenever Black people dared to rise economically, they became targets. Just two years after Tulsa, another prosperous Black town was erased. This time in the woods of Florida. 

Rosewood, like Greenwood, was built on Black land ownership, entrepreneurship, and pride. And like Tulsa, it met the same fate—burned down, looted, and abandoned—because its existence challenged white supremacy.

Rosewood, Florida: A Town Erased

Long before it was destroyed, Rosewood was a testament to Black self-sufficiency, land ownership, and economic independence. The town, founded in 1845, was originally inhabited by both Black and white settlers. Over time, as the timber industry—particularly cedar—began to decline in the 1890s, many white residents left in search of better economic opportunities. By 1900, Rosewood had become a predominantly Black town, allowing its residents to acquire land and establish a self-sustaining community.

Black families in Rosewood were not just surviving, they were displaying economic excellence. Prominent families like the Goins and Carriers played instrumental roles in the town’s economy. The Goins family introduced the turpentine industry to the region and became the second-largest landowners in Levy County. The Carrier family, deeply involved in the logging industry, helped provide economic stability for the town. Through these industries and strategic land ownership, Rosewood’s Black residents built homes, businesses, and schools, ensuring that their wealth remained within the community.

By the 1920s, Rosewood had everything a thriving Black town needed to sustain itself. The community boasted three churches, a school, a Masonic Hall, a turpentine mill, a sugarcane mill, and two general stores. These institutions weren’t just symbols of progress; they were pillars of Black economic power, proving that segregation could not prevent Black success. In Rosewood, Black people had created a world where they could live with dignity, build wealth, and pass down economic stability to future generations.

But as history has shown, whenever Black communities gained too much success, they became targets. And Rosewood was no different. 

On New Year’s Day in 1923 a white woman named Fannie Taylor claimed she had been assaulted by a Black man. This accusation, though lacking evidence, ignited racial tensions in the area. That lie became the catalyst for one of the worst racial massacres in American history. White mobs descended upon Rosewood, burning homes, murdering Black residents, and terrorizing families—all with the approval (and sometimes participation) of law enforcement.

News of the alleged assault spread rapidly through Sumner and neighboring communities, fueled by existing racial prejudices. Within hours, white men formed posses and descended upon Rosewood, seeking retribution. The violence escalated quickly, with mobs committing acts of arson, shooting, and lynching.

The massacre unfolded over several days, from January 1 to January 7, 1923. While official records reported eight deaths—six Black residents and two white individuals—eyewitness accounts suggest the actual number of Black fatalities could have been higher, with estimates ranging from 27 to 150. 

What happened next is why we must never forget Rosewood.

Black survivors fled for their lives, leaving everything behind. Many never returned out of fear, abandoning land, businesses, and wealth that should have been passed down for generations.

Prior to the massacre, Black residents of Rosewood owned substantial property, but the violence led to the complete destruction of the town, resulting in significant loss of Black-owned wealth. 

White locals stole the land. When recounted by mainstream media, the story of devastation is summarized to White hatred of Black people, but the town’s destruction was not just about racial hatred. It was about economics. White residents seized Black-owned properties without consequence, enriching themselves while ensuring that Black families would never reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

The attack erased generational wealth. Land ownership is one of the fastest ways to build wealth. The families of Rosewood had the foundation for long-term financial success, which was a major contribution to Black wealth, but it was ripped away overnight.

For decades, Rosewood’s survivors were silenced by fear and intimidation. The story of what happened wasn’t widely told until the 1980s, when survivors spoke out, leading to Florida passing a historic reparations bill in 1994. One of the first of its kind.

In 1994, after decades of silence and advocacy by survivors and their descendants, the state of Florida acknowledged the atrocities and allocated reparations. The compensation included $150,000 for each of the nine verified survivors and a $500,000 pool for descendants and those who lost property, totaling $1.5 million.

But here’s what we must ask ourselves:

If Rosewood had been left to thrive, how many Black families today would be living off the wealth their ancestors built?

Rosewood was just one of many. These towns were not destroyed by accident—they were erased because they proved that Black people could create, sustain, and control their own economies. And that is what America has always feared the most.

The Rosewood Massacre stands as a stark reminder of the racial violence that decimated prosperous Black communities in the early 20th century. The loss extended beyond immediate lives to encompass generational wealth and property, effects that are still felt today. While reparations were eventually granted, they cannot fully compensate for the enduring impact of the tragedy. 

White mobs have destroyed many successful Black towns. Motivated by media headlines and propaganda, mobs surrounded and burned Rosewood, Tulsa, and other Black Wall Streets to dust. But your history book won’t make mention of the less obvious destroyer. 

Integration allowed access to White spaces, so it seemed like liberation for a people looking for equality in counter to the threat of lynchings and police brutality. In all fairness, it wasn’t easy for Black people of the 1900s through the 1950s to see the impact of post civil war life. But their blindness caused them to miss what was right in front of them and their colorblindness greyed their focus and blurred the lines between integration and liberation.

Jackson Ward, Richmond, Virginia: The “Harlem of the South”

In the aftermath of the Civil War, Richmond’s Jackson Ward emerged as a beacon of Black prosperity and culture. Dubbed the “Harlem of the South,” this neighborhood became a nucleus for Black-owned businesses, financial institutions, and entertainment venues. By the early 20th century, Jackson Ward was home to over 100 Black-owned businesses, including banks, insurance companies, and retail establishments, solidifying its reputation as a center of Black economic empowerment. 

Beyond business, Jackson Ward was rich with culture. The neighborhood’s theaters, social clubs, and churches became spaces of political organizing, artistic expression, and community education. Black-owned newspapers told our stories. Black architects designed the buildings. Black teachers educated the children. Jackson Ward was everything Black America could be when left to build without interference.

But, just like Tulsa and Rosewood, Jackson Ward’s success became a threat. Rather than a White mob bringing it to an end, Richmond’s adversary came disguised as liberation. 

When the civil rights era ushered in integration, it also ushered out the very systems that had sustained the community for decades. Black residents, eager for equal access and acceptance, began spending their money outside of Jackson Ward. White-owned businesses, which once excluded Black patrons, now welcomed their dollars. The circulation of wealth that once empowered Jackson Ward began to dry up.

The final blow came in the form of “urban renewal”—a government-sanctioned program that marketed destruction as progress. In the 1950s and ’60s, highways were intentionally routed through Jackson Ward, displacing families and bulldozing entire blocks of Black-owned properties. Once again, what couldn’t be destroyed by segregation and hatred was quietly dismantled by policy and concrete.

Today, the spirit of Jackson Ward still lingers—but its economic power has not been fully restored. Its story is a reminder that Black communities don’t fail on their own—they are dismantled. And unless we reclaim the principles that once made them great—circulating our dollars, building our own institutions, and protecting our neighborhoods—we’ll keep repeating the cycle.

Jackson Ward’s history underscores both the resilience of Black entrepreneurship and the unintended economic consequences of integration. While access to wider opportunities expanded, the dilution of concentrated Black economic activity highlighted the importance of sustaining community-based enterprises. Today, Jackson Ward stands as a testament to past achievements and a reminder of the ongoing need to support and preserve Black-owned businesses within their communities.

Hayti, Durham, North Carolina: A Beacon of Black Prosperity

Established in 1865 by formerly enslaved Black people, Hayti in Durham, North Carolina, rapidly evolved into a thriving African-American community. Named after Haiti—the first Black republic—Hayti symbolized resilience and self-determination. By the early 20th century, it was renowned for its robust Black entrepreneurial spirit, boasting over 200 Black-owned businesses, including banks, insurance companies, schools, and hospitals.  

Central to Hayti’s economic strength were institutions like the North Carolina Mutual Life Insurance Company and Mechanics & Farmers Bank. Founded in 1898, North Carolina Mutual became the largest Black-owned insurance company globally, providing financial services tailored to the African-American community. Mechanics & Farmers Bank, established in 1907, offered essential banking services, promoting economic growth and stability within Hayti.  

These institutions weren’t just financial service providers—they were economic lifelines for the Black community in Hayti. At a time when white-owned banks routinely denied loans, credit, and insurance to Black Americans, North Carolina Mutual Life Insurance Company and Mechanics & Farmers Bank stepped in to fill the gap. And, they weren’t just keeping money safe. They were circulating it with purpose.

North Carolina Mutual allowed Black families to secure life insurance policies, build wealth, and protect their legacies. It financed mortgages for Black homeowners, funded the expansion of Black-owned businesses, and reinvested profits back into the community through employment and sponsorships. It wasn’t uncommon for Black professionals—teachers, doctors, ministers, and entrepreneurs—to hold leadership roles or positions within the company, further building economic and social capital.

Meanwhile, Mechanics & Farmers Bank provided loans that white institutions would never consider—helping Black entrepreneurs start businesses, farmers buy land, and families purchase homes. These loans and financial services allowed Black dollars to stay in Hayti, multiplying their impact and creating a strong, self-sustaining economy.

Together, these institutions formed the economic engine of Hayti, proving that with ownership, trust, and collective purpose, Black communities could build financial ecosystems that not only survived, but dominated.

The Double-Edged Sword of Integration

For Hayti, the Civil Rights Movement brought a bittersweet shift. As the fight for justice gained national traction in the 1960s, legal segregation began to fall—but with it came the unraveling of a community that had been built out of both necessity and pride. Hayti didn’t grow because it was allowed to—it grew because it had to. Denied access to white businesses, Black residents created their own.

But when integration opened the doors to white establishments that had once rejected them, many Hayti residents were eager to walk through. Not because they lacked pride—but because after decades of exclusion, integration felt like liberation. Slowly, the Black dollar began to leave Hayti. People started banking elsewhere, shopping elsewhere, dining elsewhere, and the businesses that had sustained generations of Black families began to close their doors. Not from lack of value, but from lack of customers.

Integration gave us access, but it cost us circulation. And for Hayti, that loss would mark the beginning of its economic decline.

Urban Renewal: Progress or Displacement?

Further compounding Hayti’s challenges was the urban renewal initiatives of the 1960s and 1970s. The construction of the Durham Freeway (North Carolina Highway 147) dissected the heart of Hayti, leading to the demolition of numerous homes and businesses. This infrastructure project, while aimed at modernizing the city, resulted in the displacement of countless Black residents and the fragmentation of a once-cohesive community.  

Legacy and Reflection

Hayti’s story is emblematic of the delicate balance between progress and preservation. While integration and urban development brought broader societal benefits, they also inadvertently dismantled powerful Black economic ecosystems. Today, the legacy of Hayti serves as a poignant reminder of the importance of supporting and sustaining Black-owned businesses to support economic resilience and cultural vitality within African-American communities.

Farther north, Detroit’s Black Bottom would face a similar fate, where prosperity built by Black hands was slowly erased in the name of progress.

Black Bottom and Paradise Valley 

Black Bottom and Paradise Valley were two adjacent neighborhoods in Detroit, Michigan, that became centers of African-American culture, business, and community life in the early to mid-20th century. The name “Black Bottom” originated from the area’s rich, dark soil rather than its racial composition. Initially, it was home to various immigrant communities. However, during the Great Migration, a significant influx of African Americans from the South settled in Black Bottom, leading to its evolution into a predominantly Black neighborhood. Paradise Valley, located adjacent to Black Bottom, emerged as the business and entertainment district serving this vibrant community.  

The area was home to influential figures such as Ralph Bunche, a United Nations official and the first African American to receive the Nobel Peace Prize; Charles Diggs Jr., Michigan’s first Black U.S. House member; actress and singer Della Reese; and Zeline Richard, a prominent teacher and union official.

During its peak in the 1930s and 1940s, Black Bottom housed over a hundred thousand African Americans and numerous Black-owned businesses, including hotels, restaurants, music stores, and grocery stores. Even before Motown, Detroit was the place for Black music. Paradise Valley, in particular, was renowned for its nightlife, featuring numerous nightclubs that hosted legendary artists such as Billie Holiday, Duke Ellington, and Count Basie. This area became a hub for jazz and blues, significantly contributing to Detroit’s rich musical heritage.  

Impact of Integration and Urban Renewal

Despite its cultural vibrancy, Black Bottom faced challenges, including overcrowding and economic disparities. With the advent of integration following the Civil Rights Movement, African Americans gained access to previously restricted areas and businesses. This newfound freedom led many to move out of Black Bottom and patronize establishments outside their community, resulting in a decline in the local economy.

Concurrently, urban renewal projects targeted Black Bottom and Paradise Valley for redevelopment. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, both neighborhoods were demolished to make way for infrastructure projects, including the construction of the I-375 freeway and the Lafayette Park residential district. This led to the displacement of thousands of residents and the loss of a culturally significant community.  

Legacy

Today, the legacy of Black Bottom and Paradise Valley is remembered as a testament to African-American resilience and entrepreneurship during a time of segregation and adversity. Efforts to commemorate these neighborhoods include historical markers and digital projects aimed at preserving their history and educating future generations about their cultural impact.

The story of Black Bottom and Paradise Valley serves as a poignant reminder of the complexities surrounding integration and urban development, highlighting the need to balance progress with the preservation of cultural and historical communities.

Bronzeville, Chicago: The Black Metropolis of the Midwest

If Tulsa, Hayti, and Jackson Ward were the Black Meccas of the South, Chicago’s Bronzeville was holding it down in the North—proving that Black excellence wasn’t confined to one region. Known as Chicago’s Black Wall Street, Bronzeville became a powerhouse of Black enterprise, culture, and influence during the early-to-mid 20th century, particularly during and after the Great Migration. As Black families fled the Jim Crow South in search of opportunity, they brought with them ambition, skills, and an unwavering determination to build.

Bronzeville quickly transformed into a self-sustaining community, home to over 300 Black-owned businesses and institutions. From banks and insurance companies to department stores, nightclubs, and newspapers, this vibrant district was the heart of Black Chicago. It wasn’t just a neighborhood—it was a movement. Jesse Binga’s Binga Bank, Supreme Life Insurance Company, and the Chicago Defender were just a few of the monumental institutions that kept Black dollars circulating and helped build a generation of Black professionals, entrepreneurs, and homeowners.

It was also the cultural capital of the Midwest, birthing musical legends like Nat King Cole and Mahalia Jackson, literary icons like Gwendolyn Brooks, and visionaries like Lorraine Hansberry. The streets of Bronzeville pulsed with creativity, innovation, and pride. It was a cultural and financial sanctuary built entirely by Black hands, for Black progress.

But, it wasn’t all about entertainment. Bronzeville was a fully functioning, self-sustaining Black economy. If you lived there, or even just visited, you supported Black excellence by default. Your groceries came from a Black grocer. Your hair was cut by a Black barber. Black teachers educated Black children in schools built by the community. Black businesses hired Black employees. Black consumers spent their money with intention—circulating wealth among their own, because they knew no one else would do it for them.

This wasn’t just about survival. It was about ownership, dignity, and power. In Bronzeville, buying Black wasn’t a slogan. It was the standard.

But like the other Black Wall Streets, Bronzeville wasn’t immune to systemic sabotage. Redlining, disinvestment, and discriminatory housing policies slowly chipped away at its foundation. And when the government launched so-called “urban renewal” projects and built highways straight through the heart of the neighborhood, the destruction was not coincidental—it was strategic. Bronzeville was too powerful to be left standing.

Still, its legacy lives on. Bronzeville remains a reminder that Black people in America have always had the blueprint for building greatness. Every time we’ve been locked out of their systems, we built our own and flourished.

Auburn Avenue, Atlanta: Sweet Auburn and the Power of Black Self-Determination

In the heart of Atlanta, Auburn Avenue—known as “Sweet Auburn”—stood as one of the strongest examples of Black self-sufficiency and community wealth in the 20th century. Born out of necessity in a segregated city, Auburn Avenue became a beacon of Black prosperity, leadership, and economic control.

By the early 1900s, Sweet Auburn was buzzing with Black-owned businesses: insurance companies, banks, barbershops, grocery stores, beauty salons, theaters, and more. It was home to Atlanta Life Insurance Company, one of the most successful Black-owned insurance firms in the country. Black doctors, lawyers, journalists, teachers, and entrepreneurs worked together to build an economy that served their people first. By the 1950s, Auburn Avenue was generating over $100 million annually in Black commerce—equivalent to nearly $1.2 billion today.

This wasn’t just a business district. It was also the cradle of civil rights. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was born on Auburn Avenue, and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), which helped lead the Civil Rights Movement, was headquartered there. Ebenezer Baptist Church—a cornerstone of spiritual and political life—became a rallying ground for community organizing and resistance.

But just like in Tulsa, Durham, and Detroit, Sweet Auburn’s success eventually attracted disruption. In the name of “progress,” the community was slowly dismantled. Urban renewal projects and the construction of the Downtown Connector (I-75/85) sliced through the neighborhood in the 1950s and ’60s, displacing residents and choking off the economic flow. Once the city opened access to white-owned businesses, Black consumers were lured away, and the tight-knit, wealth-generating system began to unravel.

The dismantling of Auburn Avenue wasn’t just the loss of a historic street—it was the loss of a powerful Black economy, a political nerve center, and a cultural sanctuary. Yet, the legacy of Sweet Auburn endures as a reminder of what we’re capable of when we build for ourselves, support each other, and protect what we create.

Harlem: The Cultural Capital and Economic Engine of Black America

No conversation about Black excellence and self-sufficiency is complete without Harlem. Located in the heart of New York City, Harlem became more than a neighborhood. It was a symbol of what Black people could build when talent, ambition, and culture collided with opportunity. Though best known for its explosive cultural renaissance, Harlem was also a thriving center of Black economics, leadership, and enterprise.

During the Great Migration, Harlem became a northern haven for Black families escaping the terror of the Jim Crow South. By the 1920s, it had transformed into a Black mecca, teeming with life, creativity, and commerce. Black-owned banks, newspapers, restaurants, hotels, and clothing stores lined the streets. The Harlem Renaissance wasn’t just about poetry and jazz—it was funded by Black dollars, earned and spent within a community that understood the power of economic solidarity.

Figures like Madam C.J. Walker, Marcus Garvey, and A. Philip Randolph all played influential roles in building Harlem into a stronghold of Black business and political organization. The Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA), headquartered in Harlem, boasted millions of members worldwide, advocating for Black economic independence and global unity.

Founded by Marcus Garvey in 1914 and headquartered in Harlem by 1918, the UNIA became the largest mass movement in global Black history, with over 6 million members across more than 40 countries.

The UNIA’s message was simple but radical for its time: Black people around the world must unite economically, politically, and spiritually to free themselves from white colonial rule and systemic oppression. Garvey wasn’t just advocating for pride. He was advocating for power. His philosophy of Pan-Africanism called for the global unification of African people and the creation of self-sustaining Black economies, businesses, and institutions.

Through the UNIA, Garvey launched enterprises like the Black Star Line, a shipping company created to facilitate trade and travel between Africans on both sides of the Atlantic. He encouraged the creation of Black-owned factories, newspapers, schools, and banks. The goal wasn’t just to survive within Western systems. It was to build a new one, where Black people controlled the means of their own production, distribution, and destiny.

UNIA parades in Harlem drew tens of thousands uniformed members marching with pride, banners flying with slogans like “One God! One Aim! One Destiny!” It was more than a movement. It was an economic, cultural, and political awakening that declared, loudly and unapologetically, that Black people could govern and finance themselves globally.

Though Garvey’s leadership was eventually undermined by government interference and internal opposition, the foundation he laid continues to influence Black nationalist and Pan-Africanist movements today. The UNIA reveals that Harlem wasn’t just a cultural hub. It was the command center for global Black liberation, and it reminded us that our economic independence is not just local, but international.

But Harlem’s prosperity, like other Black communities across the country, began to unravel with integration. Once barriers to white-owned businesses and neighborhoods came down, many Black residents and consumers sought inclusion rather than preservation. Money that once stayed in Harlem flowed outward, and disinvestment soon followed. Redlining, gentrification, and economic neglect further weakened Harlem’s ability to sustain itself.

The Truth About Integration and Black Wealth

For decades, we’ve been told that integration was the key to Black progress. Americans have a difficult time admitting the many challenges imposed upon Black America because it is widely believed by Black, White and other Americans alike that integration was all the liberation we needed. To the contrary, that is when many of our problems began. 

While integration granted access, it also dismantled Black economic power. Before integration, Black communities thrived with self-sustaining economies. Black-owned banks, businesses, schools, and hospitals kept wealth circulating among our own.

However, once segregation ended, Black consumers shifted their spending to white-owned businesses, draining capital from their own communities. Black banks lost depositors, Black businesses lost customers, and Black schools lost students to newly accessible white institutions. Instead of strengthening our own systems, integration encouraged us to assimilate into an economy that had historically excluded us.

While the Civil Rights Movement achieved significant legal victories, the subsequent integration of public and private sectors had complex effects on Black economic enclaves. As barriers fell, many African Americans began patronizing previously inaccessible white-owned businesses and institutions. This shift led to a decline in the circulation of Black wealth, as dollars that once supported local enterprises flowed out to broader markets. Consequently, Black-owned businesses faced decreased patronage, challenging the economic vitality that had once defined the neighborhood.

Meanwhile, other racial groups prioritized group economics, keeping their dollars circulating for weeks. In contrast, the Black dollar leaves our community within hours.

Rebuilding Black economic power starts with conscious spending, investing in Black financial institutions, and practicing group economics. We must own, build, and sustain our own. Access is not ownership, and inclusion does not equal power. If we don’t control our wealth, someone else will. And for the past 80 years, those controlling our wealth have deliberately kept us from benefiting from it. Instead, we’ve been given crumbs and welfare. 

Pick Your Own Cotton is a mindset. One that encourages collective effort from Black America to rebuild what we once had with more resources than we had before. We cannot be afraid of the idea that our prosperity has been destroyed by outsiders. Now that we have access, we need to use our resources to congregate, both physically and in online spaces. We need to use sources like AI and Bitcoin to build indestructible wealth. We need to prioritize land ownership and Black money circulation. 

This is vitally important as we are a permanent underclass. If we do not act now, we will never prosper. 

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Pick Your Own Cotton is more than a metaphor—it’s a call to reclaim our economic power and choose ourselves. For too long, Black dollars have flowed out of our communities, supporting other economies instead of our own. Integration gave us the right to choose where we live and spend, but far too many of us are still choosing to support systems that don’t prioritize our liberation.

Every purchase, every business decision, is an opportunity to invest in Black communities and create generational wealth. It’s time to recognize that the economic injustices of slavery are still felt today, and without ownership, we're not far from that slave status. We must take responsibility for our community—supporting our own businesses, guiding our own youth, and uplifting our own people. 

It’s time to pick our own cotton, not as laborers for someone else, but as creators of our own economic future, ensuring that every dollar works to rebuild what was lost and create a thriving, self-sustaining Black economy.