“SoundCloud producers, we up,” 33-year-old Baltimore native Donovan Knight—the DJ and producer more fondly known as D.K. The Punisher, who has worked with the likes of Jill Scott, Justin Bieber, and SiR—shared on Instagram earlier this week after a Grammy win for co-producing Kehlani’s hit single, “Folded.”

The song won Best R&B Song and Best R&B Performance at the 68th annual ceremony on Feb. 1 in Los Angeles, where Knight has been based since 2017.

Back home, Baltimore’s close-knit DIY scene—including DJs, songwriters, party-goers, and other producers—lit up with joy, resharing the news and posting their own throwback photos celebrating Knight’s career, which began in the city’s many clubs and creative spaces.

Knight grew up in the Hillen community near Morgan State University, musically surrounded by church choirs and his father singing at weddings. As an adult, he became a regular DJ on hallowed dance floors like The Crown in Station North. He was also a key part of iconic local parties like Kahlon, Blush & Brews, and Big Vibe.

In the wake of all of the Grammy buzz, we caught up with Knight—just before he headed into a studio session—about the excitement of the win and the creative community that shaped him.

Set the scene at the Grammys for us a bit. What was your reaction when they announced “Folded” won Best R&B Song?
The experience was pretty surreal. There’s so much movement happening that it’s kind of hard to even have a moment to take in the fact that you’re at the Grammys. It was also my first time being in the room with all the other writers and producers on the song. Once we were seated, about 10 minutes passed before the Best R&B Performance win was announced. That was amazing and I was extremely grateful, but only the performing artist gets a trophy for performance categories, and I wanted the trophy.

I was pretty nervous after the fist win, because I was thinking we might only win one of the two categories. When we won Best R&B Song, I couldn’t believe it. Even walking to the stage, I was thinking “Wait, am I really walking up to accept a Grammy right now?” It was like all of the work I’d been putting in for the last 20 years was validated in that moment.

How do you first connect with the artists you end up working with? Is it getting a phone call, being in the right place at the right time, or something else? 
For me, it was more like monkey-branching from artists who I had relationships with. I met [Grammy-nominated R&B performer] SiR through these rappers I was working with. It started from them sending him my tracks and him sending them back to me with feedback. Just building that relationship, that trust, first between us as creatives. Then eventually being in person, going in the studio, and starting things from scratch—where I’m literally sitting at the keyboard and he’s writing words based on whatever emotion goes with what I’m playing.

We saw that SiR gave you a really personal Instagram shout out right after your Grammy win. How do moments like that feel?
It feels amazing, honestly, having been by his side through his whole ascent as an artist. I was working with him when he was just trying to write songs for other people and didn’t want to be in the spotlight at all. I remember back in the day when I was bubbling a little bit on SoundCloud. I’m telling him, “You gotta get to SoundCloud, you gotta post more.” And seeing him do that, and then just [having it] go crazy, it’s been amazing to watch. It’s beautiful that we’ve stuck together through all of this.

When you met Kehlani at a point where you’d both been in the industry for a while, what did that collaboration look like? How did the track come together?
When I first made that track last January, I liked it, but I didn’t really see who it could be for. I wasn’t really sending it to anybody. I may have played it for like one person, and then I played it for my mentor Andre Harris. He was supposed to get in the studio with Wale, and I think the Wale session ended up falling through. Maybe like three weeks later I get a text from him, like, “Yo, we got one with Kehlani.” I’m like, oh, this is crazy. And then later that day, she dropped the teaser for it.

Growing up, when me and my brothers were on punishment and couldn’t watch TV, we would make up songs. We would make up a song to sing to our parents to see if they would let us off punishment early.

Has R&B always been your thing? Or is it something in a tool belt of different genres for you as a producer?
My beginnings are hip-hop. I’ve always been around my parents who sang. I’d be in church choirs growing up and stuff. So I was always around vocalists. Hip-hop and R&B are two sides of the same coin in a lot of ways. So there’s always been that overlap. The first studio I was working at in Baltimore, I was working with this artist CR Da Show, and he kind of took me under his wing. He was an R&B artist, and that’s just the opportunity that presented itself. R&B just kind of embraced my work. It’s just been a really natural place to land.

Tell us more about your early music influences as a youngin’ in Baltimore. 
Music is something that’s always been around. Growing up, when me and my brothers were on punishment and couldn’t watch TV, we would make up songs. We were trying to make up a song to sing to our parents and see if they would let us off punishment early. We were always just doing creative stuff, not even thinking about it as trying to be creatives. Growing up, you’d hang out with your friends and we might start freestyling. The first time I wrote a rap, I was like, okay, I think I like this. I think I like this self-expression thing. Let me take this seriously.

What did taking it seriously look like for you?
I didn’t have any money to buy beats, and I think my older brother told me that you can make beats on a computer. Around that time, my mom had finally upgraded our house computer so we had internet and we could download some software. So it was perfect timing.

We helped each other, we booked each other on shows. We were all trying to elevate the scene and really create dope experiences for the people that came out. It didn’t feel like crabs in a bucket. It really felt like we were all in it for the same thing.

Fast-forward to your twenties, you were moving through Baltimore’s DIY and creative spaces like The Crown, which functioned as incubators for artists. How did being part of that moment shape your artistic development?
Oh man, it was beautiful actually. And it’s not even a hindsight thing. I knew it was amazing while we were living it, you know what I mean? I really appreciate, first of all, the camaraderie I saw. The artists coming together. I feel like that’s not the example we grew up with in Baltimore.

It was just amazing to see that amongst rappers pushing each other and making songs together, and being friends and not in competition with each other. We were a real community. We helped each other, we booked each other on shows. We were all trying to elevate the scene and really create dope experiences for the people that came out. It didn’t feel like crabs in a bucket. It really felt like we were all in it for the same thing.

Building on that moment in time, Baltimore musician, stylist, and curator Al Rogers Jr.—who has also since moved out to the West Coast—was prevalent in those same spaces. I saw that he styled you for The Grammys. Can you talk about why you chose him? 
I’ve always admired Al as a creator. From rapping to his music videos, which were always dope, to his style. He’s always been that guy and he’s always been pushing the envelope as an artist. And over the last few years he’s been killing it in the styling game. Everything I’ve seen him do has been amazing. So I was waiting for an opportunity to use him for something. This was perfect.

I don’t know if you can kill that [creative energy] in Baltimore to be honest. Like, we’re always gonna find a way.

Any upcoming work, shows or collaborations you want to highlight?
SiR’s [next] album is coming. I’m so excited about it. The music is really, really, good. I don’t want to speak too much on it, because I don’t want to hype people’s expectations too crazy. And I’ve been working with an artist named Gabriel Jacoby, who’s from Tampa.

What are your thoughts on the Baltimore music scene right now?
I’m gonna avoid the temptation of passing any type of judgment, because I’m not there to see it with my own eyes. I think I kind of romanticize the period that we came up in. You always kind of had to be there in Baltimore to actually witness and see things coming. So, I have high hopes. I feel like it is still a good incubator for creatives. I’m hoping that the loss of places like The Crown and The Bell Foundry doesn’t kill that [energy]. I don’t know if you can kill that in Baltimore to be honest. Like, we’re always gonna find a way.

Light plays a role in how safe people feel—and actually are—in any major city. Throughout Baltimore’s Station North Arts & Entertainment District, Inviting Light—a series of activations supported by Bloomberg Philanthropies’ Public Art Challenge and curated by renowned artist and Baltimore native Derrick Adams—is meant to explore the connection between art, light, and design, all while enhancing the neighborhood’s vibrancy and walkability after dark.

Since February, Inviting Light has unveiled Zoë Charlton’s “security nightlight” sculpture “Third Watch” at North Avenue Market; transformed the parking garage across from the Charles Theatre with Phaan Howng’s colorful “Big Ass Snake (Plant)s on a Plane” design (an ode to action movies); and illuminated the facade of the old Gatsby’s on Charles with Tony Shore’s neon wonder “Aurora.”

The newest installation, the fourth of five site-specific temporary public artworks in the series, is “Soft Gym,” created by Baltimore-based artist duo Daniel Wickerham and Malcolm Lomax, known collectively as Wickerham & Lomax.

For this work, which takes over the site of the new YNot Lot at 101 W. North Ave., they collaborated with local architecture firm Present Company and design-fabrication studio Paradise Labs to use light, space, and metaphor to bring their very first public artwork to life. 

At an official debut last week, more than 100 visitors were the first to connect with the transformed community lot, described as equal parts playground, art exhibit, and social experiment. 

Located at the site of a former bank building in the heart of the arts district, the outdoor gathering place now boasts illuminated mixed-media works, a gym rig, marble benches, padded walls, and a redesigned stage. Take a closer look and you’ll discover details that tell their own stories, like traffic mirrors meant to inspire reflection, squeegees transformed into Olympic torches, glowing bagged-ice sconces inspired by Edgar Degas’ “Little Dancer” (as seen at the BMA), a facade that mimics that of a local bar, The Drinkery, and colorful stools crafted out of weight plates dotted with chewing gum. 

“We were thinking about how the physical becomes visual, and how image becomes touch again,” Wickerham said in an description of the installation. “Gum on stools, sweat printed on light boxes, embedded graffiti.”

As its name signifies, “Soft Gym” isn’t a gym in a traditional sense, rather, a place to work out our shared experiences or have moments of personal emotional reflection. As Lomax described in a video introduction to the work, it mimics the vulnerability of going into a gym, where eyes follow as you exercise. Here, that vulnerability is still present, but as people use the space for “quiet contemplative activities,” like stretching, resting, or viewing the art.  

As the artists put it, they want the exhibit to promote vulnerability and “infect the bloodstream of the city through gesture.”

“I think of how healing and vulnerability are usually [seen] as a cycle that gets completed. But, of course, it’s an ongoing process,” Wickerham tells us. “I like the idea of folding in other people. It’s not about perfecting yourself. It’s kind of about learning to live the best life you can, knowing that you’re in relationship with one another.”

Adds Lomax: “You’re always in that state of becoming, you’re always in that state of healing. You don’t know what circumstances will come up to cause grief,” he says. “Let’s identify and witness each other doing that…let’s say certain things without having judgment cloud it.” 

Historically, the YNot Lot—stationed at the corner of Charles Street and North Avenue from 2014-2022—has been known to foster this kind of community inclusivity, be it through performances, festivals, food drives, or candlelight vigils. Station North Arts District director Abby Becker, whose work in the neighborhood started at the original YNot Lot, says the venue has always been a democratic space for people to try new things.

“My favorite thing about the space was that so many people felt like it was theirs,” Becker says. “It’s rare for a sense of belonging to be shared by so many kinds of people.” As for the future, “I can’t wait to see what is going to happen here,” she says, mentioning further workshops, performances, and community resources.

Aligning with the overall civic mission of Inviting Light, the hope is that “Soft Gym,”—expected to remain installed for the next three to five years—will increase community appreciation and public engagement in Station North.

“When artists, community partners, external partners, and the city come together, we don’t just activate a space, we create places where people connect, feel proud, and see their community in a new light,” said Linzy Jackson III, the newly appointed Director for the Mayor’s Office of Art, Culture, and Entertainment, who in his remarks at the unveiling offered thanks to an array of partners like Bloomberg and BGE, as well as project lead Catherine Borg and project co-curator José Ruiz. “Projects like this are helping us strengthen neighborhood identity, bring people closer, and push Baltimore’s creative story forward, block by block and chapter by chapter.”

The activation serves as a reminder that light not only illuminates our surroundings, but also invites us as the audience to feel deeply.

“If you make something with incredible care, maybe it makes the viewer behave differently, or maybe it feels like you’ve cared for the viewer,” says Lomax. “There’s a lot of stress out here on the streets…and I was hoping that this could…just make people feel better.”

While Baltimore celebrates its historic drop in violent crime in the first half of 2025, a different crisis continues to grip the city’s streets: the opioid epidemic. 

This past summer, that crisis reached a frightening point when multiple mass overdoses in the Penn North neighborhood sent more than 30 people to the hospital. Last week, the community experienced yet another mass overdose with 10 patients affected. Thankfully, no fatalities have been reported, but these events have sparked a heightened sense of urgency among first responders and city officials.

From apps that aim to notify folks of bad drug batches to safe spaces and accessible treatment, Baltimore organizations are taking novel approaches to curbing the overdose death rate, but still struggling to fully prevent these events from occurring.

Among the city’s most dedicated harm reduction advocates is Nicole Bryant, the founder of We Responders Inc., who was on the ground in the wake of the Penn North emergencies to support the community. But before this summer’s overdoses brought a renewed focus to the issue, Bryant had long been calling for Baltimoreans of all ages to be better equipped with life-saving skills, such as emergency response training, CPR, Stop the Bleed, and overdose awareness.

We recently spoke with Bryant about We Responders’ mission and what keeps her going in the wake of community tragedies, particularly those in underserved and high-risk areas.

For folks who may not be familiar, what is We Responders? What inspired you to start this work?
We do emergency preparedness training to teach people in the community how to respond in emergency situations. We Responders started after losing my one-year-old nephew to a fentanyl overdose. This strengthened in 2024 when I lost my father to a fentanyl overdose.

In addition to what inspires you, what keeps you in the work? And what does it look like day to day?
What keeps me going is knowing who my dad was outside of his addiction. He was the strongest man I knew, fighting an addiction he couldn’t beat. I had to show up for him, whether he was ready for help or not.

We do workshops twice a month virtually and twice a month in person. We hold something called “The Recovery Talk,” where we talk with youth and adults about what it’s like to be a child or relative of an addict, how that affects us, and how we show up to support them. We also have a program called “We Need Recovery Too,” where we provide supportive services for family members and youth of addicts. We give out hygiene kits, do grief and financial literacy programming, and have created the office as a safe space for them to come in person. 

Folks might not understand “tester culture.” Can you explain how testers create possibly deadly conditions?
A tester is when someone adds something to a product or wants to advertise their product and gives it away for free to see how people battling addiction respond. People use the drug to see how strong or weak it is, but the person dropping testers doesn’t know the reaction they’ll get. Like in July, or recently, testers can contain anything, and that’s what’s causing overdoses.

“What keeps me going is knowing who my dad was outside of his addiction. He was the strongest man I knew, fighting an addiction he couldn’t beat.”

Recently, you held the Revive 21217 event in Penn North following an overdose. Can you tell me more about that?
We allowed addicts to sit down, join a panel, and share their perspectives—how they started, what support they need. A lot of times we think we’re showing up to help, but we don’t know what they actually see as help. I hosted it in the Maurice space in the Upton Market.

What were some of the insights you got from the addicts who joined the panel?
We had a guy named Mr. Roosevelt who said we need to catch somebody young. It’s not just the “knuckleheads.” Sometimes it’s the ones from two-parent households who don’t know how to accept who they are or see their self-worth. Even though they’re out here getting high, that’s not the life they want. They want to feel accepted. We also learned that when they get clean and reunite with family, the family often still treats them as addicts, and that causes relapse. That’s why we offer support for the family, so they can learn how to reunite and deal with loved ones after recovery instead of pushing them back into addiction.

In your experience, what gaps do you notice in the emergency response system that We Responders is working to fill?
Ongoing support. When tragedies happen, everybody comes to the scene and focuses on people who aren’t ready to be clean. The idea of supporting people who aren’t ready for recovery doesn’t work. It’s like, either you’re using or you’re in treatment, but what about the people in the middle?

We have a number they can call, [443-943-3157] even if they’re not ready to check into a substance use disorder program. Whether they need food, clothing, or just someone to talk to, we want to offer support until they’re ready. The usual approach is to say “go to rehab,” but not everyone’s ready. We show up to give them that voice and support, so when we say “It’s time,” they know we mean it and that we care.

“The idea of supporting people who aren’t ready for recovery doesn’t work. It’s like, either you’re using or you’re in treatment, but what about the people in the middle?”

Your team has deep roots in Baltimore’s neighborhoods. How does that shape your ability to respond quickly in moments like this?
It’s empathy more than anything. My dad overdosed and lost his life copping on that same corner. A lot of people think these folks are making a choice, but many are hurt and dealing with what we all deal with, they just don’t have the coping skills. That’s what makes me show up. I could feel like the city took my dad and nephew, but it didn’t make me turn my back. It made me show up for people like me and support them when the city or the drugs take their loved ones.

How do you communicate with people of all ages about emergency preparedness?
We have different training sessions for different ages using mascots, games, table talks. We base our training on the crowd. We talk with kids six-to-nine years old and do training with seniors. Everyone needs it. You’re never too young to learn. About 75–80 percent of our training is hands-on, because we believe the subconscious mind trains the conscious. We let you practice responding so when it happens, you know what to do.

Despite the hard moments, what gives you hope in this work?
When people tell me, “My mom overdosed, but I remembered what you said about using Narcan,” or when kids say, “If you got through it, I can too.” That makes it easy to show up. If one person saves a loved one or recognizes an overdose and calls 911, that’s enough hope to keep pushing. If we can save one life a year, that’s good enough.

Poetry has been a lifelong calling for Brion Gill, aka Lady Brion. Growing up near Whitelock Avenue, then in Northwood, her childhood was marked by intergenerational gatherings and creative exchange, sparking an early passion for poetry and deliberation.

From organizing youth slam events to excelling as a competitive debater in high school, Brion carved her own career path, drawing inspiration from Black community staples like AFRAM and the former Warm Wednesdays open-mics along the way. In recent years, the 34-year-old has performed internationally, won multiple competitions, and taught creative writing for local students.

Now, as Maryland’s 11th poet laureate under Gov. Wes Moore—as well as the director of the Pennsylvania Avenue Black Arts District, the first of its kind in Maryland, dedicated to celebrating and promoting African-American culture—she hopes to inspire other artists to go after their own lifelong dreams.

What are some of your plans for this role?
I intend to travel across Maryland for performances and workshops. It’d be great to publish new works, but I also want to use this platform to help amplify and bring to fruition other literary arts initiatives. For example, working to create a Baltimore City poet laureate. I am also interested in [creating] a literary arts festival for Maryland, pulling folks from all corners of the state to be a part of it. My hope is that it can take place in Baltimore City

Growing up in Baltimore, what drew you to poetry?
I used to watch Def Poetry Jam on HBO. I was enamored with that show. I fell in love with poets like Sunni Patterson and Black Ice. There’s a whole group of spoken-word poets, particularly Black spoken-word poets, that just drew me in. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be able to share my story. I remember being in middle school, going into the corner of my father’s apartment, and writing my first little poem. So many people encouraged me, and affirmed me, and gave me spaces to write poems and share poems, and that really launched my career. I’ve been performing on stages [ever since].

In 2019, you founded the Pennsylvania Black Arts District. How does it continue to shape your work?
We’re just here to connect people and illuminate the amazing work that they’re doing. This is an organization that was built and run by Black artists who want to see Black arts thrive in this city, and so it’s just all about making a space for the community to continue to be great. I’ve really become connected to the arts and cultural community in Baltimore, and that fuels me. It’s the reason I wake up and do this every day.

Have you ever found yourself in a store, frantically searching for the perfect card, only to leave empty-handed? That’s exactly what happened to Krystal Henry in 2021.

The founder of Around the Way Mom, a blog she launched in 2016 based on LL Cool J’s song “Around the Way Girl,” Henry had already built a platform encouraging moms to nurture themselves emotionally, physically, socially, spiritually, and financially. After struggling to find meaningful cards for her loved ones, the blog led her to create Mother’s Day cards—which soon evolved into a standalone venture.

Now 43, living in Southwest Baltimore’s Ten Hills neighborhood with her husband and son, she has launched her own stationery company, Around The Way Parchment (ATWP)—a brand that has grown to include 10 different collections of heartfelt, typography-forward greeting and postcard designs with the goal of bringing encouragement, motivation, and inspiration through stationery.

“It’s not a piece of paper,” she says. “It’s a memory, it’s love, it’s care, it’s concern, it’s a connection, and that’s what paper does.” 

As the holiday season kicks into gear, we talked to Henry about her unique designs, cards she treasures most, and where to find her products. 

Tell us about Around The Way Parchment’s existing collections.
There are over 10 different collections. Some for those regular, everyday occasions and then those underrepresented occasions. So everything from apology, birthday, congratulations, encouragement, and holiday cards—which right now includes Christmas—all the way down to sympathy cards and thank you cards. And there’s even a line for Black women entrepreneurs called the EntrepreneuHER collection. I also do custom work for small businesses.

What’s one of your favorite collections?
One of my favorites happens to be the Zodiac Birthday Collection. It’s not a collection that I see in mainstream stationery. One day, I sat down and thought about how people love to celebrate their zodiac sign. We talk about how it’s Scorpio season or Sagittarius season, whatever it might be. And I thought, well, what are the unique qualities about these signs? So each one of the cards features different signs and a star pattern on the card. You open it up, and on the left there’s a quote or mantra. On the right, there’s a sentiment.

What was your field of study that led you to becoming the founder of a stationery design company?
[At Towson University], I started off as a pre-med major, and then quickly realized that organic chemistry was not my thing. And then I moved on to political science with a minor in communications. And it really should have been communications first.

Well, given that you started Around The Way Parchment with the goal of encouraging stronger connections, maybe organic chemistry is your thing.
You know what you might be right, and maybe not necessarily with the math component, but I guess creating an organic community around a shared experience and doing that in a way that helps to motivate and encourage people is what parchment does.

Many people have a card they treasure—maybe one they’ve kept in a drawer because it’s from someone special. Do you have a card like that?
Yes. Oh man. I have a lot. I keep a card on my dresser in my room from my grandmother, who is now deceased. She wrote a very heartfelt message in there. On my bookshelf, I have a card that my mother, who just recently passed earlier this year, gave to me, congratulating me. Those two are treasure cards. One of them I created, another one from one of the major manufacturers, but those are two that I pick up and look at often that have a lot of value to me.

Where can folks buy Around The Way Parchment cards this holiday season?
Online, plus places like Flourish [on Harford Road], The Ivy Bookshop in Mt. Washington, and The Collective at the Owings Mills branch of the Baltimore County Public Library—a partnership with CCBC.

In 1989, Kibibi Ajanku fulfilled a calling. As an adolescent, the Baltimore native had fallen in love with the rhythmic movement of West African dance. She eventually joined a professional company that took her around the country and world, deepening her connection to the diasporic art form and clarifying her own place in the global community.

Upon returning home, she wanted to share this gift with others, and Sankofa Dance Theater was born.

What began as a single children’s class quickly evolved to meet the needs of her community. As demand increased, so did the offerings, which included a dedicated performance troupe that would become the premier professional African dance and drum ensemble of Baltimore.

Over the following decades, the theater became a space for both children and adults to forge their own connection to the dance form and to gain an understanding of the African experience through the African arts. For Ajanku, the work that Sankofa did was, “age-old and time tested, yet new and exciting all at once.”

Performances were prolific, taking place at various community events, museums, music venues, and locations abroad. Ajanku advocated for the African style to reach equal standing with other prestigious dance forms, such as ballet, seeing it as a rich cultural expression, complete with handmade costumes, intricate choreography, and artistic backdrops.

But despite the company’s success, declining attendance and financial challenges led Sankofa to close its studio doors in 2010. Smaller shows continued for a few more years, but Ajanku believes its essence remains a life force in Baltimore through the countless Baltimoreans the theater served.

“Sankofa is like a family member,” says Ajanku. She runs into former students often, and her two sons continue to drum.

This month, the troupe is reuniting for two rare performances at the Baltimore Museum of Art on Nov. 17 and 24 in celebration of the release of a new limited-edition coffee-table book, Sankofa Dance Theater: 30 Years of Music, Movement, and Folkways, which chronicles the group’s history as a cultural ambassador for both Baltimore and West Africa.

After spending the last decade as equity director for the Greater Baltimore Cultural Alliance, Ajanku now focuses on visual art forms, including hosting plant-dyeing workshops in her home studio in West Baltimore. She spends much of her time tending to her indigo garden there, proudly displaying her blue nails as proof.

In all she does, she continues to explore notions of identity, history, and legacy.

“Everything I do touches the traditions of African people because, as Africans in America, we need to feel and envision that connection,” she says. “[It’s] a continuation of my lifelong mission to elevate African art and culture to a place of respect and equality.”

It’s the live DJs, the dozens of shoppers, and the chatter that fills the air alongside the wafting scent of grapefruit and mangosteen from the Baltimore-based Sulit Candle Co. that brings so much joy to the woman behind one of Baltimore’s most beloved markets.

“The community is constantly pouring into me,” says Bri Mobley, founder of BLK Ass Flea Market (BAFM), a pop-up marketplace for Black creatives and makers, with a goal of boosting Black businesses and inspiring Black joy.

Now in its third year, the event has grown into a recurring ritual, taking place multiple times a month at a variety of venues across the city, like Good Neighbor and the Charles Street Promenade this month. Each features upward of 50 vendors, mostly from Baltimore, selling original artworks, handmade jewelry, tea blends, vintage clothing, and more.

Launched in 2021 with co-founder Sola Ekunseitan, who left the business this spring to persue other projects, Mobley says the duo has built a diverse, intergenerational community of “cousins” who remain her support system to this day.

“We have continued to grow and thrive,” says the Philly-born Baltimore transplant, who is also a full-time mother and wellness artist, donning local Black brands like New Vintage by Sam, 1120 Co, and Blurry Success for this interview.

This expansion includes not just an ever-growing community of artisans and patrons, but also cultural institutions and even real estate developers who have become BAFM collaborators, including the Baltimore Peninsula, R. House’s Seawall Development, the Reginald F. Lewis Museum, and the Baltimore Museum of Industry, where Mobley now works as the public engagement manager.

There, she recently helped pilot “Rhythm of Industry,” a series of museum nights amplifying Black creatives and featuring live music, workshops, and more. The next installment takes place this month, in partnership with the Love Groove Festival’s John Tyler, in celebration of Juneteenth.

But even though BAFM has amassed 16,000 Instagram followers, some still struggle with the event’s full name, worrying that the words might be derogatory, which Mobley insists is quite the opposite.

“The name is really an identifier—for our people, for our community,” she says, seeing the African-American vernacular as a form of emphasis—and empowerment. For her, there’s a silver lining to the assumption that the event will be “rowdy” or “disruptive,” while she sees it as nothing but celebratory. “So that when you come, your mind is blown. So that when you come, you realize the economic impact on the city.”

Nia Hampton, the visionary behind the Baltimore-founded Black Femme Supremacy Film Fest (BFSFilmFest), has ignited a movement aimed at addressing the longstanding void in opportunities for queer, Black, and femme filmmakers.

A poignant illustration of this work was on display when Tender, a film by Baltimore native TV writer, producer, and award-winning filmmaker Felicia Pride, graced the screens of BFSFilmFest in 2020. Pride also serves as the founder of Honey Chile—an independent media and production company championing Black women over 40.

Now, drawing from their shared roots in Baltimore, the two are launching the inaugural Honey Chile Fest at Enoch Pratt’s Central Library on Saturday, August 19—a one-day event from 1-5 p.m. that will celebrate the work of Black femmes and Black women over 40, or “honeys,” as organizers lovingly call them. 

Similar to this weekend’s New/Next Film Festival, Honey Chile Fest will fill part of the void left by the Maryland Film Festival, which is taking a hiatus this summer. While she’s not bringing back BFSFilmFest in its classic form, Hampton is looking forward to presenting a new event to the creative community.

“While BFSFilmFest encountered a pause this year, we’ve channeled our efforts into productive collaborations and thoughtfully curated screenings in alignment with various organizations,” she says. “But, throughout this transition, our unwavering dedication to fostering creative connections and uplifting Black femmes remains steadfast.”

Both Hampton and Pride carry the legacy of the women who have shaped their lives in Baltimore—mothers, aunts, nieces, and the diverse community around them. This is evident in the choice of Hampton’s mother, Sheila Gaskins, a local comedian and actress, as the host for Honey Chile Fest.

The fest will kick off with the first-ever live recording of Pride’s NAACP-nominated podcast, Chile Please, with co-host Ivy Grant and local multi-hyphenate Ty Alexander.

“The intention is to honor and amplify the unique perspectives and voices of honeys, while maintaining a strong emphasis on nurturing local talent within Baltimore,” says Pride, a Towson University alum who has written for television shows like Queen Sugar and Grey’s Anatomy. “That’s why we invited Ty Alexander, a proud Baltimore resident, to contribute to this vibrant exchange. Through our storytelling, we aim to weave together the intergenerational narratives of honeys, embracing both past and present experiences.”

During the latter half of the day, the essence of Hampton’s BFSFilmFest will shine through with “Defining Baltimore,” a curated collection of screenings that share the experiences of Black women and femmes in the city.

The block will include BodyMore by Darren Mallet and Shannon Shird, 769 W. Saratoga by Uni Q. Mical, and the premiere of Pride’s Look Back at It—a short starring Charm City’s own Angel Laketa Moore which follows a forty-something single mother who rediscovers her passion with the help of her teenage daughter. Following the debut, a panel discussion moderated by social changemaker Jess Solomon-DaCosta will include local cinematographer Kirby Griffin, the film’s director of photography, as well as local actresses Natalie Carter and Toi Goodman.

“The genesis of ‘Defining Baltimore’ was prompted by a pivotal question: how can we intertwine the narratives of films set in Baltimore to stimulate engaging dialogues?” Hampton says. 

With music provided by DJ Ty Alexander, the festival’s official after-party at Le Mondo will provide further opportunities for attendees to celebrate, support, and collaborate with Black femmes in Baltimore’s film scene. 

“The essence of BFSFilmFest has always embodied the convergence of global and local influences in the uniquely creative realm of Baltimore,” Hampton says. “The city’s vibrant film scene provides a wellspring of inspiration.”

When Sola Ekunseitan and Bri Mobley launched the first installment of their flea market in the spring of 2021, they had one key objective: to amplify Black-owned businesses and spread the Black joy that surrounds them.

Now in its second year, the BLK Ass Flea Market has grown into a recurring event that hosts local vendors selling everything from artwork and clothing to bodyworks and food—but that core mission has never wavered. The final market of the year is fittingly scheduled for Black Friday on Nov. 25, when more than 60 Black-owned businesses will gather at Baltimore Unity Hall in Madison Park from 12-7 p.m. The event will also offer giveaways, photo ops, a “lor kids corner,” a Kwanzaa installation with Alexander Jah, and live music spun by DJs Trilla Kay, Trap, and Runningoutoflines.

The brains behind the market, Ekunseitan and Mobley—or “cousins” as they’re affectionately called in their community—are both Baltimore City transplants. Mobley—a self proclaimed, “Philly Jawn”—is a mother, community builder, wellness artist, and storyteller who says it was “the abundance of Blackness and character in Baltimore” that made it easy for her to call the city home nearly 13 years ago. Throughout the last decade, her work has been rooted in restoring wholeness within the Black community through advocacy and radical joy. Hailing from the Twin Cities in Minnesota, Ekunseitan has combined her Midwestern values with a newfound East Coast flair, which she uses to empower those around her.

Together, the founders are elevating the experience and wellness of Black folks and their brands. They say BLK Ass Flea Market was born out of a need to prioritize Black buying power and business equity. (In 2021, the national buying power of Black people was $1.6 trillion, however, the lifespan of the dollar in the Black American community is only about six hours.) Their attempts to follow in the footsteps of Black ancestors, who have long used flea markets to challenge the status quo of what mainstream shopping looks like, have proven successful. In just one year, they’ve built an online community of nearly 10,000 and registered thousands of attendees from all backgrounds for their flea markets and other associated events.

For this dynamic duo—cousins not related by blood, but by passion and quality friendship—it’s not just about the dollar. It’s about the far-reaching impact, and, perhaps most importantly, the Black joy that comes from unifying the community.

Ahead of the BLK Ass Friday market, we sat down with the creators to learn more about the initiative and its effects.

As a young girl, I have fond memories of getting up early the morning after Thanksgiving to shop with my entire family at big box stores in local malls. My cousins and I would play in the racks of department stores, and my mother would speak fondly of her experience working at B. Altman and Company, a luxury department store in New York City. When my family moved to Baltimore, the experience wasn’t all that different. Security Square and Owings Mills Mall were staples, especially during the holidays. Tell us about your earliest culturally Black shopping experiences. What about those experiences drove you both to want to provide this event?

Bri Mobley: Memories of myself, my mother, and my grandmother browsing the aisles of a famed department store in Philly that was founded in 1868, which doesn’t exist anymore either. We were definitely hitting that big box store up for church and holiday outfits. Then when I was in high school, I remember this Black-owned bookstore my friends and I would just spend hours in, learning new things. I remember often thinking to myself that I didn’t even know there was a such a thing as Black literature. It was just nice to see the representation.

Sola Ekunseitan: For me, growing up in Minneapolis, a place where for decades Black citizens were systematically denied equal rights in areas like housing and schooling, the shopping experiences weren’t too welcoming. There was this feeling that you were always being racially profiled. Back home you just had to think ahead of the curve. Like, let me make sure I bring a small bag into the stores as to not raise suspicion around me being a shoplifter, just because I’m Black. In some instances, you had a store clerk check your bag before proceeding in. Or they would just follow you around the store to be sure you weren’t stealing.

But it wasn’t all bad back home. We held dear holidays and festivals like Juneteenth and Rondo Days, an annual festival held the third Saturday in July in Saint Paul, Minnesota that commemorates the Rondo Neighborhood—an African-American community that was split in two by the construction of Interstate 94 in the mid-1960s. Those different celebrations of Blackness stuck with me and inform the curation of my collaborative events now. I would always look forward those holidays and festivals because those would be the places that I could buy something that I actually really liked. I like unique things that aren’t offered in typical mall spaces.

So, ever since I was born, my mom was someone who influenced me to shop very Black and be very intentional. She is who I credit with my earliest theories to keep the coin in our community. We didn’t have a lot of options when it came to shopping, and that’s one of the things I really value about Baltimore is that it’s really easy to shop Black here.

Partial disemvoweling and African-American vernacular English tie together the powerful name of your social enterprise, BLK Ass Flea Market. Why is it so important to use linguistics that feel like home?

BM: It was really important for the name to be very direct, very clear, and very radical. Baltimore is a very Black city, but it doesn’t always feel like a safe place or space for Blackness. There are days when Baltimore doesn’t feel as evolved from it’s tense racist and segregated histories. Just as recently as 1956, the desegregation of the Baltimore City Public Schools took place after the United States Supreme Court ruled in the case of Brown v. Board of Education. That’s only a mere 66 years ago. In 1955, students from my alma mater Morgan State University made the once segregated Northwood Shopping Center a site for civil rights activism with sit-ins for being denied service at Read’s Drug Store.

There are still experiences here in the city where you kind of feel like you may need to turn your Blackness down, so to speak. I just really want it to be very loud about BLK Ass Flea Market. Black people, this is for you, this is home, this is the family reunion. All are welcome, but this is for our cousins. It’s past time to take up space in this way.

SE: How the words look and sound are a reclamation of the spaces our cousins should’ve always been welcomed in. The context is familiar but the execution of BLK Ass Flea Market is different, special, and elevated, for the cousins, of course.

Who are the cousins, in the context of the BLK Ass Flea Market community?

BM: Cousins are everybody. A synonym would be “friend.” Saying cousins is just so much more intimate. It’s like, “Yo, we are family.” It doesn’t matter where you’re from. It doesn’t matter how long we’ve known you. If I just met you, it’s, “Hey cousin, I want you to know that you belong. We want you to know that you belong and that you are welcome.”

SE: And there are different types of cousins. You’ve got your favorite cousins, you’ve got your cousins you see once a year, once every few years. I think that’s the perfect analogy, and it’s really reflective of the BLK Ass Flea Market community. Sometimes you’ll see familiar brands, sometimes you’ll see new brands.

You both make it clear that it’s not just about the dollar, but about the intimacy, the cousins, and the community of it all. How many markets has BLK Ass Flea Market had so far, and how many people have been reached?

BM: BLK Ass Friday will mark our sixth marketplace to date and, in that time, more than $250,000 in collective revenue has been earned by brands that have participated in our markets and other events developed by the team. More than 10,000 people have been reached in Baltimore and beyond via our marketplaces, partnerships, platforms, and events.

Who is BLK Ass Flea Market for? What do you hope it continues to bring to the community?

SE: The beautiful part about it is there’s a little something in it for anybody who wants to be there. Our brand is for those who stand in their Blackness, whatever that means for the individual. One thing that we really try to center is being intentional about making sure the full diaspora of Blackness is present. The diversity within the African diaspora is a huge reason for why we expanded into not just doing the flea market but a full week of events. Having different types of events caters to the needs of every personality and interest type. The charge to our cousins is not for them to be at all seven events. But to come to what their heart calls them to, whether you’re into theater, party life, eating good food or all of those things.

BM: We are working toward creating Black wealth. This is not your typical party-promoter situation. We are more than just a vibe. We are an events studio and marketplace empowering Black creatives, and we are creating legacy here with this project.

A mighty voice in a small frame, Baltimore’s own “Juju Bae”—as she’s affectionately known by the fans of her iHeartRadio Award-nominated spirituality podcast A Little Juju—took the stage at the SNF Parkway Theatre in Station North on July 7. 

Standing just under five feet—adorned with her signature brass jewelry, long wavy braids, and loose silks—she was invited to the Parkway on this night for a live show in collaboration with Baltimore Living Archives, a joint program from The Parkway and The Enoch Pratt Free Library that amplifies media-based stories by local artists.

The Parkway’s executive director Sandra L. Gibson, along with Baltimore Living Archives artist-in-residence SHAN Wallace, introduced the evening of healing, culture, and conversation with enthusiasm while traditional African Djembe drums played softly in the background.

“I started this podcast for me, for my own curiosities and questions about African spirituality,” Juju Bae explained on stage. As for the name of her show, Juju alludes to African medicine, spiritual practices, or objects that evoke the power of our ancestors and our spirit to manifest an outcome. The latter part of the name—as you might have guessed—refers to the beloved African-American Vernacular term of endearment. 

On her own journey to dedicate her life to Black spirituality, community, and being a self-proclaimed “witchy womanist,” Juju Bae has gained deeper insights into healing and culture, thus creating a movement that is much bigger than just her. Her episodes explore topics based on indigenous healing and communion in the modern world (everything from African spirituality in contemporary art to interviews with Black liberation activists) so it makes sense that the podcast has gained listeners from across the globe. 

During the live show, Juju Bae and special guest Trinice Iya Fabunmi—a priestess within the Orisha tradition—took listeners on what she and many other Afro-Indigenous spiritualists call a “spiritual revival,” giving them a taste of the concepts that Juju Bae delves into each week.

The two explained that fervent drumming and the sounds of the diaspora, for example, were all part of ways we’d communicate, celebrate, mourn, and inspire each other on the continent of Africa. They later charged audience members to think about specific moments in Black History and examine how to connect each fabric back to specific deities. With a little thought, we could all recall rituals surrounding birthdays, altars, and even funeral traditions. Juju Bae gave concrete examples of liquor being left out for spirits, which Wallace connected to photos she’d captured of Baltimore stoops covered with bottles, candles, and balloons to honor those who have passed on. 

No matter your religious background as a Black person, some or all of what was talked about could be linked to a memory. Apparently, we’ve all got a little hoodoo in us.

To delve deeper into the roots of A Little Juju and the impact it’s had since launching in 2018, we caught up with Juju Bae after the show:

How did A Little Juju (ALJ) get its start?
The podcast was birthed, actually, when I moved out of Baltimore and I was living in Chicago. It was around that time that I started to read and see a lot of things online about spirituality, or see references to it like in Beyonce’s studio album and aligning music videos for Lemonade. Simultaneously, it all made me want to read more, study more, and talk to more people about what I was feeling regarding spiritual experiences, different belief systems, and pre-colonialism. I just started by asking questions and feeling really connected to the beliefs, spirits, and histories I was learning about. It led me to my own ancestors and wanting to find them within myself.

While I was away at school in Chicago to become a therapist and then a psychologist, I had a visceral dream that basically showed me a day in the life of one of my ancestors five or six generations ago. This foremother was a part of my paternal lineage and was an enslaved woman experiencing traumatic events. The dream shook me all day at school the following day. I decided to tell one of my professors, another Black woman and a doctor who was very invested in spirituality. She said, “You’re in school to affirm a whole bunch of other people and you haven’t affirmed yourself, your experiences, or the experiences of your ancestors—and they’re trying to talk to you.” I dropped out of school shortly after that.

I decided to start this journey of figuring out what my spirits and ancestors were trying to tell me from such a realistic and painful dream. I carried a lot of that pain in my body and didn’t really know it. I knew that other people may be having similar dreams, spiritual experiences, or intuitive moments. I’m not sure there was a place in my religious origin to talk about all of those things. I wasn’t identifying with the Christianity anymore. I needed a place to say, “Do y’all feel this? Are y’all experiencing this?” And the answer was a resounding yes when I put the podcast out. 

Who is in the ALJ community? Who is the ideal listener?
It’s amazing because there are a lot of different kinds of folks. There are people who are very new, folks who are Christian, there are listeners who are Muslim, there are even practicing priests and priestesses in the African tradition, and folks who aren’t in the African tradition at all who just practice or are interested in hoodoo—which is an African-American system that I believe in, as well. 

My podcast has listeners from all over, and I love that. I didn’t want it to feel like you had to have a certain aesthetic, or have to be super vegan and use crystals and all of that. All of those things could very well be part of who you are, or a part of the podcast, but I really just love when people come as they are. Be regular. Know that we all have spiritual gifts. We all have the propensity to connect with our own ancestral lineage and the capacity to heal regardless of who you are or how you show up in your body—gay, trans, queer…doesn’t matter. You have the support from your ancestors to heal.

Tell us a little bit about your nickname, Juju Bae.
On the podcast I spoke early on with listeners about the definition of Juju being a sort of spiritual medicine or magic. We talk about the importance of identifying with that language, especially since it’s a term that has been used sort of negatively at times. When people talk about what Juju is, it always has a negative connotation—someone’s trying to be harmful or it’s being associated with something demonic. I wanted to embrace the name to show that there is actually a lot of medicine within Juju. That’s how the nickname Juju Bae was born. 

What geographies have you explored in your spiritual practice?
Of course, a lot of my work centers around the continent of Africa and different groups within the continent, but I think I’ve been able to find my own identity within the U.S. Finding out things like where my people migrated to before Baltimore led me to places like Virginia, the Carolinas, Alabama, West Virginia, and back to places like the Chesapeake here in Maryland. I’ve learned to acknowledge my ancestral lineage, not barring the real history and very real negative impacts of enslavement and the places my ancestors may have been or were transported to before. I just naturally have less of a connection to those places, for instance the Caribbean. The U.S. is where I’ve been able to ground my practice in spirituality and find out the most about myself and my peoples’ past.

Where in Baltimore are you from?
Beechfield. It’s definitely Baltimore City, but it’s like the line between the city and the county not far from Catonsville. That’s where I spent the majority of my time growing up, but I also spent a lot of time at Edmondson Village because that’s where my grandmother lived. Y’all know how it is with the grandmothers. My mom worked a lot, so I spent a lot of time with her on Denison Street. She picked me up from school and all that.

How do you encourage Baltimoreans to connect to their ancestry?
If folks are really interested in doing that, just set the intention of connecting to your ancestors and watch things open up for you. You might come across family photos, or you may have somebody reach out to you randomly to tell you, “Hey, I’m your cousin.” Things like that have happened to a lot of people because they set the intention of wanting to connect more with their ancestors, and, in turn, they connect more with themselves.

Any last bits of advice?
Everything ain’t for everybody—and that goes for all spiritual practices. Even as you do ancestral exploration, it doesn’t mean that you’re going to be a witch, a priest, or anything. It’s really all just a way to connect. At the end of the day, this work is about connecting. Finding a connection to your own people, a connection to places, a connection to your elders and ancestors and your family, whether chosen or blood. As you explore whatever tradition or religion you follow, just make sure you’re checking in with yourself. Be sure you’re feeling connected to your own destiny and the love in your life and go where you find that. Connection and connecting to your ancestors doesn’t have a religion. It’s not a religious practice. It’s just an act. 

Juju Bae’s Recommended African Spirituality Reading List

• African Cosmology of the Bantu-Kongo: Tying the Spiritual Knot, Principles of Life & Living by Kimbwandende Kia Bunseki Fu-Kiau, C. S. Moore
• Black Magic: Religion and the African American Conjuring Tradition by Yvonne Chireau
• Death and the Invisible Powers: The World of Kongo Belief by Simon Bockie
• Finding Soul on the Path of Orisa by Tobe Melora Correal
• Flash of the Spirit: African & Afro-American Art & Philosophy by Robert Farris Thompson
• Jambalaya: The Natural Woman’s Book of Personal Charms and Practical Rituals by Luisah Teish
• Mojo Working: The Old African American Hoodoo System by Katrina Hazzard Donald
• Of Mules and Men by Zorah Neale Hurston

Juju Bae’s Must-Visit Local Spirituality Shops

• Flourish Baltimore
  2431 St Paul St., 21218
• Botanica Shango
  516 S Broadway, 21231

[Editor’s Note: Special screenings of Breathing Black with after-show talkbacks are scheduled at The Peale Center on July 9, 2022 at 5 p.m. and 8 p.m., as well as on July 10, 2022 at 3 p.m. Tickets can be purchased, here.]

In her directorial debut, Breathing Black, Baltimore filmmaker Tina Canady initiates a timely and necessary conversation: How do Black Baltimore residents heal and make space for joy during their genocide? It’s a question that arose for Canady—a seasoned thespian who holds a BFA in drama from NYU and has graced the stages of many local theaters—during the height of the pandemic, in the wake of the deaths of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. To dig deeper, she assembled an all-Black creative team to interview Black Baltimoreans about their connection to joy, healing, and breath. 

Ahead of the premiere at the Reginald F. Lewis Museum on Friday, December 3, we sat down with Canady to talk about the idea behind the documentary, her views on mental health, and where the film is set to take its next breaths.

Can you talk about the impetus behind Breathing Black?
The idea for this film was conceived right after the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. Personally, I was feeling so depleted and isolated, as we were in the midst of a pandemic. I sat down with my therapist and we had a lot of conversations, but in one of them she asked me, “How do you restore or replenish yourself with everything that’s going on? How do you heal?” And I didn’t have that answer. So this journey was me seeking my own healing and seeking that answer for myself. The making of this documentary was about the journey I’ve been taking to find healing in all of its many forms, for myself and for Black folks all around me. 

You come from a theater background, so your typical storytelling platform isn’t film. What made you want to create a documentary?
I found myself in a place of having a story to tell, but I didn’t have the ways that I’m usually able to tell it with theaters being shut down at the time. I was challenged with the internal question of, “How do I find a new way to tell this story?” And it was through film and talking to people that it really came about. I was terrified because I’ve never made a film before. So I took that leap of faith and grew my passion for filmmaking alongside an exclusively Black creative team, [some of whom are actually featured in the work.] I was so intentional [about that.] It’s definitely something I hope to do again in the future. 

Healing is such a clear theme in the film. How do you define healing?
Healing is such a non-linear process. Using the lens of this film, I kind of viewed it as a specific strategy for our liberation as Black folks and our ongoing journey toward wholeness. I looked at it as joy—joy being the thing that could help us navigate all the things that we do go through as an oftentimes oppressed people. It was about seeing the strength in joy and how our joy is so very connected to our healing—intertwined for our greater good.

I really love how you’re able to personify joy as something with its own character traits, and how you framed your questions around that. Some of the questions for your interviewees are: “What is Black Joy’s favorite song?” “How do you nourish joy?” “Where do you see Black Joy at its peak?” Why did you want to emphasize the concept of Black Joy in this film?
Joy has played such an important part in my life and how I’ve navigated through the world. I feel like there’s more space for that. And even after a film like Breathing Black, I want more space and narratives about Black Joy. I have been emphasizing that as a mission for myself this year and I really hope that comes through the screen—joy and its presence, its power, and how other people might reflect on it collectively, even though when we think about those moments of joy it might come from a very personal, intimate space. 

Black Joy means freedom. Doing it our way on our own terms. For me it means power. There’s so much power in joy as a means to navigate or a strategy to navigate oppression. My hope is that with the experience of watching the film, I’ve curated a place where we as Black folks can celebrate joy and rest. I hope that this project honors our ancestors who navigated the brutality of enslavement and also passed down immense Black Joy to us. Black Joy is our inheritance, and it’s my hope that viewers will cash in on the inheritance to inherit that joy themselves. 

You mentioned that the initial idea was sparked by a question posed by your therapist. What is your relationship to therapy and what are your thoughts on Black folks seeking therapy?
My mother is a psychiatrist and a psychoanalyst, so I grew up with casual conversations about therapy in my formative years and learned the importance the role therapy would play in my life very early. I’m very grateful to have my mother. She’s always taken such pride in being in a profession that she loves and puts so much value into. I feel like some of that transferred over to me. I see so much value in therapy. My partner is also a clinical psychologist, so I am really, truly surrounded by the power of therapy and the power of communication. It is never a bad time to be in therapy. No matter what we might be going through, we could all really use that space to really invest in ourselves and invest in how we navigate our relationships, the world, and its current events. I’m glad to be able to bring those themes of talking to get through in Breathing Black.

What are your hopes for Breathing Black? Where do you want the film to live and breathe (pun intended)?
I think Breathing Black should be shown all over the world. I really love the narrative, and Baltimore is such a beautiful place to tell this story from. I don’t just say that as a writer, but as someone who genuinely just likes to talk to people. The dream for this film is for it to reach as many Black people as it can. I made this for Black people to honor them and to honor Black Joy. So to anyone that comes into contact with it, I am immensely grateful. Maybe it’s at film festivals or in an archive, or some kind of streaming service—wherever it’s at, I’m just grateful it’s out, and breathing.

If you’re in Baltimore, you’re a music lover, and you’re on social media, then you might have caught wind of a new web series conveniently named Carcerts, in which creator Rickie Jacobs chauffeurs local artists around the city and films their passenger-seat performances. “As long as you’re a dope artist, you can have a Carcert,” says Jacobs, a former rapper from Park Heights who now focuses more on producing and curating. 

Jacobs created the inclusive platform off the cuff while recording his podcast Liquor With Friends, with the mission of inviting local artists to perform their original music while driving through the city that, in many cases, inspired it. Since its inception in June 2020, the Carcerts series has grown in popularity, hosting homegrown talents from R&B singer-songwriter Bobbi Rush to rapper and producer Tate Kobang (“Bank Rolls.”) We recently sat shotgun with Jacobs to learn more about the inspiration behind the series and how it’s making an impact on the local music scene. 

So, who is Rickie Jacobs?
I’m a Baltimore native born and raised in Northwest Baltimore. I’m from Park Heights—Zone 15. I’m an artist, curator, content creator, director, and producer. And I’m a digital illustrator, I make cartoons and stuff like that. I’m like a Renaissance man, for lack of a better term.

I like that. Are there many people from Zone 15 who are Renaissance people? What was it like growing up in Park Heights?
I’m starting to discover more creators from my neighborhood that are doing their thing in the city. But growing up, I really wasn’t around a lot of kids that were similar in the sense of creating, you know, getting into the arts and stuff like that. I’ve always been creative. I’ve been drawing ever since I was about five, and then music came a little bit later.

And you have kids, right? How many kids do you have?
I have three kids. Sometimes I have to think about it. (Laughs.) Yeah, I have three.

And Carcerts is also your baby. What inspired you to create the series?
The craziest thing about that process is that it wasn’t anything that I premeditated. It just kind of happened out of the blue. I have a podcast called Liquor With Friends, [for which] I interviewed different creatives and artists [from the car.] I was on my way to do an interview with Al Rogers Jr. He’s a dope person and all around just a really grounded guy. And I just had this idea out of nowhere that maybe he could perform after we did his Liquor With Friends interview. He was with it and we shot it and that was that. 

At that point Carcerts wasn’t really a thing. It didn’t even have a name, but the reaction from it was beyond anything that I could imagine. The reaction catapulted the idea into something bigger and I was just like, I gotta keep doing these. From that point, I was just like, I’m not even going to do interviews anymore. I’m just going to do the Carcerts. And it wasn’t until I did one with Zadia—she was actually the first person to call it a Carcert. I made an Instagram page and I just kept doing them. Sometimes I think about it, like, I can’t believe nobody thought of this.

It is something that I associate as being very Baltimore-bred. And there are so many amazing Baltimore and DMV-based artists who have been on Carcerts. Who have been some of your favorites?
I just mentioned Al Rogers Jr. He was the first one that actually kicked it off. He set the tone for what people now know as Carcerts, followed by Zadia, Mike C., and then we reached out to Soduh. Brandon Woody…

An amazing musician. And…rapper?
Yeah, that was the dopest part about having Brandon on Carcerts because I don’t think, at that time, anybody knew that he could rap. I had some of the younger guys on the scene in Baltimore, like 4kMicheal, YTK, and Blaqstarr—who is a legendary figure in the Baltimore club scene and just Baltimore in general. That was very exciting for me. There have been a lot of dope artists and participants—young, mid-age, a little older—so it’s just a melting pot of different demographics.

Are there any dream performers that you hope to have on?
I have plans to reach out to some of our legends and iconic figures like Bossman, Tim Trees, Skarr-Akbar, names like that. I even wanted to have Mario [“Let Me Love You”] on here, but that’s going to be work. I gotta be persistent. I want to have Sisqo. I really want to make it a Baltimore-focused platform. I’ve had artists that weren’t even born in Baltimore, but they were just dope artists based in Baltimore. If they are a part of our culture and they have the same love and passion and respect for Baltimore, that’s good enough for me.

We’re a very welcoming and warm city, especially when it comes to arts and culture and the DIY scene. I’d also love to talk about your history with music and producing.
That’s my first passion that will never truly go anywhere. But the level of passion I have for it kind of declined. I get bored easily. And I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I also like to acknowledge when I’m good at something, and I think I reached my peak musically. It was time for me to move on to the next thing. I still record music from time to time, but I just do it because it’s therapeutic and that’s how it all started.

But with Carcerts, I get acknowledged for being the creator—it’s bigger than me. Every time I put one out, it’s a reminder of that. It’s not even about me. That’s the type of attention that I want. At the end of the day it’s more rewarding because I am curating the show, but it’s more so about the artists that are showcasing their skills and performing original music. 

Especially because we haven’t seen a lot of live shows in the past year due to the pandemic. So what do you hope to give artists by creating a platform like this? I feel like there’s a gap between what Baltimore artists have and what they need.
No matter how much we evolve, from where we were five years ago or 10 years from now, there will still be gaps. As people and as artists, we’ll have cultural disconnects, we’ll have generational disconnects, and we may even have musical disconnects. So my focus is bringing artists together and bringing an audience to them. 

A lot of people are conditioned to support what is already established. I just want [patrons of the arts] to know that there’s some dope guys that exist inside the city. Instead of them going out of their way when Beyonce or Travis Scott comes to town and makes a couple million dollars, Carcerts show people that there are artists here in Baltimore that you can pour into. Help the artists in Baltimore get to that level that they want to be at, versus helping a machine do it. Let’s support them when these guys are coming up.

Carcerts are one of those tools that I want artists to use in their repertoires. I love when artists tell me that doing a Carcert was on their bucket list. It’s a gratifying feeling and it also reminds me that this is something that people care about.

[Editor’s Note: This interview has been edited for length and clarity.]

What started out more than 15 years ago as a group of four lit lovers determined to bring the best writers to a small city has now become the CityLit Project—the overarching nonprofit that nurtures a culture of literature in Baltimore and throughout Maryland. 

This month, the project’s beloved CityLit Festival has returned, in partnership with the Enoch Pratt Free Library, for its 18th run in a virtual format. After such a challenging year, the fest has appropriately taken on the theme, “Words on the Winds of Change.” 

“We are still offering our best in these tough times,” says CityLit Project executive director Carla Du Pree. The event kicked off on Tuesday, March 2 with an opening webinar featuring authors Emily St. John Mandel (The Glass Hotel) and Jenny Offill (Weather). But if you missed it, don’t fret. Conversations between well-read local book lovers and nationally recognized authors fill a robust, month-long calendar of virtual happenings. 

The celebration will culminate on Saturday, March 20 with a daylong lineup featuring editorial critiques, audience Q&A sessions, a reading by The Mattering of Words author Nikky Finney, and a talk with writers Brandon Hobson and Kelli Jo Ford. 

“This year’s festival is smaller,” says Du Pree, speaking to the changes in the setup this year. “[We’ve lost] the usual bustling literary marketplace, which typically comprises exhibit space for a diverse community of small presses, self-published authors, literary journals, and organizations serving writers and readers.”

Though organizers had to do away with the in-person marketplace this year, the virtual approach brings back one-on-one, 30-minute critiques with esteemed editors. Writers who are looking for community support with their various projects will be able to connect with editorial royalty from Baltimore and beyond, including writers Rosalia Scalia, Karen Houppert, Bret McCabe, Laura Ballou, Rebekah Kirkman, and Chelsea Fetzer.

“When you work in isolation, as we’ve all been doing for the last year, you sometimes need someone else to look at your work,” Du Pree says, adding that the editors have been known to check in with participants about how their pieces are progressing after the festival. “You shouldn’t have to go to an institution to learn this kind of information. It’s free for a reason. We want it to be accessible.”

In addition, the revamped schedule includes a new highlight called “The Writers Room”—which Du Pree describes as an informal, writer-to-writer craft talk—with guest authors including Terrance Hayes and Nikky Finney. 

Plus, a fitting conversation about grief with authors Gayle Danley and Kimberley Lynne is scheduled for March 24. “After 2020, we’ve all had our fair share of grief,” Du Pree says. “This is for folks who know that grief can look like many things.”

And, of course, with its roots based right here in Charm City, it only makes sense that the festival would showcase some local favorites. Former City Paper editor Brandon Soderberg, who wrote I Got a Monster: The Rise and Fall of America’s Most Corrupt Police Squad, will partake in a conversation titled “The State of Baltimore,” moderated by Flight Blight Baltimore’s Nneka Nnamdi. The festival will wrap up with a visual presentation, “Somewhere in the Reflection,” by spoken word artists Nia June and APoetNamedNate, who curated the visuals alongside videographer Kirby Griffin. 

Despite the challenges in the wake of COVID-19, the small-but-mighty CityLit Festival remains committed to its mission of creating enthusiasm for literary arts, connecting a community of avid readers and writers, and offering design opportunities for diverse audiences to embrace literature. Those purposes remain a priority as the event’s 20th year rapidly approaches 

“How we create enthusiasm and connect communities evolves to reflect the spirit of the times,” Du Pree says. “CityLit Festival is about the words and the people.”

Brian Raupp, a graphic designer and musician, and Ashley May, an illustrator and painter, form a dynamic Washington, D.C.-based barista couple whose first date was during a chilly December in Charm City. The Baltimore-area natives had one of their early dates a few years ago at Ceremony Coffee, just around the corner from the Walters Art Museum and Lineup Room recording studios, where Raupp often recorded his music. 

Sadly, both Raupp and May found themselves without a formal job at the start of the pandemic. Sharing an affinity for Baltimore, a knack for people, and a love of caffeine, they pushed themselves to start Others Coffee.

“For a long time, my rap alias Brain Rapp had performances at venues like The Crown—both red and blue room—Soundstage, Ottobar, and Metro Gallery,” says Raupp, a Columbia native. “I even had studio space in the former Creative Labs in Hampden. Those moments in the arts scene were subconsciously preparing us to step into this coffee world.” 

The company’s name is inspired by the people who have a hand in creating the drink that fuels us every morning. 

“How many others are involved in the creation of a coffee experience from the moment that coffee is grown, possibly on the other side of the world?” Raupp says. “How many hands does it pass through before it gets to your cup, in your hands?” 

Adds May: “In the best scenario, it’s always handled by people who really have good intentions, love, and want for inclusion in coffee culture. That’s us at Others.”

Tied directly back to Raupp‘s love for music, they are currently roasting inside Songbyrd Music House and Record Cafe in Adams Morgan. Songbyrd hasn’t been hosting shows due to COVID-19, but they’ve graciously allowed the Others team to roast in a small unused space in their kitchen.

The couple’s online shop, featuring both single orders and an ongoing subscription service, debuted with a soft launch on September 29 in honor of National Coffee Day. After selling out in their first round of pre-orders, online sales launched again in early November. 

Others’ very first roast is an Ethiopian Yirgacheffe—Yirgacheffe is a region in Ethiopia and many of the coffee farms there are multigenerational and run by families—coffee that uses beans sourced by Keffa Coffee wholesalers in Jonestown.

The 12-ounce boxes, which feature the brand’s signature pale colors and inverted eyes, are designed by Raupp and inspired by one of May’s paintings—a piece that hangs in their apartment. Aside from roasting their coffee, the owners say the most fun part of starting the business was creating an entertaining design for the boxes.  

“I want people to look at this beautiful box and say, ‘I don’t even care if the coffee is good or not,’” Raupp says, “‘as a cool kid I need this on my shelf next to my abstract art.’” 

Raupp and May have created what they call “Tasters Tales,” their own version of tasting notes that appear on each box of coffee, along with fun coffee trivia. Their Yirgacheffe, for example, includes notes of lemon, black tea, and peach, but the owners’ are quick to admit that their notes are subjective. 

“In specialty coffee it’s really common that there are tasting notes,” Raupp adds. “The same way a sommelier might talk about wine is the way a quality wholesaler might describe a coffee.”

Currently, coffee club members who sign up at others.coffee benefit from a point system and discounts. The owners say they want to focus on person-to-person sales before beginning to distribute their offerings in hip cafes and other small shops around the DMV. The couple sees themselves selling their coffee at local shops that their friends frequent, including the recently opened Good Neighbor in Hampden. “Aesthetically, they jive with us,” says May.

Looking ahead, the couple also hopes to visit and develop relationships with international farmers so that they can source from them directly and be involved in the journey from bean to brew. Additionally, they’re working on a subscription model that will offer customers newly designed boxes with in-season grinds.

“I’m all about creating an experience for someone,” says May, who reiterates the feeling of inclusion that the owners hope to create with Others. Raupp says it mimics the feeling of, “going into a coffee shop, being a regular, and knowing that person cares about their job.”

For the Baltimore arts community, artist, choreographer, and youth mentor Sharayna Christmas has been a steady force in an otherwise static year.

Over time, many have come to know her as the founder of Muse 360 Arts, the multifaceted youth arts program she launched in 2004, as well as, more recently, Necessary Tomorrows, the self-described “radical multimedia arts platform” established in 2017. But in 2020, she truly cemented her role as a cultural leader in the face of COVID-19.

As the pandemic’s closure of arts spaces and cancellation of exhibitions and performances threatened the livelihoods of her fellow Black artists, Christmas launched an emergency relief fund in March, inspired by Black women in the Reconstruction Era who would create community funds their neighbors could draw from, both for enterprise and help during hard times.

“I’ve always wanted to start a fund for Black philanthropic endeavors that is run by us, for us, with no barriers,” says Christmas. “Black radical investment is very, very important. It’s important for people to see that you can do it. I was doing it in the spirit of my ancestors.”

Through Necessary Tomorrows, which also works to center Black artists, her efforts helped raise more than $5,000 from local investors, including herself, to distribute to more than 45 creatives. The fund also amplified the financial strain experienced by Black artists in Baltimore, inspiring other organizations, like the Baltimore Office of Promotion & The Arts, to establish their own fundraisers for creatives as well.

“BLACK RADICAL INVESTMENT IS VERY, VERY IMPORTANT…I [DO] IT IN THE SPIRIT OF MY ANCESTORS.”

In the months since, Christmas has continued her work through Muse 360, carrying on her travel-based arts education program, New Generation Scholars, and rebranded Necessary Tomorrows with a fresh design and expanded mission statement.

On view January 1, 2021, its new virtual exhibition, Immaterial Souls, will feature works by the likes of multidisciplinary artist Glenford Nunez, who also helped her with the website’s redesign, as well as filmmaker Gyasi Mitchell and photographer Kirby Griffin. Each available for sale, these powerful paintings, portraits, and films—or what she calls “immortal moments”—were inspired by reflections on the spiritual realm.

“The soul is what lives within us,” says Christmas, noting that the exhibit urges viewers to contemplate both what is and what is not seen. “[These works are] definitely dealing with the idea that Black people are one with spirit, that we transform and reform and are reborn, and our images are not one in the same. When you think about a crescent moon, you only see one part of the shape, but there’s so much more.”

Looking ahead, Christmas aims to embody that sentiment for others—and herself. The current group exhibit is a launching point, of sorts, for Christmas’ solo show, Strwbrrys + Gnpwdr, created in collaboration with Griffin and previewed in Immaterial Souls. Debuting later in January, the exhibition features dynamic works that touch on sensuality, sexuality, and death while incorporating sound and sight.

“In the next year, I hope to use my platform to continue to provide resources for artists to gain autonomy,” says Christmas. “But also Necessary Tomorrows is a platform for me to be expressive and redefine curating. What does it mean to create an artistic experience? Is it just an exhibition, or is it performance? Is it dance? Is it film? Is it a garden in the back? That’s what I’m going to be challenging myself with—the constant redefinition of what this all means.”

Most years, my mother, Leslie, and I go all out in planning a birthday extravaganza for my daughters Blair, 8, and Harper, 6. Growing up, “Nana,” as the girls call her, never missed a beat, and she’s still in a perfect rhythm now. In the early ’90s when most of my birthday parties took place, there was no expense spared. I often find myself questioning where she found the time and energy as a single mother to plan it all. In my eight-plus years of motherhood—baby showers included—I’ve subconsciously competed with that early-’90s version of my mother.

This year’s challenge, when my daughter, Harper, turned 6 on May 16, was merely finding the energy to get out of bed to shower after a week’s worth of intense distance-learning, work-related calls, and not nearly enough wine amidst the COVID-19 lockdown.

We kept it simple, but I did miss all the fuss. (Don’t tell my mom.) The overachiever and arts organizer in me wanted to phone in a last-minute call to shut down a full city block in celebration of Harper’s sixth birthday.

But, this year, I’ve lived vicariously through badass creative moms like Rebecca Teaff, founder and chief creative officer of Baltimore-based marketing firm Redstart Creative, and Raina Tyson Smallwood, co-founder of Cedar and Cotton in Southwest Baltimore—who have both gotten creative in making their little ones’ special days memorable despite the restrictions of the pandemic.

Teaff’s son, Liam, who is an only child aside from his furry brother, Edward, recently turned 8. Smallwood’s son, Noah, turned 10 this year and is one of three boys alongside his brother, Jonah, and their family’s newest addition, Maximus—who was born just days after Governor Hogan declared a State of Emergency in mid-March.

“We were a little nervous about how everything was going to be with the lockdown starting up,” Smallwood says about giving birth shortly after stay-home orders went into effect. “We got to St. Joseph’s Hospital and my partner, George, jokingly says, ‘They can take me to jail, I’m coming with you.’”

These powerhouse Balti-moms have found time to work from home while planning epic birthday parties, parades, and puppet shows. They’re tenacious, just like my mom in her early-’90s birthday party planning prime. Here are four valuable lessons I learned from speaking with them about making kids feel special on their solar return under these circumstances:

Go Big, But Stay Home

Invite your family or friends to a socially distanced fête, but add your own tried-and-true traditions for added nostalgia.

“The idea of family and friends gathering was always a big thing for me—I like to keep that up for Liam,” Teaff says. “My mom would always put the china out. We have a family tradition where you get to eat what you want on your birthday. Over the years, I picked things like steak or tacos, which I’m sure at a younger age was pizza.”

Smallwood remembers similar traditions on her special day—all of which can be recreated at a small celebration at home.

“I remember turning four and getting a rainbow-bright birthday cake and some friends coming over,” she remembers. “We did birthday gifts. We’d play pin the tail on the donkey. There weren’t a lot of decorations, but just cake, candles, and everyone singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ that sort of thing. I loved it. Each birthday reminds me that I’m gifted with another year, another lesson, and another chance. That’s the true gift.”

Party Favors or Bust

Use your favorite online sites to deck your home out with your favorite streamers and party favors. Decorate like it’s Christmas in July (or any other month leading up to the winter holidays). You may have to come up with something crafty to occupy the kids while you set up, but it’ll be worth it in the long run.

“This year, pre-coronavirus, my husband, Rob, goes, ‘Let’s have him do like a fun, bouncy house,’” Teaff shares. “We had it all booked and we were really excited. Then we realized a lot of disappointments were going to come in pretty quick succession. We thought, ‘How can we make this an amazing weekend for Liam?’ So I ordered a bunch of swag and we threw up decorations in every room. For Liam, it was like coming down on Christmas morning. I made a Facebook post about how different this b-day would be for him and asked that folks send cards. We got cards from current friends, my old college friends, family, Liam’s sports teams, and he had a lot of stuff to open during the day.”

Go With the Flow

If you’re not feeling a big party this year (I know I wasn’t) that’s more than okay. If you’re expecting or just brought a new child into the world, like Smallwood, err on the side of caution using video conferencing for visits and celebrations.

“I gave birth two and a half weeks before Noah’s birthday,” Smallwood shares. “And my follow-ups with the doctor after delivery have been virtual, which is interesting—most of the baby’s visits are him being held up to the phone. My mom has taken some time off of work to be isolated and has since been able to visit, as well as my partner’s mom, and my best friend, of course.”

Gather From a Safe Distance

Virtual ideas are your friend! Zoom calls and drive-by’s are fun ways to celebrate with loved ones without physically being in the same room.

“Initially we told Noah that everything was closed, so there wasn’t going to be a birthday party,” Smallwood shares. “We told him that maybe in the summertime he could celebrate his birthday with his brother. Noah did not like that! He was really upset. I felt a little bit bad, but it paid off in the end because we snuck around and got gifts and cupcakes. George and I told him that we had a meeting so we sent them all upstairs so that we could bring out the gifts and set up a Zoom. And then once we had everything set up, we called him down. He was so surprised it was totally worth it. We had everyone he knows on the Zoom call waiting for him!”

Teaff went the parade route for Liam: “A friend of ours organized the whole thing for Liam and all we had to do is get him outside,” she says. “But he wanted to play in the backyard and didn’t want to come out. After a few minutes we started to hear the horn-honking from the parade. Liam was saying, ‘What’s happening?!’ He legit had no idea. It was adorable. It was a bunch of school friends, family, his indoor soccer team, and the coach.”

What’s more? Teaff’s father-in-law, an amateur ventriloquist, put on a private puppet show for Liam via Zoom. “You just want your kid to be excited and happy even though it’s kind of crazy circumstances right now,” she says. “So if you can do that, I say mission accomplished.”

I represent the fourth generation of women in my family to live in the United States.

My ancestors were descendants of captive Africans. Post slavery, they voluntarily came to Ellis Island from the West Indies in the early 1900s. They planted themselves in various boroughs of New York City. My skin is filled with beautiful melanin because of them.

I accept and challenge the social implications of that and my womanhood on a daily basis. Like many mothers of the diaspora, we moved to another city (Baltimore) for something better. I learned to listen, take naps for respite, remain playful, fight, and feast on only what serves me from my mother and aunties. During times of unrest, I listen to them even more.

On May 25th, 2020, George Floyd—a man whose African diasporic experience is not unlike mine, yours, or your African-American friends’—left his home for the last time. He, too, was born in one place (North Carolina) and raised elsewhere (Houston) for what we can only assume was in search of a better life, until he took his last breath under the knee of police officer Derek Chauvin in his final home of Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Every person whose skin is melanin filled is also filled reasonably with grief, anger, and disgust. Any soul-bearing human, no matter their skin color, shares the same feelings surrounding the police-related deaths of Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Tony McDade, as well as Ahmaud Arbery, who was chased and fatally shot by white men while out on a jog through his Georgia neighborhood in February.

In response to recent local protests against these unjust deaths, I’ve captured the intergenerational stories of my own mother Leslie Davis—a Baltimore transplant, grandmother, and member at Greater Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church in East Baltimore—as well as Darlene Cain, a motivational speaker and anti-violence advocate whose son, Dale Graham, was killed by Baltimore City police in 2008. I also spoke with Ebony Evans, a millennial organizer and artist, and Kibibi Ajanku, mother, artist, activist, and Director of Equity and Inclusion for the Greater Baltimore Cultural Alliance.

No matter where we are from or where we end up in the United States—from one social, civil, or political upheaval to the next—black mothers, aunties, and daughters in Baltimore flicker across roles as protesters, healers, teachers, advocates, survivors, and more. The methods are different, but the intentions are all the same.

What are some of your life-changing memories of racial injustice or civil unrest?

Kibibi Ajanku: I was a little girl in 1968 when Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. I come from a time when children were sent to the other room when grown folks talked. I was limited to small snippets of conversation and a sort of secondary fear about what was happening outside. I had an aunt who was in Washington, D.C., on the ground as a protest marcher at that time.

Ebony Evans: I would walk to the corner store for candy and see police officers use excessive force on the black men who were hanging outside. It made me understand why black men ran from the police when they saw them. I remember learning about Emmett Till, the four little girls, Bloody Sunday, the Dr. King riots, and Rodney King riots sometime around the fourth grade. That day changed my life completely. I remember storming out of the classroom and being incredibly angry for the remainder of my day.

I learned to listen, take naps for respite, remain playful, fight, and feast on only what serves me from my mother and aunties. During times of unrest, I listen to them even more. —Alanah Nichole Davis

Darlene Cain: In 2008, my son Dale Graham was killed by Baltimore City police. The police responded to an alleged domestic dispute between Dale and his children’s mother and, in the end, Dale was shot and killed by a police officer. I’m a mother who misses her son.

Leslie Davis: In 1979, my brother, then age 17, arrived home in tears, shaking and angry after being pulled over by police. They questioned him tirelessly, implying that as a black boy in The Bronx he must’ve been selling drugs or had stolen his car because it was too nice. Thanks be to God it did not end in him being injured, arrested, or his death.

Some of my best male friends growing up had run-ins with police and even the prison system before they were 18. Many black women, myself included, share that coming-of-age story where you would write them letters sprayed with your perfume, pray for their safety, and wait for their return. Some never did.

What are some of the things that make up the character of your loved ones or communities affected by racial injustice?

KA: As a youth, my community was challenged with drugs. I was very much shielded from that. Fast-forwarding to my time as a young woman, I was very preoccupied with family. I was married and had four children in five years starting at the age of 20. I felt the need to create a bubble around my family and community to protect them the way my family did me. I became the guardian and was deeply immersed in art and African culture. I created Sankofa Dance Theater here in Baltimore in 1989. Every single African drummer and dancer, both young and old, has passed through a dance floor and drum experience that I personally worked to provide.

DC: When Dale was born everyone rallied around me. He had everything he needed between me and his godmothers. There’s not a day that goes by that I, my family, and my community don’t think about him. He was very family oriented. He was a person who would light up the room. He loved his daughters, Iyana and Janae, who he’s survived by. He was so funny—he would try to do their hair when they were little, and I would help him. He loved my cooking. Sometimes I would make him a toasted turkey, bacon, and cheese in the morning, and he’d come from his house to eat it.

Who knew that being exceptional could cause a black man so much trouble? —Leslie Davis

LD: We lived in a good community. As youngsters we played outside a lot, traveled to Canada and Jones Beach, and once we got older, there were the neighborhood park benches and DJs out back. I’m the oldest of four and my youngest brother who got pulled over was a good young man. His only close call with the justice system in New York was with Muggable Mary in the early ’70s. She was a decoy detective who was inevitably responsible for tons of felony arrests in New York. My brother’s friend actually tried to mug her while they were together. Luckily, my brother was only guilty by association. Years later, when my brother was pulled over, he was a master technician for Volkswagen handpicked straight out of high school to work at their facility in Connecticut. He made good money and that is how he was able to afford the car he drove. Who knew that being exceptional could cause a black man so much trouble?

Where are those people and the community now?

KA: I always believed that you have to address young people as whole people. Anyone who came to my dance classes went on to become excellent artists, engineers, doctors. People like Nneka Nnamdi, founder of Fight Blight Bmore, Ta-Nehisi Coates, author of The Water Dancer, and the list goes on.

EE: Some have become community activists, while some continue to live their lives never having addressed the deep trauma. Others have passed on and some are in prison. There will always be unrest between my people and the police. The racial history is far too brutal to ignore. Without its context, it completely disservices the people who have had to remain docile in these horrid situations.

DC: A chain was truly broken in our community when we lost Dale to police violence. His legacy lives on through my work. I do many things to speak out in the community and advocate. I’m his voice now. The work I do as a mother is a real job. [We laugh]. I do as much of that work as I can without re-traumatizing myself. I’m only human. He’s buried here in Baltimore, but after his daughters expressed how hard it is to visit, we don’t go much. I’m so proud of my granddaughters and how they’ve grown from this. Iyana just graduated with over a 4.0 from City College High School and is on her way to college.

The immense amount of defeat that falls on my body when I hear about our lives being taken is unfathomable. There has been a war on black bodies for over 400 years. —Ebony Evans

LD: I left New York in ’98 so my family could have a sense of safety, more than what we had growing up. I stay connected with the community I grew up with on Facebook groups or phone calls. Just last year, there was a story about a parent being killed in front of their son in front of the building I lived in. I’m so glad we moved. My brother is now in his late fifties and lives in New Jersey with his wife and son who’s nearly 18 now. Not much has changed in terms of what his son can expect during a run-in with police. I pray every day for my community.

An illustration of Ebony Evans by artist Micah Bazant.

Kibibi Ajanku, who created Baltimore’s Sankofa Dance Theater in 1989.

How do you feel about George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and Tony McDade losing their lives to the police violence?

KA: Tired, but the memory of these tragedies is required. We have to lean into the pain. It’s the only way it won’t happen again. You can take a break and turn the news off for a day, but you gotta lean into it. Make sure your families, your children, your neighbors, and extended family are aware. You have to make sure you’re not avoiding these issues or being numb to them. If you have any sensibility around these social ills, remember that for everyone one of you there are 50 people who are mindless.

EE: Incredibly hurt, angry, and tired. The immense amount of defeat that falls on my body when I hear about our lives being taken is unfathomable. There has been a war on black bodies for over 400 years. It was at one point normal for police to murder us with absolutely no accountability. Klansmen traded in their robes for police uniforms, and their horses and trucks for police cars and patty wagons. Yet, the work continues.

DC: Confused, hurt, and nervous. This really shouldn’t keep happening.

LD: I was born in 1957 and in 2020 I can’t believe it’s still happening. I’m very tired. My people are angry. Can you blame them for looting? All I can think is how dare they racially profile these men like they did my brother, your brother, father, uncle, cousin, son, our daughters, nieces, homegirls. Ain’t no good gonna come of that.

When we create platforms or safe spaces, we have to guard them like warriors. Our young people need stories that garner leadership. We have no choice. —Kibibi Ajanku

At times of unrest, what would you urge we do?

KA: I am a marcher, but I’m old now. I went to the youth-led protest, though I shouldn’t have been out because of COVID-19. I sent a family text because they should know where I’m at and what I’m doing. Many of them texted me back quickly to go home. My granddaughter, who is 21, texted back saying she was down at the protest. I wanted to be near the energy and even ended up linking with her. Everything in me wanted to stay—everything—but even on my way out, I was proud to see everyone there and in masks. When we create platforms or safe spaces, we have to guard them like warriors. Our young people need stories that garner leadership. We have no choice.

EE: Gather resources and materials to educate yourself if you are going to be on the streets protesting. You need to know what to do if you encounter police in the street, if you are Maced, or you encounter tear gas or rubber bullets. If you are at home and organizing, I urge people to unplug. At times, the infiltration of trauma through imagery, videos, and racist commentary that you consume can be draining. An attack on one of us is an attack on us all. Everyone’s role is vital and it’s so important to remember that you don’t have to get online every day. You do not have to exert your energy. It is okay to wake up, cook a meal for yourself, experience the beauty of nature, or catch up on your favorite show. Take a day, or two or five. Self-preservation is first.

DC: People have different roles in times of unrest, some people fear protests. But you have to respect that because there’s a lot of unknown things involved in being out there. It takes a team of creative people in the community to put their skills together. That’s how our voices are heard and can be powerful. Moms like myself don’t get paid for our work.

LD: Pray.

Every Baltimorean has felt the impact of the novel coronavirus, but COVID-19 comes with its own set of challenges for our left-brained creative community and its leaders. Cancellations and postponements continue to ripple through the arts scene and have even come for longstanding events like Artscape and AFRAM. Stay-at-home restrictions remain in place for Baltimore City, and there’s no real end in sight.

In the wake of this, many creative leaders pivoted to fundraise or produce virtual events using their personal or organizational platforms. But sadly, many of the early local funding opportunities have been exhausted.

On March 13, I launched Alanah’s COVID-19 Emergency Fund for Artists & Freelancers—which raised more than $5,000 and helped more than 100 artists—but my fund is now closed. The Maryland State Arts Council (MSAC) announced its Emergency Relief Fund on April 3, and received a whopping $2.6 million in requests from artists across the state. MSAC awarded $1 million in emergency grant funding across 125 applications (65 arts organizations at $869,318 and 60 independent artists at $130,682). Similarly, the Baltimore Office of Promotion and the Arts became the fiduciary agent for a coalition-led initiative called the Baltimore Artist Emergency Relief Fund on April 8. It has since exceeded its goal of raising $120,000, helping more than 300 Baltimore City creatives across various mediums and skill levels with $160,780. They have also closed their fund.

So what is the next step? Circling up with some of my peers who serve as Baltimore’s creative leaders seemed like a natural way to continue the conversation. In recent weeks, we have all served in various capacities on COVID-19-related juries and coalitions, as well as thought partners to local arts-related or adjacent institutions and funders.

The Roundtable Participants

This group of creative leaders—who all have community-driven, individualized styles and approaches to arts and entrepreneurship in our city—is a small sampling of a much larger community. We may not work in the same offices, but we all have common goals. COVID-19 hasn’t changed that.

Stephanie Hsu: The founder and co-collaborator of the Charm City Night Market, a festival that celebrates Asian-American culture and has drawn thousands of patrons, vendors, and artists of every medium since its inception in 2018.

Brion Gill: The Pennsylvania Avenue Black Arts & Entertainment District director has spent the last 14 years of her life performing, advocating, and organizing on several continents as an independent artist.

Sharayna Christmas: Founder of Muse 360 Arts and Rayn Fall Dance Studios, she currently wears several hats, also serving as program director for the Baltimore Creatives Acceleration Network (BCAN).

Andrew Simmonet: Founder and director of Artists U, a national incubator for artists in Baltimore and beyond changing the working conditions of artists.

Maggie Villegas: Co-founded the renowned EMP Collective and is a longtime arts and culture producer. She serves as executive director for BCAN.

These are some of the most forward-thinking creative leaders who are driving daily change in Baltimore. Here’s what they had to say about our local arts scene and what’s next:

How would you define “artist relief”?

Andrew Simmonet: Anyone who talks about relief should be talking about the next 18 months.

Brion Gill: When we talk about artist relief we are talking about pushing basic resources because artists are everyday people…relief is not finite.

Sharyana Christmas: Anyone approaching this work should look at the whole artist and their trajectory. We need holistic relief programs that meet artists where they are in their journey, both in and out of the crisis. Funders need to put themselves in the shoes of their audience. They should ask questions about what they might want to know if they were applying.

Stephanie Hsu: Arts relief providers should simply ask creatives what relief looks like…listen to them.

Maggie Villegas: People just want to be heard at this time. The need is far greater than the resources coming at artists.

What’s the greatest need amongst your community?
MV: Creatives just want to know that they are not alone in this struggle. Being heard in isolation can be extremely validating and healing.

I know that, to fill some of this need, the MSAC held listening sessions for every art medium. And following in their footsteps, Maggie and Sharyana held more intimate listening sessions with BCAN for creatives asking candid questions like, “How can we support your work?” But many relief fund efforts are being swarmed with applications and adequate response is near impossible.

MV: You start to feel hopeless when you don’t hear from anybody.

Having applied to over a dozen relief funds myself and talked to nearly 200 independent artists as part of my relief fund effort, I affirm the sentiment of hopelessness in the creative community. You just want to be able to reach out and touch someone.

SH: No one in my immediate network had received funds at the national or federal level.

AS: Five hundred thousand in relief funds is just prolonging the sinking of the ship. Artists are going to survive the novel coronavirus the way they always have—by planning, strategizing, and shifting.

It seems like funds are fine, but togetherness may be the highest need. Who’s getting it right? Which organizations near and far are providing Baltimore artists with their greatest needs during the COVID-19 crisis in Baltimore?

(Artists all fan out over each other’s work, pointing to each other saying, “You’re doing it, NO you are.”)

BG: I really admire the response from the MSAC and encourage creatives in crisis to apply for their Creativity Grant, which is open on a rolling basis.

SH: Myself and the Night Market team have been thinking about the spike in misdirected hate and violence towards Asian Americans amidst COVID-19, and admire the work of groups like Baltimore Asian Resistance in Solidarity (BARS). Their work is an entry point for Asian Americans into a larger conversation about these systemic injustices, and I’m here for it.

AS: In tandem with my Artists U work, I’m working on a graduation speech for an arts high school. They are so moving and powerful and real. They have the skills and tenacity and resilience to move through this crisis. We forget to approach the work with playfulness—we get old and grizzled and quite frankly need a nap.

I’ve seen that grizzled outlook and call those who adopt it “crusty collaborators.” You get to a point in your arts career when you’re just like, “There’s no Money, there’s no help coming.” It’s very important to keep a healthy level and hope and agility when in a creative field, especially amid a global pandemic.

What in-person events were coming up? Should every individual artist and organization be producing virtual events?
MV: We were planning “We Own This” at BCAN, an event where we celebrate the unique spirit of Baltimore’s female founders. We started cancelling events and we didn’t necessarily want to do everything online because so much of our curriculum is about starting a business. It just didn’t feel right.

BG: Paying folks to be artists has been at the forefront of our minds at The Pennsylvania Avenue Black Arts & Entertainment District. We were planning our first large event series since the district’s inception, which was set to run from March to October. We’ve redirected most of our energy to providing programming through virtual competitions and fees for service to do what artists do best. If it is an effort to provide artists their essential needs then by all means, pay and activate especially the black arts community.

SC: Rayn Fall dance studio was gearing up for it’s Summer Dance Intensive. In the black arts community we don’t always have new things to pull something together. I’m used to making things work, I grew up that way. I’ve always been able to do so much with so little. We have to remember those lessons of the resources living inside of us. It’s important not to expect individual artists to operate like large organizations. I encourage artists to create bartering or support systems to create virtual events, it can happen.

I agree that the issues of not having money or resources in the arts community, especially in communities of color, is not new. Not everyone has cancelled contracts. Some folks just weren’t there in their journey. We have to honor that and adjust our expectations of production of virtual events with that.

SH: A lot of community arts and large scale arts institutions usually produce opportunities together—that should continue. In the past the Night Market has worked with places like Central Baltimore Partnership or Motor House on what would’ve been Night Market Underground on April 4. The Charm City Night Market team talked about the production of virtual events a lot and the question we kept coming back to was: “How do we create a mutual exchange?” When producing virtual events, designers should keep that in mind.

What fun virtual events are coming up for your organization or others?
BG: The Pennsylvania Avenue Black Arts & Entertainment District is curating a four-hour long Mini-May Concert Series on Instagram Live. Part one will be held on May 23 featuring headliners Deetranada & Davon Fleming. Part two is on May 30 with George Lovett and Tate Kobang. I’m most excited to be activating and paying local artists like DDm, Lita Lachey, Mike Evenn, Black Assets, and Akilah Divine.

SH: The Night Market Crew thought long and hard about the creation of our new platform “Night Market Online.” We held the first installment with a virtual cooking class on May 16 in partnership with City Seeds and La Cuchara, who offered the ingredients in a neat and tidy package for $15. We’re planning another for June 13 in partnership with Ekiben.

Impromptu live broadcasts have become my favorite source of connecting with artists I know and love, like photographer Devin Allen, who you can catch live talking about everything from anime to wine on Instagram some evenings. He also has a virtual exhibition with City Hall entitled The Beautiful Journey: The Lens of Devin Allen.

I’m also a fan of scheduled curbside and virtual events happening at Hotel Revival Baltimore produced by culture enthusiast Jason Bass. He’s been working alongside artists like Big Fred The Comedian, DJ Sean J, DJ Sun, and even healing artists like Justin Timothy Temple to produce broadcasts on Facebook and Instagram.

The roundtable participants all came up with a list of virtual events to mark on your calendar, as well as a list of resources every artist should have in their web browser favorites:

Events:

Pre-recorded | BCAN | No Permission Needed
5/26-5/29, varied times | Maryland Arts Summit
Ongoing | Revival Virtual Content
Every Saturday | Flow at The Farm w/ Aliya Muhammad
5/30 at 8 p.m. | Official Black Arts District: Mini-May Concert Series
6/3 at 6:30 p.m. | Virtual Sip N Paint Series with Jasmin Manning
6/13 | Charm City Night Market: Night Market Online
6/25 at 7 p.m. | Enoch Pratt Library: Artists Cribs! An Evening with Abdu Ali and Savannah Wood

Check out our roundup, ‘Culturefly’ from the Greater Baltimore Cultural Alliance, and Maryland State Arts Council for a robust list of virtual arts events.

Resources:

All roundtable participants encourage every artist to try filling out an unemployment application, as even artists and gig workers are now eligible. They also suggest every artist should look into The Baltimore Office of Promotion & The Arts (BOPA), which is accepting applications for its Creative Baltimore Fund until June 1.

The following lists are managed by individuals and arts organizations near and far. You’ll find funding, self-care, and even legal advice:

MdVLA COVID-19 Resource Guide
Artists U | SHIFT
Boston Ujima Project | Necessary Systems Daily
Impact Hub Baltimore Live Resource Listing
Freelance Artist Resource Producing Collective
Robert W. Deutsch Foundation | Grit Fund COVID-19 Resource List
Baltimore Artist Relief Fund Resource List

The relief efforts, programming, and resources surfacing now are a continuation of existing work to invigorate Baltimore arts with the assets it deserves. We love to see it.