Done waiting: The declaration of the Ulmpa Project

The Curiosity That Started It All

Growing up, I have always been fascinated with abandoned buildings. To me, it was like a story I never got to read. Seeing rubble, broken homes, and concrete buildings with no windows, I would look inside, and all I saw was darkness. People said those places were scary, but I wanted to walk inside. What happened? I would imagine why, how, and where they are now. I always wanted to know what it used to be, what it was like. This curiosity formed into my love of the past. The only downside is that if I go back further, as a Black woman, it’s not so fun.

  I remember looking up an abandoned building I had seen while driving with my mom. I learned that it was an old theatre, the United Artists Theatre. I thought it was beautiful, seeing the before and after, and wondering about the people who once went there. When I see abandoned buildings, that’s when I wish I were born in the past, just to see them. The funny thing is, if I were, I wouldn’t have been able to get inside. Seeing empty lots with no building, abandoned churches with overgrown trees, that same abandoned school, I’ve driven past my whole life, Cooley High School or a burned-down home, others say it’s scary or ugly in a neighborhood, but I see a family who lost their home, a story that hasn’t finished, a life once lived, a place I want to see.

Seeing the Bigger Picture

As I got older, I realized those buildings were symbols of something bigger. The rubble wasn't just concrete; it was evidence of a broken promise. Those abandoned buildings are physical monuments to poverty, neglect, and lack of resources. Questions started to flood my mind—why haven’t these things changed? Why is this still here? How come no one cares? How come no one invests in this? One thing that really bothered me as I got older is that these questions always involved someone else: “they” and “who” instead of “let’s” and “do.” It took me leaving my community to realize the box I was in, the underfunded school systems, the leftovers we got. Coming home from college and seeing the same issues and problems we’ve always had, I kept asking myself, “What’s the difference?” I thought about the environment and the people I had just left. Something was different—not just the trash on the ground or the abandoned buildings. My college city wasn’t the most beautiful, but it was treated differently.

That same summer after my freshman year, I worked for Working America AFL-CIO. I saw many neighborhoods, talked with people, and noticed a pattern. The neighborhoods with the most money and funding would always say, “I worked hard to get here, and everyone else needs to work hard too. I didn’t get a handout. You need to work harder.” I noticed these neighborhoods were mostly white, Asian, Indian, or Arabic, with only one or two Black families. Then we went to Farmington. As I was walking in that neighborhood, I thought to myself: some of these houses look like the houses in my neighborhood, even on my block. I asked myself again, “Then what’s the difference?”

We then went to a predominantly white neighborhood. The roads were clear, the grass was cut, and everything looked better. It wasn’t fancy, but it was cared for. I talked to people there—they were nice, walking their dogs, raising their kids. As I looked around, I thought again, “What’s the difference?” When we were picked up in the van, which my job used for canvassing, I spoke to them about how nice the neighborhood was. They mentioned this was “the suburbs.” I tilted my head in confusion. After a longer-than-needed argument, I realized when people say “suburbs,” they think “white.” I had always thought “suburbs” meant big houses. That’s when I understood the difference. It wasn’t the houses, the greener grass, or the paved streets. It was the people living in those communities.

The Real Difference

This opened my mind. It wasn’t the fact that the homes were nice or the community looked better—it was their mindset, their opportunities, their ability to be creative, to learn, to walk outside and trust their neighbors. It wasn’t because the community had more; it was because their hearts and minds had been invested in it. The reason why in my neighborhood you’re more likely to get robbed walking down the street compared to a wealthy neighborhood isn’t just a lack of money. It isn’t just a lack of material. It’s the lack of investment in people’s hearts and minds. We lack something that most communities have: someone who cares.

Breaking the Cycle

We complain. We complain about prices, rent, life, roads, money—we complain about everything. We blame the system, the government, and the people around us. Everyone but ourselves. We want pity. We want handouts. We work so hard on things that aren’t our purpose. We are so busy with things that weren’t meant for us to do. And I get it—we experienced 400 years of oppression: slavery, segregation, Jim Crow, mass incarceration. People argue that it’s over now. At one time, I would not have agreed. But after thinking deeply, I realized something. Nothing is holding us back now. So why do we still feel trapped?

On November 5, 2024, I wrote a freewrite for class. Here’s what I wrote:

“Today, I took time out of my class schedule to go vote for the first time, an experience I had mixed feelings about. On one hand, I knew my vote counted, but on the other, I felt discouraged, wondering if it could really make a difference. Growing up on the west side of Detroit, I’ve seen firsthand how promises of change often fall short. For 18 years, I watched the same drug issues, homelessness, and neglected streets year after year, with cracked windows and broken roads as symbols of unfulfilled promises. Each election cycle, officials vow to repair and uplift communities like mine, yet when I go back, I still see the same despair, the same people who had dreams that never materialized. It made me question whether my one vote could actually make a dent in the system.

This feeling of hopelessness about elections comes from a deeper frustration: it’s not just about fixing broken buildings or streets but addressing the foundations of my community. I’ve seen my neighborhood’s struggles come from more than just physical decay; it’s also a sense of forgotten people and dreams that settled in the face of broken promises. I feel like no candidate genuinely understands or advocates for communities like mine, so this election felt almost like a choice between two poisons: one that stings and one that kills. Lasting change, I believe, can only happen if people’s hearts and intentions change first. Until then, voting feels like a hollow gesture, a voice drowned out by a system that isn’t truly for me.”

And I am not advocating for a rebellion against the government or neglecting our civic duty. My issue was looking for a political leader to change something that only I and the people in my community can truly do. When I looked back on this essay, I realized I was expecting something. I finally heard that voice — the “victim.” I finally heard them all, the arguments on both sides.

I remember seeing an argument between two Black men. One was saying America is great, and the younger guy said, Why are you saying this as a Black man? They aren’t for us — “they” meaning the government systems — and went on to mention where he was and what he’d been through, basically blaming the system for it, which is true. But then he said white privilege is a thing, and the older guy argued that the system isn’t there, the system isn’t against us. He went on to mention that he was a college student with multicultural students around him, which is something you couldn’t do back then, going on to ask him, What can a white person do that you can’t do? Proving how there is no system against him and making it no privilege that they get to have.

But it took me to sit back and realize that both sides were right, and both were blind to each other’s truth. Then I realized: we haven’t healed. A generational curse sits on my people because we’re still living like we’re just trying to get by. Families were broken apart during slavery, during segregation, and through systemic oppression. But today, those systems aren’t chaining us anymore. The cage has no lock. Yet families are still broken. We still live like we’re trapped.

Hence why the younger guy, when bringing up where he came from, still felt as if the system is still against us — because he’s dealt with the effects of what the system did, not what they are still doing. He’s blinded to the fact that he has more privilege than his ancestors. People argue, “No system is breaking you down anymore,” but what they fail to realize is that we haven’t healed. The man brought up all the privileges we have now, even glossing over the first 400 years of oppression, saying, “all countries start bad.” He’s right, they do, but he was insensitive in the argument, as if we aren’t still affected by something that only ended 60 years ago, failing to sympathize that we experienced all that trauma but never paused to regroup.

The young man made a comment saying, Why doesn’t the government help? We built this country. The elder man, in response, said, “Why don’t you go back and help your community?” It was clear he didn’t want to do that — he wanted a handout, an apology, reparations. So many of the Black community do, but that’s not going to happen.

The Cage Has No Lock

I’m sorry, my brothers and sisters, for what happened to us. I know it set us behind. I know it feels like it’s still happening. But the truth is — it’s not. We are like the Israelites when God led them from 400 years of slavery, wandering in the wilderness, still in the slave mindset, yet free. YOU ARE NOT SLAVES ANYMORE. I am done waiting for people who have shown for years that they only care for their own. I am done waiting for someone to care about the roads. I am done seeing the same abandoned buildings and hearing the same complaints. I am breaking the cage completely. Why keep a cage if it has no lock? I am done waiting.

I once watched a video of a white man complaining about Black people complaining about white communities. He asked, “Why don’t y’all build your own? No one is stopping you.” People in the comments replied, saying, “We did—Black Wall Street,” referencing Tulsa. The 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre in the Greenwood District, known as Black Wall Street, stands as one of the darkest chapters in American history. Greenwood was a thriving Black community filled with businesses and wealth. After a false accusation, white mobs burned over 1,000 homes and businesses, killed hundreds, and left thousands homeless. For decades, this tragedy was erased from textbooks and memory, showing how history can be silenced or reshaped. Tulsa reveals how progress was deliberately attacked, making it part of the larger story of 400 years of oppression and resilience.

Now, the man making the video was ignorant of the Black experience, but his question stuck with me: “Why don’t you build your own?” The comments proved my point—that we complain, that we are stuck, that we are generationally unhealed. But his question raised a bigger point: what’s stopping us now?

We learn in school about Black history and key figures—Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, and Rosa Parks. We learn that at different times in history, Black communities fought for freedom and equality. During slavery, the fight was for liberation. After emancipation, it was about ending lynching and gaining education. In the mid-1900s, it was about civil rights, desegregation, and the right to vote. Later, it was about representation, culture, and breaking barriers. But notice something: we are no longer enslaved, we can vote, we can go anywhere, we can get an education. Again—what’s stopping us now?

In school, history stops at those figures. But what have we done since? We can fight for education, but many of us don’t even go. What’s the difference? It’s a community mindset and investment. Go outside in Detroit, and drive through neighborhoods close to it. Look at the gas stations, the beauty supply stores, the doctors—who owns them? Compare that to the communities I canvassed in. The wealthy laugh at us because while we argue and complain, they invest, build, and grow.

The Beginning of Restoration

I’m done waiting. Done waiting on the government, done waiting for pity, done waiting for apologies. I refuse to keep seeing the same abandoned buildings, the same trash, the same broken systems. I refuse to stay in a cage with no lock. It’s time to break it completely. It’s time to restore not just the buildings, but the communities and the people in them. The difference has never been the buildings—it has always been the people. The real question is not “why can’t we?” but “why haven’t we started?” 

That’s where The Ulmpa Project comes in. Built by faith, we are seeing a future filled with people thriving together, caring for their blocks, building education systems that help children grow, and offering schools with funding and programs shaped by the Ulmpa mindset. Faith is believing in what’s not seen yet, but we see it anyway. We already see homes being built for families, brokenness in Black families being restored, and the chains of debt and poverty breaking through wealth stewardship.

We are investing in people—their ideas, their businesses, their gifts. God has placed something powerful inside every person: whether they’re a lawyer, doctor, musician, artist, pastor, or leader, the answer to brokenness is already within them. Sometimes it’s buried under pain, poverty, or fear, but we help bring it back to life. The cure and the answer to brokenness could be sitting in the stomach of the man sleeping under the bridge. He just doesn’t know it yet. But we help bring that purpose back to life.

Fueled by truth, we know and understand why things are this way. We know where it started. We see how it’s been passed down—the neglect, the lack of resources, the systems built to break instead of build. We don’t just blame what’s happening now. We study it. We expose it. We tell the truth about it. Because like Ida B. Wells said, “The way to right wrongs is to turn the light of truth upon them.” And that’s what we do. We bring light into the dark corners—into the schools, the homes, the streets, and the minds that were told to stop dreaming.

Now, take the story of a single mother and her son.  The doctor who was destined to help save a family after a car crash has now been working at CVS for 15 years, struggling with addiction to sex, partying, and alcohol. She had a dream once, but lost hope when life hit hard. She got pregnant at 18, started drifting, the father fell into the same cycle of not being present, and ended up on the streets. They eventually found a house, but it was still hard to put food on the table. The mom was always working, trying to do everything by herself. The son went to school every day, but that school was filled with kids who all had the same story—no hope, no male representation, no teachers who looked like them, just struggle and survival.

He was an artist. He loved to draw. But he barely paid attention in class because the lessons weren’t engaging or built for the way he learned. He’s a visual learner. While others could listen or read and get it, he needed to see it, touch it, create it. So instead of focusing on what didn’t connect to him, he drew. But every time he drew, he got in trouble for “not paying attention.” He started worrying about things no child should have to. Thinking about his mom, thinking about how he could help her make money, how he could get food on the table.

He drives from home to school, seeing the same abandoned homes, the same people on the street, the same corners, the same hopelessness. Every day it looks the same. He sees people sitting outside, heads down, tired, just surviving. The houses are broken, windows boarded up, grass tall. The buildings are falling apart, just like the dreams of the people who live inside them. He stops drawing. He wants to help his mom, so he gets a job at McDonald’s. But it’s not enough. His friend puts him on to selling drugs. He starts making fast money, getting the clothes and shoes he always wanted, but no matter how much he gets, it’s never enough. He keeps chasing it. He sells more, then starts robbing with his friends. No one ever taught him wealth stewardship. No one told him selling drugs was wrong, because survival was all he ever knew. He ends up caught, locked up. His mom wasn’t a bad mother; she just had to survive. She worked long hours trying to feed him and keep the lights on. She did everything she could.

This cycle happens for so many of my brothers and sisters. Although this story is made up, it shows real life. It shows exactly why Ulmpa exists. Because what we see, what we’re exposed to, changes everything. Now imagine that same drive to school—but everything is different. The same neighborhood is rebuilt. The same homes he once saw abandoned are now restored. The streets are clean. The corner store is open again. The same man who used to sit on the sidewalk now owns that store—his dream candy shop. The mom went back to school. The son goes to Ulmpa School, where he’s taught in the way he learns.

He’s part of an art program that teaches him that what he draws is valuable, that his creativity is a gift. Instead of selling drugs, he sells his art. He works at McDonald’s again, but this time not because he has to help his mom, but because he wants extra money. His mom and he both learn wealth stewardship through Ulmpa. So when her car breaks down, she doesn’t panic. She’s been saving and can buy a new one. Before Ulmpa, that would’ve taken her back—but not anymore. And her son’s best friend, the one who used to break into cars, he’s now in an Ulmpa program too. Turns out, he’s a natural car engineer. He loves fixing cars, but he never had a chance to do it the right way. Through Ulmpa, he joined a hands-on program that trains him and helps him open his own small business. Now the mom brings her old car to Jack. He fixes it, takes care of it, and sells it for profit. That’s what he always wanted—to take broken cars, fix them, and bring them back to life. Ulmpa helped him fund that dream.

That’s the world we see. That’s what we do. We are using truth to disrupt the cycle of brokenness.

Designed to disrupt, The Ulmpa Project is an empire built to bring hope where there was none. We exist to restore broken communities, revive forgotten dreams, and reclaim power that was stolen through silence, lies, and generational neglect. This is our counterattack against hopelessness, corruption, and spiritual darkness. We don’t wait for someone else to fix the system. We are the system now. And we are declaring war. Rebuilding neighborhoods, restoring abandoned buildings, funding repairs for homes and streets, installing lights, and empowering neighbors to care for their blocks. Launching Ulmpa High and Ulmpa K–8, schools rooted in faith, wisdom, identity, and boldness.

Because we learn about different learning styles, but most schools don’t teach you in the way you learn best. That’s why the son in this story struggled—he got bad grades, not because he wasn’t smart, but because the classroom didn’t fit him. Ulmpa changes that. We invest in music artists, media creators, and entrepreneurs. We manage, mentor, and multiply their visions. We own land and use wealth for the Kingdom of God. We teach people how to steward money, build legacy, and break financial chains.

Built by faith. Fueled by truth. Designed to disrupt. This is the fight we’re in. This is the world Ulmpa is building. Join Ulmpa.