Help Renee & Karen Save Their Home

Renee and Karen are the kind of neighbors everyone wishes they had—always ready to help others with a meal, childcare, or whatever is needed. In their Washington, DC home, they’re raising daughters Amaris and Samiyah with those same values of generosity and community care. As Renee says in her poignant words below (“A Home to Hold Onto,” which I beg you to read), “This home is more than walls and a roof. It’s the culmination of generations of sacrifice, love, and legacy.”

But now they’re facing the heartbreaking possibility of losing it.

Through a perfect storm of circumstances—none of which is their fault and all of which result from the grossly racist and predatory policies of the Trump administration—they have fallen behind on their mortgage. Karen has been forced back into job searching at age 70, and Renee is already working to rebuild her private counseling practice. Despite their best efforts, conversations have turned to possibly surrendering their home. The stress they are experiencing is overwhelming.

Now they are bravely sharing their vulnerability and turning to their community to help them catch up and get a little breathing room so they can focus on rebuilding their financial stability.

Let’s do everything we can to keep these beautiful, amazing Black women in the home they’ve worked so hard for and where they’re raising two beautiful, amazing Black girls. Every contribution helps them continue to realize their dreams and the dreams of their ancestors.

A Home Worth Holding Onto

Karen and I have spent many quiet hours reflecting on the financial need surrounding our home. The figure—$20,000—feels daunting, and truthfully, we’re unsure if it’s even attainable. But what we do know is this: that amount would carry us through this season of struggle. It would allow us to pay ahead, to breathe, and to continue working diligently toward employment that will help us thrive again—not just survive.

This home is more than walls and a roof. It’s the culmination of generations of sacrifice, love, and legacy.

Karen grew up with her grandmother in their family home, a place she lived in well into her 30s. That home was sold to help us step into the next chapter, and eventually, into this one. If there’s one regret we carry, it’s that we couldn’t hold onto the home on Kearny Street to pass down to our daughters. That home had a story—a soul. Karen’s grandfather, Thomas Barker, a dignified man who served in the White House, was chosen by a Jewish woman to buy that home because she "saw him". It became the setting of his wake, and Karen, just a toddler then, ran through the house whispering, “Shh, pop pop is sleeping.” That memory still echoes.

As for me, my grandfather, Ernest Jackson Sr., secured our family home in the historic estates of Pontchartrain Park in New Orleans—a neighborhood built for Black families stepping into the middle class. Before that, my family lived in the projects, a chapter that ended with my mother’s generation. I have no memory of that life, and that in itself is a testament to the progress they made. Pontchartrain Park was a place of pride and promise. On Prentiss Avenue, I was surrounded by doctors, lawyers, teachers, steel workers—all people who looked like me. That home was our refuge. My brother and I, with our mother, returned to it time and again to escape the violence of her partners. Hurricane Katrina took that house, but it couldn’t wash away the memories: the smell of my grandmother’s cooking, the laughter, the community. That home shaped me.

At its core, a home is built on three sacred ingredients: safety, identity, and connection.

Our current home offers all three. It’s nestled in the Gold Coast, a diverse and vibrant community where our children are surrounded by educators, local politicians, social workers, doctors, and neighbors who reflect the values we hold dear. It’s a place where Black families like ours can live with dignity, in a neighborhood our grandparents envisioned for us—and worked tirelessly to make possible.

This home is where our memories live. It’s where our children learn about life and the world. It’s where we gather, laugh, and grow. It’s our stable foundation, our place of belonging. And that belonging allows us to serve each other better, to be better neighbors, and to keep those essential ingredients—safety, identity, connection—alive and vibrant.

We’re holding onto hope. And we’re holding onto this home.