The More St. Louis Changes, the More It Remains the Same The people and predilections of Black migration from St. Louis.

I.

The year 2000 forever changed St. Louis.

On January 30, 2000, St. Louisans basked in the success of the then-St. Louis Rams’ (now known as Los Angeles Rams) only Super Bowl victory. One day short of a month later, the city’s cultural identity rose to new heights when rap legend Nelly stormed the hip-hop scene with his first single, “Country Grammar,” from his diamond-certified debut album of the same name. The song was an instant hit, catapulting St. Louis into the national limelight.

It was not just the song that resonated with millions; the “Country Grammar” music video was equally iconic. I remember watching the three-and-a-half-minute flick for the first time, dazzled by the videography that captured glimpses of the city I was warmly familiar with. Like many St. Louisans, I could not have been prouder of my hometown than at that moment. An anthem was born before our eyes—a long overdue proclamation that is still respected as a musical blueprint of the Black Midwest.

From the “Country Grammar” intro clip of Nelly knocking on the other side of his audience’s screen while donning a St. Louis Cardinals cap in front of the Gateway Arch to an electrified crowd of onlookers and supporters parading in front of the camera at the end, the short film oozed everything unique about, and loved by, many Black St. Louisans: front porch culture, barbecue, car shows, nail shops, hometown sports team jerseys, beauty supply stores, and a regionally distinctive accent.

Additionally, the block party highlighted in the video was filmed in North St. Louis near the intersection of Labadie Avenue and Marcus Avenue, not far from one of the city’s historically beloved neighborhoods, The Ville. Nearly seven decades before residents gathered on the nearby street for a video shoot to celebrate what would cement St. Louis culture into hip-hop discourse, a record number of Blacks had started settling in what was then densely occupied by German and Irish immigrants. They had high hopes of creating a better quality of life for themselves and their families. By the mid-twentieth century, The Ville’s African-American population had swelled to an all-time high, solidifying the area as a Black middle-class mecca ripe with influence.

The opening music video screenshot of Nelly’s 2000 hit-single, “Country Grammar.”

The bustling area represented St. Louis at its peak. It was the city that I had read and heard about so often; America’s centerpiece, coveted in its prime for its rapid industrialization and a growth spurt that boasted over 800,000 residents after World War Two.

But, the upside of national approval during the 1950s brought several problems that were inadequately addressed. Roadblocks–overcrowding, poor housing conditions, pollution, stagnant leadership, and rapid transit proposals that never materialized–chipped away at the city’s development. The mounting issues became the impetus for another dilemma: White flight.

As with many American cities in the mid-nineteenth century, the majority of Whites despised racially diverse areas in St. Louis. Consequently, opportunity dwindled. St. Louis City began losing hundreds each week as more people began embracing the suburbanization of St. Louis County, so several keepsake businesses, like Brown Shoe and Company and Woolworth’s, all closed shop.

Over time, more financial blows struck. St. Louis County proved not to be immune to commercial shrinkage. The economic decay caused by White flight that plagued St. Louis City eventually spilled over into parts of the suburbs by the late 1990s after more Blacks began moving there alongside their White counterparts. McDonnell Douglas, Grandpa’s, and a trail of malls became local relics. The fond memories I have of growing up in St. Louis County in the 1980s and early 1990s–learning to roller skate at Skate King, Saints Roller Rink, and the Palace with friends and parading around Northland Shopping Center’s bowling alley with a carload of cousins chaperoned by my grandfather–are distant reminders of an area on its last legs.

“Wherever you went, there were always things to do and a strong sense of community,” said Sparkle Simmons, Director of Programs and Outreach at The Peaceful Project, a youth empowerment nonprofit. Simmons grew up in north St. Louis city with her family during the late 1980s and 1990 and after living in Fort Myers, Florida for over fifteen years, she returned to her hometown. “This was a vibrant, nurturing place because we all were so good at finding and making community. That is how we survived.”

As warmth and opportunity dissolved in more neighborhoods due to the aftermath of White flight throughout the 1990s, so did the hope that shaped Black residents’ ideas on their futures in St. Louis. There was no language to describe the shared sentiments of the sacred joy that had been gradually choked out of the region. Outside of St. Louis, no one knew what life had been like for occupants, particularly Black locals. I resented seeing the same, tired stereotype of the Midwest on television–if we were mentioned at all–that generally reduced us to a flyover region full of White people, bad perms, buffet bars, flat land, and corn fields. Like many others, I emphatically knew we were more than a Roseanne episode.

Enter the LP Country Grammar.

At the turn of the century, hip-hop icon Nelly’s album stormed the radio waves and simultaneously restored optimism among Black St. Louisans while garnering national approval of a hidden subculture. At a time when hip-hop was largely and intensely regional–riddled with East Coast vs West Coast rap beefs–his music defied stereotypes and praised aspects of Black life in the Midwest that had been overlooked. More than that, it unapologetically did what went left unsaid: It laughed in the face of White scrutiny and oppression.

The experience was overwhelmingly beneficial for both Black St. Louisans and the nation. Nelly followed the success of his first album with more bangers–Nellyville (2002), Sweat (2004), and Suit (2004)–and released critically acclaimed music with his St. Louis-based group, St. Lunatics, that kept us all on our toes throughout the early 2000s. We rode the popularity waves with him, basking in the positive attention that St. Louis received.

“St. Louis has always been an under-appreciated phenomenon in so many ways, and, for me, Nelly’s music helped capture what some of us knew but took for granted,” said Tyona Fields, a former Kinloch resident and ex-staff member of Ferguson-Florissant school district. “It felt good to hear someone say something good about where I’m from instead of just harping on what could be better. It’s like somebody seeing past all your flaws and recognizing your potential.”

In an interview with Complex online magazine ahead of the twentieth anniversary of the LP Country Grammar, Nelly spoke on his strong representation of St. Louis:

“My goal definitely was to let whomever would listen know that where I’m from, we’re just as talented and just as capable of being in this thing called music and artistic expression as anybody else. And not to say that I was first, because obviously we had such legends as Angela Winbush, Chuck Berry, and Ike and Tina. But as far as hip-hop goes, we were able to come out when we came out and expand those boundaries of hip-hop as far as bringing in more listeners. We had kids whose parents might not have ever let them buy hip-hop records in their life, who were able to buy a Nelly record. That broke the ice and led them into a new direction. That was beautiful, man.”

But a good thing does not always last. As a legend’s musical reign on the billboard charts began to wane in the 2010s, the allure of St. Louis also faded. One could say the downtick hit locals harder because the musical high did not provide enough tangible change among residents. The hopefulness in the air was not sustainable, especially in the Black community.

The fall calls into question the depth of optimism in Black St. Louis behind the warm, fuzzy feeling “Country Grammar” emitted. Was our nostalgia real, or was it an illusion? Where did the affection for St. Louis come from in the first place, when Blacks have historically endured so many negative experiences here?

When “Country Grammar” appeared, many believed the trajectory of early twenty-first century St. Louis had still not fully recovered from the economic downward spiral that swept through the City and a significant portion of the County. So, instead of removing the sting, the height of “Country Grammar” arguably made the hardships experienced by Blacks worse because it provided temporary relief to what seemed like a permanent problem; a letdown that tampered with the psyches of Black St. Louisans and led to greater feelings of despair than before.

True, the musical shift throughout the 2000s and early 2010s caused people everywhere outside of St. Louis to see and possibly reimagine a city that seemed to be on the verge of reinvention. But things did not get better; they actually got a lot worse.

According to the Economic Research of the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis, the unemployment rate among Blacks rose from 8.2 percent in January 2000 to 16.5 percent in January 2010. Statistically, things proved to have worsened and would inevitably lead to a climactic tipping point in American history that altered the course and scope of Black life here.

II.

In the mid-1990s, I attended the oldest  Black church in Kinloch, Missouri, with my mother who was hired as the minister of music. Before then, my eight-year-old self had never heard of the historic suburb–Missouri’s oldest incorporated Black town–wedged between Ferguson, Missouri and the St. Louis Lambert International Airport.

I hated our new church at first. It felt terrifyingly unfamiliar. I did not know any other children in the congregation, so I got into the habit of zig-zagging my way across the vestibule and through the sanctuary’s side door, to sit next to the pastor’s wife in the second pew every Sunday morning.

As time passed, I noticed the new church was not so bad. The congregants seemed genuine with their smiles, hugs, and colorful personalities. The basement was a haven for fun and fellowship as hearty Southern-style meals followed several Sunday afternoon services. Eventually, I became close friends with the other kids–many who I still keep in touch with today.

I regularly visited their homes near church grounds and learned more about Kinloch.

Sunday morning music service at First Missionary Baptist Church of Kinloch, during the early 2000s.

The town–one of several townships settled or developed by Blacks in the St. Louis region–was established in the 1890s as a commuter suburb by affluent Whites who reserved a small section of land for purchase by African-American servants. By the 1920s, Kinloch housed numerous Blacks, including southern migrants frustrated with St. Louis’s racially restrictive covenants, displaced victims of the 1917 East St. Louis riots, and World War I veterans.

Everyone in Kinloch was family–by blood or association. I remember it being a deeply close-knit town where people, young and old, often greeted and referred to each other by their last names with ancestral pride. Neighbors’ affections and feuds spanned generations. Many residents, I learned, had lived in the same houses, worked the same jobs, and frequented the same mom-and-pop confectionaries, beauty salons, parks, and churches for decades. The place just radiated with love and support, qualities that I find are common in Black spaces here.

Admittedly, as a newcomer, I was charmed but confused, feeling like I had walked in on the end of a really good movie. I wondered how longtime residents could have formed these sacred connections and cherished an area like this one?

The St. Louis Lambert Airport’s buyout of property in Kinloch to abate noise and expand that had started in the 1980s was drastically taking its toll. The majority of Black-owned businesses, farms, and favorite pastimes residents reminisced about were gone, replaced by dilapidated shacks and buildings on weedy patches of land along badly potholed streets. Every few months, more establishments shuttered, more homes were abandoned, and more streets became void of the lively interactions between neighbors. Our church was the last building left standing on the street in Kinloch until 2002 when the congregation broke ground in Black Jack, Missouri, just five minutes from where I was raised. Between 1990 and 2000, the thriving town that once boasted 10,000 residents lost over 75 percent of its population and is now home to just under 300 residents, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.

Kinloch was not the only community impacted by Lambert Airport’s expansion. Robertson, another historic Black neighborhood in north St. Louis County, was taken for the airport’s buildout in the 2000s. Although there is no doubt that Blacks were more harshly impacted by the expansion than Whites, it is also worth noting that Carrollton and Bridgeton Terrace—both predominantly White neighborhoods in north St. Louis County–were also claimed throughout the 1990s and 2000s to make room for a larger airport. Lambert’s initial expansion efforts have still not fully materialized, although there have been recent actions in place to grow and revitalize the area.

The airport’s growth resulted in several former Kinloch residents relocating to the neighboring city of Ferguson in the early 2000s, as did many displaced African-American residents of Elmwood Park, also a historically Black settlement in north St. Louis County that was targeted for renewal. Once a predominately White “sundown” town, Ferguson was known for its underhanded tactics to keep Blacks out.

One notable scheme involved residents voting to form the adjacent city of Berkeley in the 1930s to ensure the cities’ schools did not integrate and their joint tax base remained higher than Kinloch’s. Since then, Ferguson had drastically changed, especially after the removal of the infamous roadblock that Ferguson’s White residents built in the 1960s to keep Kinloch’s Black residents at bay. Following the housing authority’s disbursement of relocation assistance to displaced families impacted by St. Louis’s public housing demolition in 1970, Ferguson’s Black population rose from 14 percent in 1980 to over 50 percent by 2000. Ex-citizens of Kinloch sought to rebuild in their neighboring town, in hopes of putting the trauma of a forced relocation caused by the airport’s expansion behind them.

Those high expectations were heightened by the long-awaited national recognition St. Louis received at the turn of the twenty-first century, mainly in the realm of football and hip-hop. Still, underneath the public appeal, St. Louis was plagued with another deep-rooted problem: municipalities in north St. Louis County, like Florissant, Ferguson, and Kinloch, had gained a reputation for imposing bogus traffic fines and court fees to grow annual revenue. At best, the pricey violations kept citizens in a perpetual cycle of poverty, especially Black residents who were already strained financially.

The old grounds of First Missionary Baptist Church, Kinloch, today. (Photo by Lyndsey Ellis)

Longstanding racial tensions in St. Louis–compounded by White flight, displacement, crime, corruption, and discriminatory practices–worsened behind the scenes through the early 2010s. Things finally came to a head on August 9, 2014, when eighteen-year-old Michael Brown was tragically killed by a police officer in Ferguson, sparking a wave of worldwide protests. The eruption was a turning point that rippled through America’s core and left Black St. Louisans experiencing massive repercussions.

“My son was at Ferguson Middle School in 2014,” said Erica R. Williams, Founder and Executive Director of A Red Circle in north St. Louis County. “The thing that got me was everyone’s reaction after what happened to Mike Brown. It was so surprising to see the racism and all of the ugliness come out of neighbors in our own community. Slowly, but surely, we stopped feeling at home because a lot of white people just lost their minds.”

The hostility that Williams witnessed sparked her to action and eventually led to the formation of A Red Circle, a grassroots nonpartisan organization that focuses on addressing racial inequities impacting residents in north St. Louis County. The nonprofit opened its doors in 2017 and has steadily built a solid foundation that provides accessibility to a number of community enrichment programs.

“Ferguson in 2014 changed the way so many of us dealt with each other and inspired some self-reflection,” said Williams. “Some friends of mine got together to form this parents’ group that helped white moms talk to their kids about race. And, seeing that take off, I started thinking about how I contributed to the treatment of Black boys and how I could help change the narrative here.”

Communal responses from the aftermath of Ferguson have taken shape in many ways. While it is refreshing to see the positive in soul-searching as St. Louisans take strides toward internal transformation, there are also underlying challenges, like tough dialogue and closed interactions, that people continue experiencing today, even as the tenth anniversary of the Ferguson unrest approaches.

“There’s still a lot of tension when speaking on Ferguson,” said Lauren Pickett, a twenty-year-old Maryville University student and multicultural scholar. “It still holds a primarily negative connotation and I think most of the country played its part in reducing St. Louis to a struggle narrative which kept us avoiding racial disparities.”

The daughter of two police officers, Pickett witnessed the dichotomous relationship between race, justice and violence in St. Louis, although she was only a child when protests occurred.

“I saw firsthand how some white residents in the county were able to divert the attention on Ferguson, placing the focus on violence instead of police brutality. I feel St. Louis is more of an open, diverse city than it once was, but we can’t ignore the differences and the ways Blacks are still not treated the same here. Whenever that’s brought up, many people find the conversation off-putting and uncomfortable.”

After such turmoil, the avoidance of honest dialogue around racial division in St. Louis could easily lead one to think real change can only occur elsewhere. But, contrary to popular belief, some Blacks, like White and Pickett, have chosen to remain here and do the work that moves us beyond the two extremes of public criticism and praise.

“There’s a lot of individuals who are invested in healing themselves and the community here, through awareness, service and art,” said Pickett, “In those microcosms, we’re growing and allowing a wave of new young creatives, thinkers and social justice advocates. Those who stay and work here feel more compelled to go against the grain and create lasting change for the future. With the greater powers at play, though, the question I always find myself asking is, is it my responsibility to uplift my people here or leave and do it elsewhere? I don’t know.”

III.

When I first returned to St. Louis in 2018, one of the first things I did was wander. Every day, between writing and job-hunting, I prioritized walking or driving through Soulard, Tower Grove, Old North St. Louis, the Central West End, and other tree-lined neighborhoods that historically gave the city its radiance. I enjoyed taking in the views of charming Tudor bungalows, Victorian-style facades, and historic multi-family duplexes- many with stained glass windows, arched brickwork, vintage tiled porches, French door balconies, and spacious yards.

Those moments left me giddy with a cozy, impenetrable feeling. Like many natives and longtime residents, the deep affection I have for St. Louis stayed with me–regardless of outside opinion or personal perceptions on aspects of the area. But, while I was away, I harbored more of a long-distance infatuation, not real love. Lopsided and fleeting emotions that caused me to romanticize elements of my hometown, up until the second half of my annual two-week holiday visit at the end of every year. By the time I headed back to the airport for California, the rose-colored glasses were long gone, replaced by cynicism, regret and a lingering sadness that I did not have the energy or the will to process.

Surprisingly, the move back to St. Louis helped anchor my admiration. It became easier to see beyond deep-rooted pains that stagnate communities here still envision St. Louis’s potential to be better and do better by all of its residents. And, at the time, I could not have imagined that I would be one of many reverse transplants to feel that way.

“I stay in St. Louis because I wish it was better here and I want to be part of the progress,” said creative healing artist, Erin Renee Roberts. “There’s something about the taste of the city—the bricks and the character of the houses that can’t be replicated. Even more, the Black creative energy is in St. Louis city. Josephine Baker and Scott Joplin—that kind of energy.”

Roberts was born and raised in her family’s home near the intersection of Hodiamont Avenue and Page Boulevard in St. Louis’s West End district. Growing up, she always had fantasies of traveling the world although her parents were strict, ordering Roberts and her siblings to remain in a 6-mile radius of their home because of rising crime in their neighborhood. Dreams of getting away followed her into a lonely, frustrating adulthood.

“I felt ostracized by the Black community here,” Roberts said. “I wasn’t part of the Black elite. I didn’t join a sorority. I dated outside my race. I’m pansexual. So, typically I’ve always been seen as the exceptional token in a lot of white spaces here while feeling isolated from the traditional Black spaces. All of the weirdness made me feel unsafe here.”

It is no secret that internal prejudices like classism, homophobia, and ageism, often serve as the inner demons of minority groups. Although not unique to St. Louis, Roberts’ testament points to a dreaded, downplayed question within the Black community in the region: are we our own worst enemies?

Yes and no, according to singer and musician, Katarra Parson. Also born and raised in the region, Parson was raised on the West Side near the Wellston neighborhood, an area that she remembers as being an extremely neglected part of St. Louis.

“Poverty is something I experienced my whole life,” said Parson. “I dealt with a lot of racism and sexism from all types of people as a kid, even within my own community – from colorism and anti-blackness to just a general lack of nurturing. And now, I see as just being an artist, the majority white-run places are still structured in racism. You’ll see DEI and promotion of diversity, but it’s just performative. At the end of the day, there’s inequities and unfortunately, a lot of us, as Blacks, accept that or play into it. Sometimes, it feels like a lose-lose situation.”

Instances of intra-communal conflict rooted in racism is perhaps best reflected in the post-Ferguson generational split among St. Louis’s civic leadership. Similar to the social climate during Obama’s first presidential run, it became apparent that Black St. Louisans sought younger politicians who were more closely aligned to progressive activism over the older generations of status quo politicians who largely hailed experience from the civil rights era. The death of a fossilized local political system became most apparent after Wesley Bell’s victory over Bob McCulloch for the office of St. Louis County prosecutor in August 2018, followed by the political defeat of Rep. William Lacy Clay Jr. to Cori Bush in August 2020 which made regional and national waves. Tishaura Jones also drew attention to the new generation of politicians when she won the 2021 mayoral race and became the first Black female mayor of St. Louis, following Freeman Bosley, Jr. and Clarence Harmon, the city’s first and second African-American mayors. With that, came the denouncement of respectability politics that was largely associated with older generations’ efforts to normalize assimilation by punishing nontraditional behavior within the African American community.

“We’re all very diverse in thought and action which can be good, in some ways,” said Mike Jones, a columnist for The St. Louis American and former St. Louis Alderman of the city’s 21st Ward, “ but we have an issue of adapting collectively to a change in environment–generation-wise, issue-wise, and time-wise–and the ways in which we are going about it are obsolete. As a whole, we already don’t have access to the internal and structural support or institutional knowledge and a deep understanding of the politics that come with getting better. No one’s teaching us how to navigate systems and if we fall, there’s no one to catch us. If you’re not used to the lingo or the institutional language that’s considered socially appropriate in some of these spaces, you can’t make it.”

The level of cynicism over power dynamics, as it pertains to generational wealth and the lack of access to resources, remains compounded by division among many Black St. Louisans. In addition to Black civic leadership, this issue also affects Black business ownership, as stressed by Reine Keis, chef and owner of SweetArt Bake Shop & Cafe.

“There’s light and shadow in our community here, and it’s frustrating,” said Keis. “Historically, we lift each other up and that’s a really beautiful thing.  But, there’s also this mental infestation among those who haven’t done the internal work, and it comes out as unfair and unjust criticism. That ‘crabs-in-the-barrel’ mentality follows us.”

Keis, whose mother is originally from St. Louis, was born in Tennessee and spent some of her childhood in Los Angeles before her family returned to St. Louis. After studying abroad in France and graduating from Saint Louis University, she worked a string of office jobs before starting her own bakeshop in 2008. Since then, there have been highs and lows amid the everyday joys of baking. While Keis openly acknowledges the intra community woes, she attributes the root cause for division among Black St. Louisans to unaddressed racial disparities in the region.

“The fact is St. Louis is still very much a racist, segregated city, whether it’s talked about or not,” Keis said. “It’s hard to succeed here as a Black business owner with less accessibility to financing. Those first loans are hard to get —even securing a liquor license is more challenging. I finally had to contact my alderman and state the issues after it took 11 months for a 3-month process. It was almost like they wanted me to give up. It’s not fair, but you do the work so the next generation can have better options.”

But, to have those options, Keis, like many other Black residents, feels it is necessary to leave St. Louis.

“People who leave, leave because they need to grow in a way that helps their lives grow. Eventually, I know I’ll have to build outside of St. Louis.”

To date, the entire St. Louis region has experienced massive population loss. Since the pandemic hit in 2020, St. Louis City has lost over 20,000 residents and has a population of approximately 282,000 people while St. Louis County has lost about 3,700 residents. The continual shrinkage is the result of an aging population and the occurrence of more deaths than births. A declining birth has caused a decline in the city’s public and charter school enrollment, with under 28,000 students compared to 48,000 children in the 1990s. Additionally, the astounding lack of crime prevention resources drives out more residents.

Although there is talk of progressive policies and legislation that could largely help the core of St. Louis, starting with Black St. Louis families, the majority of residents who are leaving, in fact, remain African Americans.

Learning what I have about this region’s complicated infrastructure rooted in failure and conflict, the real questions become clear: have things changed or not changed for Black St. Louisans? What are our expectations in defining real change? How does real change happen, and how is it sustained?

Like Black residents here, the answers are broad and varied.

“Since Ferguson, I feel like nothing has changed,” said Parson. “The same thing happens—we get upset, we protest, they pass some sort of legislation and then after we’ve been appeased, we go right back into this vicious cycle. In order to be okay here, we need to rewrite everything since everything has been based on white supremacy and anti-Blackness. Nothing can last here because it’s all built on lies.”

Regardless of the distrust and calls to dismantle and rebuild, there are thoughts among Black residents that sparkle with hope and expectation.

“I would love for Black people here to come together because there’s so much we can do if we really stay in the spirit of supporting each other,” said Keis. “I want us to know our politics more at the local level and talk openly about our issues so we can build a sense of solid community. If we can be allowed the grace and the space of vulnerability, to share information and have intimate conversations, we can do more and better here. That would be good for St. Louis.”

A reunion event for First Missionary Baptist Church of Kinloch with the author, Lyndsey Ellis, at far left.

Still, underneath the optimism lies uncertainty and a surrender to the unknown.

“This was the hardest place to be myself,” Roberts said, “but now since I’m aging, I find the times have evolved so much. The tide is gradually turning so that the mentalities change and we, as Black residents, are becoming more comfortable in our own skin, whatever that looks like.”

Chance and unpredictability can build hope that times will get better. Despite the odds and regardless of current difficulties, several residents are with Roberts when it comes to embracing change as it comes.

“I believe St. Louis is mostly an open and inviting city,” said poet, educator, and visual artist, Dannie Boyd. “It’s like a blank canvas right now, especially for creatives and social entrepreneurs. One upside to being under-resourced as a community here is that we’re challenged to be more independent and creative about how we move. There’s more opportunity to experiment.”

Boyd is no stranger to novelty and exploration. A millennial native of north St. Louis County, he grew up in Ferguson before his family settled in Bellefontaine Neighbors. As a child, he was one of the few Black residents that he knew who went to grades K-12 and watched his neighborhood’s shifting demographics—from predominantly White to a nearly all-Black community. It was the first time he witnessed White flight in response to Blacks migrating to the suburbs and over the years, Boyd believes it has led to bleak, but fixable, conditions that mostly affect Black youth in St. Louis.

“It’s more clear how access, or lack of, impacts the lives of students,” said Boyd. “The youth are the lifeline of any community, and I believe greater investment in education is the foundation of all things. When you have young people that are cared for, inspired and nurtured, they’re going to grow. The one thing that gave me peace here in St. Louis was feeling empowered as a kid to learn.”

In thinking about the power of feeling seen and given the space to evolve, I too hope these are the elements that restore vitality and help sustain the presence of Black residents in St. Louis. Lately, it has been surreal to witness more of our departures from here than our arrivals. Having been among those who left, I returned searching for clarity on the future of St. Louis and still believe in its imminent reinvention. If it seemed possible during Nelly’s “Country Grammar” takeover nearly twenty-five years ago, a renewal is within reach.