“You people never show up.” When Anti-Blackness Greets You at the Door

I showed up to my volunteer orientation at the American Red Cross only to be met with my very first experience of racism and anti-Blackness.

I’ve always had a heart of service. I started volunteering at a young age and have volunteered in many places throughout my hometown, Saginaw, Michigan: the Mid-Michigan Children’s Museum, the Castle Museum of Saginaw County History, McNally Hospitality House, the Salvation Army Saginaw Corps Community Center, Saginaw Children’s Zoo, the Disability Network of Mid-Michigan, and Butman-Fish Public Library—just to name a few places.

We were required to complete 25 volunteer service hours per semester for the National Honor Society (NHS) in high school.

My average was 80 hours per semester.

I wasn’t just trying to strengthen my college applications (though it certainly helped). What truly mattered to me was the joy of contributing to my community and being helpful in any small way I could. Service gave me a sense of purpose, making me feel connected to something bigger than myself.

So you can only imagine my dismay when I—someone who completed more than double the required volunteer hours for the NHS—showed up to my volunteer orientation at the American Red Cross only to be met with my very first experience of racism.

I was 14 years old when this encounter occurred at the East Central Bay Chapter of the Saginaw Office. I arrived fifteen minutes early at 2:45 p.m. The orientation was scheduled for 3 p.m. The receptionist told me the volunteer coordinator stepped out but would return shortly.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. Then an hour.

By 4:15 p.m., the receptionist finally connected with the woman I was scheduled to meet after several failed attempts to reach her. When she hung up, she told me the coordinator didn’t think I’d come, saying, “You people never show up.”

You people. You people? That term has long been used to lump Black, brown, and marginalized groups into a stereotype, language that has historically marked certain groups as inherently flawed.

This happened in 2009 when I was just 14. I understood the definitions of stereotypes, prejudice, discrimination, anti-Blackness, and racism. However, this was the first time I experienced such behavior and saw how bias could shape expectations before I even had a chance to show my worth and value.

In her mind, I wasn’t Tirrea, the girl with 80 hours of service per semester. I was “you people,” a projection she’d been conditioned to expect from people with skin like mine. That day, I couldn't find the right words to describe my feelings. All I knew was that, for the first time, my character was being judged solely for the color of my skin.

My volunteer experience didn’t matter in that American Red Cross office. My demonstrated commitment was ignored, as the woman scheduled to meet me had already made up her mind about me and chose not to show up.

Almost twenty years later, I see that moment now as an introduction and a preview of my career journey. It’s been one rooted in environments that profess a love for justice, but often act otherwise.

The nonprofit sector often presents itself as a moral alternative to the cruelty of capitalism and the government’s blatant neglect. We see ourselves as the helpers and changemakers, the thinkers and doers moving the needle toward social change. By adopting the language of equity and liberation, we often avoid the difficult process of assessing the degree of white supremacy present in our organizations.

However, at 14, I began to understand what many Black folks in the field eventually realize: my Blackness will be judged before anything else. Before my degrees, work experience, or commitment to the work.

This work reflects an unseen burden placed on Black bodies. Before we can perform our roles, we must first demonstrate our worthiness to be present. I’ve often been complimented on being “articulate” and “well-spoken.” I codeswitch just enough to fit in without seeming inauthentic. I absorb microaggressions silently, like a sponge, and often laugh them off.

I prove. And prove. And prove again. That my ideas and opinions matter. That I am committed to the work of liberation.

And still, in 2026, I risk being minimized to “you people.”

This is how anti-Blackness manifests in the nonprofit sector. It’s not always overt with white hoods and racial slurs. Instead, it appears as someone arriving more than an hour late, then questioning your dedication—all while neglecting a mission to “mobilize the power of volunteers, guided by principles like humanity, impartiality, and neutrality.”

I ended up writing a note to the volunteer coordinator I was supposed to meet with. Then, I called my parents to pick me up, and left. The coordinator ended up calling me, trying to apologize. She left a message saying she “didn’t mean it like that.”

Yes, she did.

But that didn’t stop me from continuing to volunteer elsewhere or from pursuing the career I have now. I couldn’t afford to let her assumptions derail my commitment to service. And I haven’t let the hundreds of assumptions derail me since that moment, either. However, I do feel the weight of having to be overly exceptional just to be given a chance, as if my individual behavior can somehow override centuries of stereotypes, racism, and anti-Blackness.

The white-led, white-centered version of humanitarianism has perfected the art of making Black folks feel like our oppression is a personal failure rather than a structural one. But I am living proof that the problem was never us.

I’ve always worked hard and shown up, but that didn’t override the preconceived notions she already had about me. And because of those preconceived notions, she didn’t value my time. She didn’t respect my presence. She decided I wasn’t worth showing up for. But she failed me. Not the other way around.

Engaging in social justice work within the nonprofit industrial complex demands fighting on two fronts. We fight externally against policies and power structures rooted in white supremacy. But we also have to fight against internalized racism within these spaces and the lies they’ve taught us about our worth.

I’ve learned that the nonprofit industrial complex relies on our labor. It needs our proximity to our cultural credibility and our ability to translate struggle into fundable narratives. However, it does not want our full humanity.

The Red Cross volunteer coordinator was over an hour late because she believed a stereotype about Black people. But the even bigger issue was the fact that her assumption was so normalized, so baked into the culture, that she felt comfortable saying it out loud. She knew there would be no consequences. She was right.

We face not only individual prejudice, but an entire ecosystem that protects and perpetuates it. An ecosystem that enabled a white woman to keep a Black child waiting for over an hour. An ecosystem that teaches Black folks that our commitment and demonstrated excellence will never be enough to override the presumptions made about us.

So why stay? Why continue doing this work and seeking seats at tables not built for me? Well, I’m a fighter. If I were to leave this work I care about and believe in because of anti-Blackness, it would mean anti-Blackness has taken even more from me. I refuse to give it any more of myself than it already has. Naming anti-Blackness within the nonprofit industrial complex is about rejecting the notion that our humanity should constantly be questioned or challenged.

If 100 years of observing and celebrating Black history has taught us nothing else, it’s shown us that we can’t and won’t wait for white folks to validate our worth, as if it was ever theirs to grant. I will continue doing this work in these spaces, worth in hand, working alongside others who want better for nonprofits and philanthropy.

Fourteen-year-old me, who sat in that Red Cross office, deserved better. I’d already given so much to my community, with a genuine love for service. I deserved to have that commitment honored, not questioned. I deserved to be seen.

She was wrong about “you people,” about me, about all the Black folks who’ve historically been the most committed to justice and to community.

We have always shown up, despite having every reason not to.

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