Diversity, Equity, & Inclusion Update – October 2026

by Terri Gulyas, Chair

Reflection on James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time

The question at the heart of James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time is whether we Americans can face the truth about racism deeply enough to change our country. Baldwin shows how racism harms Black Americans directly, while also trapping white Americans in false ideas about our history.

For Baldwin, progress takes more than promises or changes in the law. We white Americans must examine our beliefs and the systems of power that support them. He asks hard questions of religion, too. As a teenager, he found refuge in the church, but he later questioned religious institutions when they excused injustice or divided people.

One of the moments that stayed with me is Baldwin’s dinner at the home of Elijah Muhammad, leader of the Nation of Islam. Baldwin listened to the anger around that table and recognized how deeply it was rooted in the experience of racism. He did not brush it aside. At the same time, he could not accept the belief that all white people were beyond hope. He held on to both truths: the injustice was real, and our response to it mattered.

His warning feels especially urgent when I think about threats to voting rights, proposals such as the SAVE Act that could make registration harder for eligible voters, efforts to reshape Smithsonian exhibits that tell the truth about racism, and restrictions on how teachers can discuss race and history. These are choices being made now about whose voices count and which stories we are willing to hear.

How do we talk with people who support these actions, especially when they are sitting across from us at Thanksgiving dinner? Baldwin’s example makes me think we can start by listening for the concern beneath someone’s opinion. We might ask, “What worries you about how elections are run?” or “What do you think children should learn about our history?” Then we can share our own concern plainly: “I want elections to be secure, too, but I worry about eligible citizens who may have trouble getting the documents this proposal would require.” We can ask another question, tell a story, or offer to look at the facts together. And if the conversation grows too heated, we can pause and return to it later. A holiday meal does not have to settle every disagreement.

Listening, though, does not mean agreeing. We can be kind to someone we love and still be clear that making it harder for eligible people to vote or leaving racism out of our history has consequences. We can continue that conversation after the dishes are done—and turn our words into action by defending voting access, supporting teachers and historians, and standing alongside those most affected.

Baldwin’s message is foreboding, but it is also hopeful: we can choose a different future. Recognizing that racism is wrong is only the beginning. We must give up comforting myths, acknowledge that our country has not yet lived up to its promises of freedom and equality, and work to change unequal conditions.

Baldwin calls for a demanding kind of love—one that means seeing people clearly, telling the truth, and accepting responsibility for one another. It takes honesty and courage, and it does not ask us to avoid conflict. We cannot simply wait for change. We have to help make it happen. I think Baldwin is right: love requires work.