Legacy Begins at the West End of Louisville, Kentucky

I first met Kindra during meetings with the Sierra Health Foundation when I not only learned about the Black Child Legacy Campaign but also came to understand her leadership role. As associate director of community and economic development for the foundation, Kindra spent the past six years spearheading the creation of the Community Incubator Lead model that forms the foundation of BCLC programming. Kindra has been instrumental in creating personalized programs for communities around workforce training, job placement, counseling, maternal health, infant and child health, and county services. Her involvement in dimensions of evaluation, planning, and execution is underscored by her fervor to center and uplift community partnerships. She is in the business of forming and sustaining relationships. It is no coincidence that Kindra played a central role in BCLC’s ability to surpass a 2020 goal of reducing Black child deaths by 33 percent in a five-year timeframe while securing financial investments totaling $10.9 million for capacity building across the seven communities engaged in this initiative. These are the same communities Kindra and her family belong to; these are places and people who have raised her, mentored her, loved her. I am eager to learn more.

I make the fifteen-minute drive to the Sierra Health Foundation, deciding to take the side streets that day to enjoy the spring breeze and sunlight that entered through my car windows, bringing with them the smell of the newly blossomed flowers and trees that lined Arden Way. I let the calmness of the Sacramento River guide me to my destination. Although it was not my first time visiting the foundation, the picturesque foliage and sound of the gentle river waves surrounded me as if it were our first encounter. The beautifully manicured bushes and lawn hugged the three-story modern building and its gradated beige-to-brown brickwork. I pulled into the visitor parking spot right across from the main entrance and took a few minutes to stand outside before entering, taking in the calmness and silence that seemed to permeate the entire building. I made my way up to the second floor via the half-spiraled wooden staircase that led me to our meeting location, a small conference room; there I sat in an executive chair, one of six that framed the medium-sized oval table. Kindra’s presence immediately added life to the space, as energy radiated in her words she uses to describe her work at that moment.

As she breathed her full name into existence, the empty walls became adorned with the images of the women who are part of her maternal and paternal lineage, who guided and uplifted Kindra in the important work of “loving Black mommies.”

Kindra. Inspired by Hurricane Kendra, Kindra’s mother wanted to name her daughter with a unique moniker. Indeed, the decision to select a name from the last season in history to use an all-female Atlantic hurricane naming list manifested her expectation that, like the two key features of the related natural phenomenon, Kindra would have a path and strength that were not undermined but instead forecasted for their power.

Hurricane Kendra, which touched ground in Puerto Rico on October 28, 1978, soon became a tropical storm that lasted for a week, producing heavy rains and damage upward of six million dollars. Exactly thirty years later to the day, Kindra gave birth to her first child Samone; she also marked her first month as the program officer overseeing the Steering Committee on Reduction of African American Child Deaths and its groundbreaking work that lay the foundation for the BCLC. Earlier Kindra had served as director of training and community relations for the Center for Community School Partnerships of the School of Education at the University of California, Davis. Her twenty years of experience strengthening the capacity of community-based organizations reinforced Kindra’s commitment to “civic duty and a need to improve the lives of youth and families.”

Kindra’s middle name is Frances which is an acknowledgment of her paternal great-grandmother’s embodiment of the legacy of mothering for transformation. A Black woman, Great-Grandmother Frances defiantly married a white man and raised twelve sons and one daughter, despite the racism and targeted discrimination they experienced. One of her daughters was Kindra’s great-aunt Georgia, a politician and celebrated civil rights pioneer. During her twenty-one-year tenure as the first Black senator in the state of Kentucky, Great-Aunt Georgia Montgomery Davis Powers sponsored legislation prohibiting sex, job, and age discrimination while also introducing the first statewide fair housing laws. Kindra’s admiration for her kinswoman instills a sense of pride in her; her great-aunt also represents a standard of advocacy to “hold my head up high about this work.”

Kindra understands the level of commitment and sacrifice that Great-Aunt Georgia made to navigate the racist Kentucky legislature and is reminded that there are no excuses not to do the work. Even though her Kentucky family often draws comparisons between Great-Aunt Georgia and herself as two “spitfires,” Kindra chooses to honor the role of Great-Grandmother Frances in raising “this great Black woman” who engaged in acts of “reimaging a future where Black lives flourish and thrive in their totality.”

Kindra’s mother, an attorney for the agency that was formerly the Department of Mental Health Services in Sacramento, came from a family of doctors and educators who were compelled to serve and advocate for Black communities. Collectively, they set the expectation that you give back and contribute something to this world.

Montgomery Block. The Montgomerys are a household name in Louisville, known for their significant contributions to Black life and activism. Kindra recalls Black excellence as central to their advocacy work. It was no surprise to learn that they mentored youth and instilled a commitment to fight for the future of their community. Kindra’s father and two sisters grew up next to professional boxer, philanthropist, and social activist Muhammad Ali, a close family friend. In fact, Kindra’s grandfather gave Muhammad Ali his first job, working alongside the Montgomerys. Kindra’s married name, Block, represents a similar legacy of community activism in Sacramento, where Uncle Harry Block was caringly referred to as the mayor of Del Paso Heights. Becoming part of the Block family amplified Kindra’s ability to cultivate strong community ties and sustain relationships with Black families who rightly distrust government-sponsored support services. This lineage is the backdrop to Kindra being “not just the pushy Black girl from Valley High” but a public steward from and within the community.

Motherwork as Leadership, Activism, and Liberation

The undeniable connection between becoming a Black mother and serving mothers is woven into Kindra’s work and life. “My story is for Samone,” she tells me.

An expectant mom myself, I ask Kindra about what her experience was like to birth her first child and BCLC at the same time. Kindra had exactly one month to plan a strategic blueprint for the initial phases of the work while embodying what it is and means to be a Black mother. She was living with all the tensions and possibilities of Black maternal health while unraveling and unveiling the deeply rooted systemic issues of oppression, injustice, and inequity systemized through practices and policies within and beyond the health sector. She tells me, “You have to make sure you have the right cortisol in your body.” I was taken aback by this response. Cortisol, a steroid hormone produced by the adrenal glands, has several functions but mainly assists the body in responding to stress or danger, often referred to as our fight or flight response. Recent studies show a direct connection between unbalanced levels of maternal cortisol and neuropsychiatric disorders. Kindra seems to read my mind and satisfies my curiosity: “Cortisol. That hormone is about love. It’s about justice. It’s about producing the best human that you can. How can you do that if everything else around you is on fire?” My baby kicks. We both sit with what Kindra offers, in silence.

After a moment, Kindra says, “Throughout this journey, no one ever said, ‘I love Black moms.’ ” As we both stare at each other, I know we both understand what her statement means, in all its dimensions and forms.

It is unforgivable to focus on infant and child mortality without acknowledging the persecution of Black women in American society, given their disproportionate experiences of violence, rape, homicide, police brutality, incarceration, and institutionalized racism. “No one ever says, I love Black mommies. I do.” As tears enter our space, we both honor the depth and truth of her words. Kindra’s work is not only about building the capacity of community organizations to empower Black children and youth to thrive but also about creating justice-centered futures where Black mothers are protected and sacred.

“Our bodies are on fire. Our environment’s on fire so we can’t have healthy babies all the time. Someone has to love us enough to speak about it,” Kindra says. She asks if I was expecting my first child, and I respond that I am carrying my second beautiful brown baby. “Then you know. You understand,” she replies.

At that moment, I no longer am in a meeting space but am transported to the last month of Kindra’s pregnancy, when she received the call from Sierra Health Foundation to “work on saving Black kids’ lives” while preparing to have a Black child of her own. Kindra spent her entire life preparing for that particular call, a call to help “the Black community strategize with system leaders” to “lift and love Black people.” Growing up in South Sacramento, Kindra tells me that her pride in being a Valley High School graduate was at the root of her interest in studying political science at the University of California, Riverside; there, she worked at a nonprofit organization that developed substance abuse intervention and prevention programs for youth. Inspired by this experience, she worked for several years at the Youth Leadership Institute in San Francisco after graduation. On completing her master’s degree in public administration from Golden Gate University, Kindra returned to her hometown Sacramento to work for ten years at the University of California, Davis. School of Education. Collectively, these experiences reinforced her commitment to community-led advocacy efforts for equity and justice.

I was transported to her short-lived maternity leave, a time when she celebrated the growth in her family while negotiating health equity initiatives that centered Black families at an institutional level. Kindra was nine months pregnant when she joined Sierra Health Foundation. Thirty days after her start date, she was initiating her recovery from a high-risk pregnancy while simultaneously preparing to return to her leadership role overseeing the Steering Committee on Reduction of African American Child Deaths. Shifting from self and baby care to prioritizing community needs meant that personal sacrifices needed to be made—another reason Kindra deems it important to ensure that the work culture she is part of normalizes motherhood.

At the core of Kindra’s work is the celebration of Black mothers: “It’s not that I don’t love all mommies. It’s kind of like the Black Lives Matter conversation.” I am intrigued and asks her to tell me more. She replies, “My house matters. Your house matters. But my house is on fire. We have to do immediate things to focus on that house because if we don’t, then it’s going to spread to your house and spread to your neighborhood.” BCLC represented an opportunity to create equity transformation in health systems, particularly in communities that are home spaces for Kindra. Reflecting on more than twenty years of community organizing, she notes that most of her time has been dedicated to prevention work that did not focus on interrogating, building, and protecting infrastructures and economic investments that positively affect Black communities. “Now is an opportunity to think ahead, to strategize,” says Kindra.

Kindra points to the window at the corner of the room in which we are seated and begins to describe the economic development funds being poured into downtown Sacramento. The skyline is framed by new high rises, condominiums, and gated communities; continuing roadwork improvements; and renovations to the city landscape. Kindra describes how the concentration of economic investments in white neighborhoods signals the inequitable distribution of wealth and the maintenance of poverty in neighborhoods where predominantly low-income folks of color reside. Take, for instance, Meadowview, the community where Kindra played softball as a youth, which continues to look like the place she visited in the 1990s when “not a spotlight or pothole is being fixed.” BCLC has demonstrated pathways to inclusive economic development through direct investments into Black communities that positively influence the welfare not only of children but also of entire family units. In essence, BCLC represents “Build.Black.”—infrastructure by which to bring to the fore issues of inequity experienced by Black communities “like never before, without impunity.”

I am also transported to the many meetings Kindra held with various stakeholders across the state and country who expressed varied beliefs about whether BCLC would be successful. She recalls the first meeting with the Board County Supervisors, where she coordinated the participation of various community organizations in demanding funding and resources that represented reinvestment into defunded neighborhoods: “They said to elected officials, not only are we going to be able to take on this challenge, we’re going to be the ones to fix it.” Indeed, community partnerships are the heart of BCLC and are leveraged to amplify preexisting efforts. The resulting success of this solidarity work has been rightfully celebrated and acknowledged. It was no surprise that several of the organizations and stakeholders who were once on the sidelines and skeptical about the work later publicly claimed ownership and credit of this movement. Kindra, always intentional and strategic, knows the significance of this self-proclaimed involvement: “The more people that own it, then they really got to own it. We can find a spot for you too.” She is not interested in who wants to take credit for reaching benchmarks, but only in those invested in these neighborhoods to ensure that Black communities “actually stay alive and thrive.”

I am transported to community circles where the work of building Black futures is rooted and protected. Kindra had shared with me the reports her team created that describe the benchmarks and the associated quantitative datasets that confirm the success of their work. I ask her to speak more about what she considers the most significant lesson her community partners taught her. She takes a deep breath. Inhales. Exhale. “It’s the opportunity to save Black lives,” she answers. Another deep breath. Inhales. Exhales.

The killing of Stephon Clark, an unarmed Black youth, by the Sacramento police on Sunday, March 18, 2018, represented a pivotal moment for Kindra in her roles as part of BCLC and as a Black mother in Sacramento. “When something so tragic like this happens, it takes the soul out of the neighborhood,” she reflects. All the accolades directed at BCLC programming seemed small as the realities of “picking Black people off the cement or burying a Black person” sink in. No benchmark or data point could revive Stephon. No recognition could ease the pain of Stephon Clark’s mother grieving the loss of her son, like so many Black mothers had done before her.

Kindra says, “Stephon Clark’s murder served as a reminder that our unprecedented results were insufficient and insignificant at the same time.” Caught between her role as a community activist and an activist from the community, Kindra saw the tragedy as both personal and professional; she had grown up and had direct relationships with the families affected. She says, “These families that I had grown up around my whole life did not have a way to create an opportunity for that generation to thrive. It wasn’t about services or better resources.” Compelled to strengthen the solidarity among the “Black civil rights infrastructure in Sacramento,” Kindra organized a gathering of key Black stakeholders and organizations to work toward a unified voice that not only responded to the state of violence against Black bodies in Sacramento but also planned for the future of Black Sacramento. Birthed from this gathering was the “idea around inclusive economic development,” infrastructure, and systems designed to create long-term investments in all aspects of life in Black communities that became Build.Black. More than an economic strategy to reduce poverty, it was a strategy to redistribute wealth in communities that had systemically and historically been denied resources. It was no coincidence that these communities were the seven neighborhoods that were part of BCLC. The true work lies in helping these communities heal.

The true work also lies in empowering the community by leveraging their knowledge and assets to reimagine futures that are in the “active pursuit of justice.” I feel compelled to ask her thoughts about a proverb triggered by her reflection: until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter. Kindra responds, “Figure out how to write like a lion. Honestly, we’re not speaking the right language or writing the right language.” Kindra has been writing in lion; in fact, she has mastered it. As a systems leader, Kindra advocates for Black communities to assert themselves for themselves.

Kindra’s passion is guided by an unwavering commitment to facilitate capacity building to create and build futures for Black communities, humanizing Black lives through the process. Kindra’s advocacy does not end when she walks out of her office or when the clock strikes five. Having interacted with colleagues from the multiple spheres that Kindra navigates, I know she is highly involved in various initiatives, community boards, and other activities. In admiration, I ask how she sustains herself. “Through the grace of God,” she replies simply.

She tells me her faith is central to grounding her work and word. Her husband and daughter are constant sources of support and joy. The genuine smile that sweeps across her face is one of pure happiness when she describes Baron, the new puppy they gave to Samone. Time with her family is “protected time”: nothing interrupts Kindra’s role as mother and wife. She also describes her circle of “sister soldiers and mentors” as a consistent source of empowerment to all dimensions of her being; they are people with whom she has no need to compartmentalize herself, because they see her for who she truly is. She explains, “We do what women do, lift each other up.” They help her strategize and maintain clarity about the real work that needs to be accomplished in the community.

As I stare at Kindra, I can feel the depth of her genuine commitment to do right by the community that raised and mentored her. Her energy transmits an unwavering life mission to continue the work of “celebrating Black folks’ lives.” I am interested in learning what she considers BCLC’s biggest success. Rather than referring to a data point or describing a personal victory, Kindra insists that the true significance of the work is its ability to amplify preexisting community initiatives created by and for Black families and to reaffirm their role in creating transformative change. “I want Black communities to know that they are powerful,” she says with conviction. In poetic prose, she declares forcefully:

Black childhood is … necessary.

Black power feels like … self-love.

When I look into our past, I … see our future.

When I look in the mirror, I … see Samone.