Mayor Jacob Frey on the State of Black Minneapolis, immigration enforcement, and leading in this moment.

Rent is due Friday.  Payday is not until next Wednesday.  For a home health aide in Memphis or a warehouse worker in Reno, that six-day gap is not an abstraction.  It is the critical place where a car's gas tank goes unfilled, a light bill goes unpaid, or a desperate family resorts to $35 late fees or lenders who charge 400 percent interest for the "privilege" of covering an expense they have already earned the money to pay.

Fifty years can feel like a lifetime, and at the same time, a blink of an eye. It is long enough to watch the world change and trends invent and reinvent themselves. It’s also long enough to recognize that, as much as things change, they stay the same. 

When I made the decision to run for governor, I couldn’t help but think about the person who first inspired me to live a life of public service. My mother is an immigrant to this country who arrived here as a child from Jamaica. After the tragic and unexpected death of her husband, she was forced to raise three children as a single mom. She worked multiple jobs — and didn’t get a position with benefits and a stable wage until I was 14 years old.

When the Declaration of Independence promised life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, ownership was already the currency of that promise. Land was liberty. A home is the foundation upon which families built security, passed down wealth, and claimed their stake in the nation. Two hundred and fifty years later, we must ask an uncomfortable question: Was that promise ever extended to Black Americans?

As America marks its 250th year since its founding in a pivotal election year, we find ourselves at an inflection point. The fight for our democracy, our civil rights, and our fundamental right to quality, affordable health care has rarely felt more urgent. But even in this moment, Black America remains resilient; but resilience alone is not enough. We must confront today’s challenges with clear eyes to continue our march toward equality and equity.

Black men in America have the shortest life expectancy of any racial or gender group in the United States.

That is not a new statistic. It is a sustained reality.

When a federal court vacated the U.S. Department of Education's anti-DEI directive in February 2026, I said what educators, students, and families have long known: "celebrating the full existence of every person and sharing the truth about our history is essential." That statement was not only about one legal victory.

As the writer Zora Neale Hurston eloquently observed, “There are years that ask questions, and there are years that answer.”

Nineteen sixty-five was one of those years that answered. And 2026 is shaping up to be its heir.

As our nation approaches its 250th anniversary, the question posed in the 2026 State of Black America®, Is the American Dream Dead?, is not theoretical. For millions of Black Americans, the answer is shaped not only by inequality in wages, housing, and healthcare, but by a less visible, deeply entrenched barrier: an arrest or conviction record.

Today, a record can follow someone for years, limiting access to jobs, housing, education, and the ability to move forward.