I’ve been filling gaps for as long as I can remember.
When I was 12 years old, I looked around my hometown of McComb and saw no acting classes, no youth theatre and no stage calling our names. So, I wrote and directed my own show, became a producer before I was even a teenager and staged it at the State Theatre downtown. That night, the curtains opened on something that didn’t exist before—because I refused to wait for permission to create it.
More than two decades later, I’m preparing to produce a show in that same building in December 2025. Same stage. Same city. Same vision—just a little older and grayer. The work has always been the same: making space where there was none.
Culture, to me, is the living archive of who we are—the way a people remember, resist, create and pass on their truths. Growing up Black in rural Mississippi, culture wasn’t something we studied in a textbook—it was the rhythm of daily life. It was the sound of elders telling stories on porches, the church choir’s harmonies carrying through the air and the choreography of a community gathering around a kitchen table to discuss problems that institutions ignored. That understanding has always shaped how I approach education, art and community. I don’t see culture as an accessory—I see it as the infrastructure that has held us up for generations.
But here’s what I’ve learned over the years: creating cultural space is not an extracurricular act. It’s not a hobby or a side hustle. It’s strategy. It’s infrastructure. It’s how communities live, learn and grow.
In Mississippi, arts education often gets tucked into the “activities” corner of the schedule—slotted beside recess or after the real subjects have been taught. Theatre becomes a Friday field trip. Dance is often folded into physical education, stripped of its artistry and treated as exercise rather than expression. Visual art gets rolled out for holiday displays and special occasions, then tucked away once the festivities end.
This framing does real harm. It suggests that creativity is ornamental rather than structural. It implies that culture is what happens after the “important” work is done, instead of being the work itself.
But step into any classroom where students are writing scenes, memorizing lines, painting from memory, or choreographing movement, and you’ll see something that standardized tests can’t measure: focus, critical thinking, emotional intelligence, collaboration and confidence taking root in real time. I’ve watched students who struggled to speak in class command a stage. I’ve seen young people grasp historical context through performance in ways that no textbook could replicate. Academic success is not separate from culture—it is amplified by it.
Through my nonprofit work, I’ve continued what began at age 12: offering theatre, acting opportunities, storytelling and creative outlets in places where they didn’t previously exist. These aren’t luxury programs; they’re community engines.
Culture, when taken seriously, can do what policy alone often struggles to achieve: it can build trust, spark innovation and nurture belonging. It can help a city reckon with its history and imagine its future. In McComb, a Shakespeare in the Park event transformed a site of violence into a space for healing. Our new play readings will open conversations about gun violence that statistics alone couldn’t sustain. This is strategic work—deliberate, layered and deeply civic.
Yet too often, cultural initiatives are treated like accessories to the “real” work of education, economic development or community improvement. They get the leftover time, the leftover space and the leftover budget. And then we wonder why schools feel sterile, why students disengage and why communities struggle to connect.
I am not asking for the arts to be “included.” I’m pointing out that they already are the backbone—we just haven’t built the systems to recognize and support that truth. Culture is not a bonus round after the test; it’s the strategy that allows children, families and communities to thrive in the first place.
I’ve been doing this since childhood—quietly, consistently and with whatever tools I had. Now, as I prepare to return to that historic stage downtown, I’m reminded that this work has never been about entertainment alone. It’s about designing futures through stories, movement and imagination.
The arts are not enrichment. They are structure. And if Mississippi wants to truly educate, grow and heal, it’s time we start treating them that way.
This MFP Voices opinion essay reflects the personal opinion of its author(s). The column does not necessarily represent the views of the Mississippi Free Press, its staff or board members. To submit an opinion for the MFP Voices section, send up to 1,200 words and sources fact-checking the included information to voices@mississippifreepress.org. We welcome a wide variety of viewpoints.