In a time of systemic collapse, communities on the margins are not simply surviving; they are innovating. Across Indian Country and the Black rural South, in neighborhoods long redlined and written off, a profound shift is underway, one that prioritizes relationship over credit scores, reciprocity over extraction, and healing over winning. These communities, long tested by crisis, are not just resilient, they are the ones most prepared for what comes next.

The “5 C’s of Credit” model – Character, Capacity, Capital, Conditions, and Collateral – has functioned as a gatekeeper. Don’t have family wealth to offer as collateral? Denied. No credit history because your family has always used cash? Denied. Working multiple informal jobs to survive? Denied again.

In places like New Mexico, this has created a dual reality: while mainstream banks turn their backs, predatory lenders swoop in, historically having charged interest rates as high as 175%. Entire communities become trapped in cycles of debt, disempowerment, and disconnection.

But our Diné (Navajo) creation stories speak of emergence, leaving behind worlds that no longer serve us and walking toward new ones. That is exactly where we are today.

At Roanhorse Consulting, we honor this truth. Preparing for the long haul means protecting what we’ve built and tending to what will sustain us. That’s why we are seedbanking, preserving and nurturing the vision of a relationship-based economy. At this moment, we turn not to Wall Street, but to our own ancestral intelligence.

Seedbanking as a Financial Practice

Seedbanking, long a part of Indigenous and African traditions, is the act of saving what matters in times of crisis so that future generations can thrive. Our ancestors braided okra, black-eyed peas, and corn into hair before forced migrations, or sewed seeds in hems and bundles while fleeing colonization.

Today, we’re saving seeds of:

• Reimagined risk assessments
• Community led governance models
• Alternative capital innovations
• Shared wealth through consensus

Seedbanking for the future of finance is not just possible but part of how we have survived. We are preserving the lessons, experiments, and practices of community-rooted capital models that honor our relationship to the land and world around us.

Across dozens of place-based lenders, cultural funds, and community-rooted financial organizations, we are witnessing five critical shifts:

1. Trust Is the New Underwriting Standard: Models like ProsperUS Detroit and Albany Community Together have shown that when communities are trusted, rather than surveilled, repayment rates soar. Relationship-based lending yields lower default rates because it’s grounded in care, not compliance.
2. Capital Must Be Reparative: Capital is never just a transaction; it is part of a broader ecosystem of support. The most effective lending models are bundled with community-led technical assistance, peer networks, mentorship, and culturally grounded advising. This isn’t a charity, it’s an infrastructure of accountability and solidarity.
3. Capital Products Must Reflect Real Life: Rigid terms, balloon payments, and uniform interest rates don’t serve diverse communities. Revenue-based repayment, grace periods, and co-designed products rooted in community voice are not innovations; they are necessities.
4. Technology Enables, but Community Leads: Tools like LoanWell and Ned have helped scale operations, automate underwriting, and improve borrower experience. But tech is only as powerful as the relationships behind it. In relational capital, people will always come before platforms, including A.I.
5. This Work Is Led by Those Closest to the Pain, and the Power: Native-led CDFIs. Black-led housing collectives. Immigrant worker co-ops. These are not “beneficiaries” of innovation; they are its architects. The future of capital is being built by those historically excluded from it.

Seedbanking is Resistance.
Seedbanking is not about waiting. It’s about preparing. While we hold onto what matters, our values, our relationships, our knowledge systems, our technologies, we are organizing, protecting, and creating the conditions for a future that is bigger, collective and abundant.

We reclaim our economies:

• By building funds that reflect our worldviews
• By investing in each other, not just ourselves
• By embedding cultural safety into financial instruments
• By redefining creditworthiness through the lens of community accountability

At Roanhorse Consulting, we have developed the 5Rs of Rematriation – Relational, Rooted, Restorative, Regenerative, and Revolutionary – to guide capital’s alignment with Indigenous and feminist worldviews. These values are reflected in our venture studio, ROI Studios, the Moonsoon Fund, and in how we co-design financial experiments with our partners.

This is not work we do alone. It is collective. We invite you to share how you’re seed banking your vision for a different future. What values are you protecting? What experiments are you building? What blueprints are you passing on?

Because the future is relational. The future is Indigenous. Let’s all remember together.

Vanessa Roanhorse is CEO of Roanhorse Consulting and Return on Indigenous Studios. She designs Indigenous-centered investment frameworks that advance economic self-determination, including relationship-based lending and reparative capital strategies. A Navajo Nation citizen, she has launched several ventures, and serves on multiple boards advancing climate, capital, and community resilience.

We chatted with Dr. Willow Lung-Amam to discuss (mis)conceptions about suburban community development and the organizers fighting for equity in their communities.

To kick off, can you tell me about yourself and your work?

Willow: I am an associate professor of Urban Studies and Planning at the University of Maryland, and I run the Small Business Anti-Displacement Network, which helps practitioners support communities in managing change, particularly keeping small businesses in place in gentrifying neighborhoods. I’m also Director of Community Development at the National Center for Smart Growth Research and Education. A lot of my research focuses on questions of neighborhood change and inequality, and the politics of redevelopment – especially in rapidly changing, often gentrifying, neighborhoods – and the racial, ethnic, and immigration politics that happen on the ground in these places.

I bring a framework of anti-racism into every aspect of my work. I come from a family of activists, from both an immigrant background and a Black American family, so I see it as the work of my generation to help make the world better for those who have the least.

So you have a new book that came out recently! Can you share more about the topic and its origin story?

Willow: My latest book is called The Right to Suburbia: Combating Gentrification on the Urban Edge. DC is dear to my heart – it’s where some of my extended family has been for generations. I felt called to tell a story about this place, one that hasn’t been told very often.

When we think about gentrification, we often picture urban centers, and most of our scholarship has focused on cities. But when we center our scholarship on one geography, that means we’re missing a whole host of actors, conditions, and politics that matter to how we respond. We might miss the investments we need to make into tenant organizing or small business protections.

Having spent a lot of time in the DC suburbs, I knew there were places outside of the urban core that were gentrifying, that families and workers and small businesses were struggling to survive. I wanted to tell a story about what’s happening on the ground, how communities are responding, and with what tools. Suburbs are today where most Black and Brown people, immigrants, and people living in poverty live. But it’s a neglected area in scholarship and policymaking because of its history and stereotypes. Inequality is moving; it’s not stuck in the inner city. As suburbs change, so do the spaces where inequality takes shape, yet many of our assumptions and policy responses are stuck in stereotypes around suburbs.

Can you speak more to those narratives that you’d like to challenge about the suburbs, and what are the true stories you’re hoping to uplift?

Willow: Even that poverty exists in the suburbs. We have this narrative of white picket fences, middle-class families, stability. But the foreclosure crisis hit Black and Brown families in the suburbs harder than anywhere else, because those families had long been denied opportunities to buy, then were flooded with unsustainable mortgages. We need to question the narrative of universal prosperity in the suburbs – opportunity for whom? What does it take to access that opportunity? These places were built originally for the middle class, so they are car dependent with limited public transportation, but families may not have cars. It’s harder to target social service supports in suburbs since communities are more dispersed and diverse. There’s an idea that everyone is doing well in the suburbs, that individuals can pull themselves up from their bootstraps and become part of the American middle class. But opportunity moves around the metropolitan region, and it follows communities that are privileged. And those populations are moving too. There’s a real danger in not paying deep attention to the landscapes of inequality and how and where they move. And the fact is that inequality has historically followed Black and Brown people wherever they go. In order to change that, we have to be deeply invested in understanding the conditions of different communities and how they take shape.

What are some of the ways that Black and Brown communities are making their communities more just and equitable, in spite of the challenges?

Willow: I center my story on three communities in Maryland: downtown Silver Spring, Wheaton, and Langley Park. I show an arc of equitable development organizing as communities learn from one another and do the work of building bigger, bolder, and better anti-displacement policies.

In downtown Silver Spring, Impact Silver Spring was born out of the fights over redevelopment in the 1990s. They built an organizing vehicle to respond to the displacement of residents and small businesses and helped push the county to stand up a small business support program. But in Silver Spring, this policy did not support that many businesses to remain in place.

But in Wheaton, Maryland, that same policy was already in place, and organizers were able to leverage it more and improve it to meet more of the needs of small businesses, especially Latino-owned ones. In the third community, Langley Park was being impacted by a new light rail line. More than a decade after its original inception, activists could leverage that policy to stand up more robust protections for small businesses. Some of the early policies that communities fought for are the same policies that organizers today are working to improve upon. We need to build the bones and tools, and that often happens by organizations responding to a community need.

What do you want community development practitioners to know about your work?

Willow: Pay attention to where inequality is moving. The old narrative no longer fits, that suburbs are places of prosperity and inner cities are disinvested. Inequality shifts constantly, and our interventions need to follow. The challenges facing suburban Black and Brown communities today parallel the intentional disinvestment urban communities faced in past decades. We must realize these changes aren’t inevitable; they’re shaped by policy and investment decisions. What looks like opportunity for some can also push communities out. I hope folks see the need to defy their notions about where we should be doing the work and what the work looks like, in order to center the communities that are starving for the resources and attention needed to really change this trajectory.

It’s crucial to spotlight what communities are doing on the ground – tenants forming associations for better conditions, longstanding small businesses acting as resources to others, folks providing legal help to one another because of predatory landlords. These efforts keep communities alive through disinvestment. When reinvestment finally comes, these same people are often treated as dispensable, as if they couldn’t adapt. But they kept their neighborhoods afloat. So why aren’t they the beneficiaries or drivers of that change? We should challenge that narrative of inevitable change, and look at whose expense that change is happening. These stories need to be uplifted and these communities supported – not left behind.

Dr. Willow Lung-Amam is an Associate Professor in the Urban Studies and Planning Program at the University of Maryland, College Park, where she also serves as Director of Community Development at the National Center for Smart Growth Research and Education and Director of the Small Business Anti-Displacement Network. Her scholarship focuses on how urban and suburban policies and plans contribute to and can address social inequality, particularly in neighborhoods undergoing rapid racial and economic change.

Cities are increasingly using “smart” technology to manage and maintain infrastructure, reduce energy use, expand public services, and foster safe and healthy neighborhoods. A “smart city” might have sensors and cameras that monitor traffic flow and adjust traffic lights to reduce congestion; apps that help residents find parking or track public transit in real time; smart energy grids that reduce power consumption, and AI-powered digital twins that simulate the costs and benefits of development proposals.

Unfortunately, some geographies are inevitably overlooked and communities that could most benefit from these new tools get bypassed by innovation. And when technology does arrive, it often carries embedded values from elsewhere.

Consider how many cities regulate housing conditions through complaint-based systems. Residents report problem properties, inspectors investigate, and enforcement follows. This sounds reasonable until you recognize the pattern. Whiter, wealthier neighborhoods with higher rates of homeownership consistently report more issues because residents have the time, knowledge of city systems, and confidence that complaints will produce results. Meanwhile, in lower-income neighborhoods, problems may go unreported until they’re catastrophic.

Smart city tools offer a possible solution. Remote sensing (cameras and drones that periodically record images of building and neighborhood conditions) and machine learning (computers trained to read these images and recognize signs of disinvestment) could objectively detect building code violations across all neighborhoods, catching minor issues before houses become candidates for demolition. No complaint required. Just neutral, algorithmic fairness.

But as Dr. Ruha Benjamin argues, algorithms are never neutral, and objectivity without context isn’t actually equitable. Technology can reproduce and amplify racial inequality under the guise of digital neutrality.

Imagine a smart city system that identifies code violations uniformly across a city. A low-income homeowner might receive the same citation as a corporate landlord. The algorithm sees two violations. It doesn’t see that one owner lacks resources while the other lacks accountability. The result? Technology that scales enforcement without scaling support. This penalizes residents who are already struggling, while absentee owners find ways to game the system, accelerating the very problems the system was intended to prevent.

Some residents might embrace new technologies for the efficiencies they offer. But in Black and Brown communities, residents have legitimate, historical reasons to be skeptical, including urban renewal programs that destroyed thriving neighborhoods in the name of progress and revitalization efforts that caused displacement instead of stability. When smart city technologies arrive with a promise to improve things, residents might reasonably ask: “Improve for whom? At what cost to us?”

Rather than asking communities to adapt to predetermined technological solutions, we need what Benjamin calls abolitionist tools – technologies designed not to optimize existing systems but to fundamentally reimagine them. Community members aren’t just consulted after the technical specifications are set; they help define the problems technology aims to solve and the values it should embody. In the smartest of smart cities, residents define priorities and cities use deep data to guide investments in neighborhoods where structural racism created the conditions for decline. In Pittsburgh, Baltimore, Portland, and Tucson, communities are developing their own data tools and ecosystems to support their own community’s housing, employment, youth services, and environmental justice needs. In Cleveland and Detroit, DigitalC “greenlines” neighborhoods that were historically redlined from digital access. Digital C’s network is built for communities, by communities and combines digital infrastructure, low-cost broadband service, and skills training in a holistic approach to community development. In early 2025, the City of Cleveland invested $2.76 million in DigitalC, demonstrating that smart city technologies can be economically viable when aligned with community values.

Building equitable technology requires expertise and moral imagination. Beyond the sensors and algorithms, we need to expand community capacity and develop support systems that allow technology to serve rather than surveil. That’s the real test of whether technological progress advances community values or just automates inequality at scale.

Terry Schwarz is a city planner, community designer, and urban researcher driven by the conviction that everyone deserves to live in a neighborhood where they can be safe, prosperous, and well. As director of the Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative at Kent State University, she partnered with community development corporations, government agencies, and nonprofit organizations to transform how the region approaches urban design and regeneration.

Last year our organization made a big move. We bought 63 acres of former strip mine land in Letcher County, Kentucky. This wasn’t about property; it was about stopping a cycle of harm that has defined Appalachia for too long. Our $169,000 investment disrupted plans for a $505 million federal prison complex that would have caged over 1,300 people. This would have become the fifth federal prison in eastern Kentucky, part of a pattern that treats incarceration as economic development. We know that Black, brown, and Indigenous people are incarcerated at disproportionate rates when compared to white people charged with the same offences. From data collected in 2021 by The Sentencing Project, we can see that Black people are incarcerated at five times the rate of white people and Indigenous people are incarcerated at 4.2 times the rate of white people. This proposed facility would inevitably continue the pattern of carceral racism.

As co-executive director of the Appalachian Rekindling Project, I’m proud that we saw a different future – one where this land could heal and Indigenous peoples could come home. We chose to invest in Indigenous return and ecological restoration rather than allow another prison to be built on land that has already been stripped, scarred, and exploited.

Racism in Appalachia operates through mechanisms of erasure and confinement. When we pretend Indigenous peoples never existed here while simultaneously building prisons that disproportionately cage people of color, we perpetuate white supremacy. Appalachia has always been treated as expendable by those in power – through Indigenous removal, extractive coal mining, a dumping ground for environmental hazards, and now through prison construction. Fighting the prison means demanding that Appalachia be seen as a place of value, beauty, and home.

The Appalachian Rekindling Project acknowledges historical harm, centers Indigenous sovereignty, and builds true community safety through restoration rather than incarceration.

Our immediate plans for this Letcher County land center on ecological restoration – bringing back native species to land that has been strip-mined and degraded. This isn’t just about conservation; it’s about reversing extraction and returning life to places that have been treated as sacrifice zones. Reintroducing bison, animals that are relatives to many Indigenous peoples and integral to pre-colonial ecosystems, is both practically restorative and symbolically powerful.

Our larger vision: establishing an intertribal Indigenous center on our other piece of land in central Appalachia where Native peoples can physically return to their homelands. This center will provide space for our Indigenous communities to gather, practice traditional ways of life, and care for our land collectively. This intertribal center will be a free space available to Indigenous people from any tribal community, not a museum or tourist site, but a living place of Indigenous presence and practice.

We particularly look forward to welcoming Indigenous peoples who have been forcibly removed from this region back to their ancestral homelands, land that holds their history, culture, and ceremonial sites. Creating pathways for return is about healing through that truth and acknowledging that Indigenous peoples have every right to be here, this is our home.

We plan to hire local workers to help build and maintain restoration projects. These are jobs that heal rather than harm, that restore land rather than extract from it, that build community rather than separate families.

We’ve established a voluntary land tax system that creates a meaningful pathway for anyone living in Appalachia to support Indigenous justice and land restoration. If you want to see Appalachian land be cared for, believe in climate justice, want to prevent further exploitation, or seek reconciliation with Indigenous peoples, this is a concrete way to contribute.

Mitch Whitaker, a neighboring property owner, told reporters that our purchase gives “folks an alternative choice” and is “a much better solution.” His support shows that community members recognize the false choice between prison jobs and poverty. Joan Steffen, an attorney with the Institute to End Mass Incarceration, framed this moment perfectly: we’re at a pivot point as a nation, deciding whether to continue pouring resources into systems of incarceration or start investing in genuine community wellbeing, healing, and restoration.

Our vision is for Appalachia to become known as a place of return. A place where Indigenous peoples return home, where ecosystems return to health, where people return to a right relationship with land. Rural communities like ours have been told we should be grateful for prisons because we don’t deserve better economic opportunities. We reject that. We deserve investment in restoration, in Indigenous justice, in healing land and relationships, in meaningful work that doesn’t require us to profit from others’ suffering. This is what real reconciliation looks like: not just words, but land, resources, and the material conditions for Indigenous peoples to come home and thrive.

Through her multifaceted work and drawing from her rich heritage as a member of both the Comanche and Caddo Nations, Taysha Devaughn is a powerful voice for environmental protection, social justice, community empowerment, and Indigenous rights in Appalachia. Her work with the Appalachian Rekindling Project stands as a testament to her commitment and vision for a future that honors and integrates Indigenous wisdom and practices.

The scent of ka ua ʻala lingers in the morning air as the lilinoe settles at the foot of Hokunui, our steadfast mauna standing tall against the horizon. From the lanai, I watch a family of koloa ducks glide toward the pua pond for their morning nourishment before the rays of the sun spill over Kalanipuʻu. I step into the crisp dawn to pick the ripest hei I’ve been watching mature all week.

Living on the loko iʻa is both privilege and kuleana – a calling to preserve the agricultural traditions of our kūpuna. Moving through the hale, I check the off-grid systems of our zero-net-carbon home, where innovation meets tradition. Balance is our teacher.

I walk to the shoreline of the loko iʻa and begin my pule of gratitude – e ala ē, Kānehoʻālani, nā ʻaumākua, e hō mai… As the chant fades, I see an ʻanae leap from the water – a hōʻailona of renewal. Two decades ago, such a sight was rare on Hulēʻia River. These herbivores feed on phytoplankton, maintaining the delicate balance of the pond. Once choked by mangrove, the loko iʻa now thrives with ʻoʻopu, limu, and other native species. In restoring the pond, we restore ourselves.

I take a moment to kilo – the tides, the currents, the whispers of ʻāina. A local fisherman and his grandson gather their ʻūkana, taking only what they need. Their practice of selective harvesting, guided by generations of observation, is a reflection of aloha ʻāina and the resurgence of a gifting economy. They will share and trade their catch, perpetuating the spirit of the ahupuaʻa system where self-subsistence and reciprocity sustained thriving communities.

The loko iʻa is more than a fishpond – it is an incubator for abundance, a model of sustainability that amplifies nature’s design. Our kūpuna understood the harmony of fresh and saltwater, the placement of each pōhaku, and the spiritual reciprocity with land and sea. Their engineering was ceremony, their science, aloha. Even now, in a world consumed by extraction, the loko iʻa stands as proof of another way.

A single fishpond can yield over 166 kilograms of fish per acre. ʻAlekoko, at 32 acres, could produce over 5,000 kilograms – once part of a network of fourteen loko iʻa along Hulēʻia. These ponds amplified fish stocks, feeding communities through hukilau that nourished the island. Our ancestors didn’t take from the pond; they nurtured it as a system-wide incubator, ensuring that life flowed outward to all.

Today, a new generation carries the mantle of aloha ʻāina. Their leadership is global, blending ancestral wisdom with modern innovation. The prophecies of Aunty Pilahi Paki and Kapihe are unfolding – Hawaiʻi emerging as a beacon of regenerative practice. Our islands remind the world that economies can be distributive, circular, and rooted in care rather than consumption.

The 800-year-old rock wall, rebuilt by our community, draws thousands to restore the pond and their connection to ʻāina. Guided by the principle of Hulihia – the cycle of upheaval and renewal – we understand that change is constant. Each generation must navigate its own shifts, learning in rhythm with nature. Restoration is not just about food; it is about mindset – rejecting scarcity, embracing abundance, and allowing adaptive management to flourish.

The loko iʻa now nourishes body and economy. It provides food, creates jobs, and supports new indigenous enterprises – fish fertilizer, shellfish cultivation, limu propagation, and kalo farming – all contributing to food sovereignty and health. Hawaiʻi moves closer to freeing itself from dependence on imported goods.

Once, our culture was commodified – our people framed as entertainers for visitors seeking paradise. That narrative nearly erased us. But today, models like the fishpond stand as living systems of innovation and community. This circular economy is awakening global consciousness, challenging extractive paradigms, and proving that indigenous values hold the blueprint for sustainability. Frameworks like ʻĀina Aloha Economic Futures guide us on this journey.

Soon, students from the local charter school will arrive – not for a tour, but for initiation into a way of life. These keiki will one day lead the halemua and Manokalanipō University, carrying forward lessons of balance, adaptation, and leadership rooted in ʻāina.

We stand in the turning of an age – flipping the script of capitalism and returning to the wisdom of nature. The answers to our collective future have always been here, embedded in ʻāina and carried in our moʻokūʻauhau. ʻĀina momona – flourishing land – is more than the soil beneath us. It is the thriving mind, body, and spirit of our people.

We are the answer to our own needs. Ever learning, evolving, adapting, and giving back, we live the values we profess – guided by the ancestors, grounded in the land, and illuminated by the rising sun.

Mason Chock is the President of Kupu Aʻe Leadership Development on Kauaʻi, specializing in experiential education. A Certified Master Facilitator of The Leadership Challenge, he also facilitates Everything DiSC, Five Behaviors of a Cohesive Team. As a coach, consultant, and keynote speaker, Mason drives social change through leadership growth across business, education, and government. A former Kauaʻi County Council vice chair, he is also a cultural practitioner of uhau humu pohaku, hoʻoponopono and lāʻau lapaʻau.

I am not from Kaua‘i. That feels important to say first.

When Kaua‘i Federal Credit Union was repurposing an old furniture store in Kapa‘a into an economic resilience center called Kalukalu @ 1624, I was invited to join them as a regenerative designer.

However, I quickly learned that regenerative design arrived here two thousand years before I did. The problem was, it was rapidly degrading.

Kaua‘i is one of the most beautiful places on Earth – and one of the most divided. Billionaires buy land for retreats while natives are being pushed to the mainland. Now, more Hawaiians live off the islands than on them, and the knowledge that once sustained Hawai‘i is either awkwardly exported to places it doesn’t belong or absorbed by tourists who can’t grasp its depth. As the people are displaced, so is their wisdom.

Still, if you listen closely – to the people, to the plants, to the ocean – the island is not dead. The wealth of Hawai‘i has never been its resorts or its real estate. Its wealth is in its knowing: centuries of understanding how to live on a volcano in the middle of the ocean and thrive. It’s not just resilience. To me, it’s genius.

When I start any design process, I begin with what I call The Living Story. It’s a way of asking what the land wants, what it will support, and what it will permit. It’s rooted in the remembering that humans are nature, that nature grows for free, and that our job is to add to the beauty. The most important part of the Story is listening: to the place and to the people who’ve had the longest relationship with it.

As we engaged the Indigenous Knowledge holders, one of the most powerful Hawaiian proverbs that emerged was: he wa‘a he moku, he moku he wa‘a – “the canoe is the island, and the island is the canoe.” Like the canoe, when you’re isolated on a volcano, every resource matters. You work with what you have. You cooperate. You listen.

I’m still learning how to listen.

From this perspective, Hawai’ians have created incredible regenerative designs. For example, the Alakoko Fishpond – a five-acre pond near Līhu‘e – that once sustained huge populations of aquatic life and therefore human life. Part of the ingenious design was an original 2,700 foot rock wall that had since been buried under invasive mangroves, until locals began restoring it. In October of 2022, a call was made to get 2,000 people to rebuild the rock walll, and through my relationship with Mason Chock, I was invited to join. 

Alakoko Fish Pond

When I arrived early, some locals seemed skeptical. One joked, “Another haole here to tell us how to build our wall”, which I thought was fair. History has given every reason for that skepticism. Foreigners have been telling Hawaiians what to do for centuries. And for centuries, we’ve seen the Hawaiian islands decline. 

By midday of the rebuild, the sun was high, and a sea of people were working shoulder to shoulder, passing stones through the water. We didn’t finish the wall that day, but that wasn’t the point. The point was being together – rebuilding not just a fishpond, but a connection to the past, the future, and a relationship to place.

Nearly 2000 people rebuilding a 800 year-old rock wall at Alakoko Fish Pond

When the work ended, a call rose from the hillside, followed by chants and hula. Locals slapped the stones in rhythm, blessing them. It was ceremony. It was community.

A small section of the 2,700 foot rock wall

It was one of the most profound lessons in my career. In my PhD, I explored how Western systems have been built on Newtonian ideas of separation, control, and prediction. On seeing humans as a dominant species. Yet, as the tide rose, I was watching a 2000-year-old society build a structure that danced with its environment and regenerated its environment. Through the chants and the act of building itself, I could see that it was also an act of regenerating a culture. And design became much bigger than technical engineering. 

For Native Hawaiians, this was part of their history. For me, it is a lesson still being learned.

One of the key principles of He wa‘a he moku, he moku he wa‘a is that we’re all in this canoe together. Our survival depends on how well we work together, with what we have. Whether it’s a canoe, an island, or the planet.

Kaua‘i, to me, is not a postcard of paradise. It’s a teacher – showing the world what it means to live regeneratively, not in theory, but in practice. Rock by rock. Hand by hand.

Letting nature lead. And letting those with the longest relationship with the land lead how we think, behave, and create, in harmony.

When people think of Appalachia, too often they picture a land defined by deficit – poverty, addiction, “backwardness.” Rarely do they see a region that has been the backbone of American industry, or a people who have fought – and continue to fight – for dignity, equity, and justice. Appalachia is more than mountains and coal. It is a region overlooked not just by policymakers and investors, but by a broader narrative of who builds America.

The extraction of coal built cities far from these hills, fueled wars, and powered factories. But here, in the communities closest to the mines, coal extraction left behind stripped mountains, broken economies, and divided towns. And yet, even in this story of loss, there are stories of resilience and resistance that few outside the region know.

Take the Mine Wars of the early 20th century. In Matewan, West Virginia, Appalachians of European and African ancestry, banded together to confront the brutal inequities of the coal industry. They risked everything to demand fair pay, safe working conditions, and dignity.

The 1920 Matewan Massacre, where miners faced down private detectives sent by coal companies, became a flashpoint. Just a year later, the Battle of Blair Mountain erupted and remains the largest armed labor uprising in U.S. history.

These weren’t just skirmishes in a forgotten coalfield. They were defining moments in the American labor movement. The bravery of these multi-ethnic coalfield worker coalitions laid the groundwork for modern unions, inspired generations of organizers, and forced the nation to consider the idea that workers’ rights are civil rights. And yet, this history is rarely told. It is tucked away, like the coal itself, buried beneath layers of neglect. But it reverberates today.

The conditions of extraction are not relics of the past. Appalachia continues to feel the weight of economic disinvestment and environmental degradation. Communities have been written off, treated as places without potential. This overlooking is not accidental; it is the continuation of a narrative that has always placed profit over people, and extraction over investment.

And yet, a different story is emerging.

At Coalfield Development, we believe those most impacted by extraction must be at the forefront of designing new solutions. We see our work as an act of reclamation – not just of land or of jobs, but of dignity, solidarity, and future.

Through enterprises in construction, solar installation, agriculture, and more, we’re proving that Appalachia is not a geography to be pitied or exploited, but one to be partnered with and invested in. We hire people who have been locked out of opportunity – those recovering from addiction, returning from incarceration, or struggling in generational poverty – and we don’t just give jobs, we are co-creating a new economy from the ground up.

But this is more than economics. It is about weaving back together a social fabric decades of exploitation have frayed. Just as miners once defied the logic of division, we are seeing bonds grow across race, class, and background. People who were told their lives didn’t matter are now leading enterprises, building homes, and planting seeds – literally and figuratively – for a new Appalachia.

What happens in overlooked geographies matters for all of us. When regions are written off, so are the people in them. And yet, from Appalachia to the Mississippi Delta, to tribal nations, to Black Belt towns, the overlooked are often the ones carrying the deepest wisdom about how to build resilient, just, and connected communities.

Appalachia’s story is not one of despair, but of determination. It is a story of people who refused to be disposable, who fought for one another even when the world was content to turn away.

Today, that legacy continues. By placing power back into the hands of those most impacted, organizations like Coalfield Development are not only building a new economy – we are rebuilding trust, solidarity, and hope.

In the face of extractive histories, overlooked people and places can, and do, become home to innovation, strength, and renewal. The overlooked are rising, and in their rising, they offer us all a blueprint for justice.

A Charleston, WV native, Marilyn Wrenn joined Coalfield Development in 2016 as Chief Development and Strategy Officer. With 30 years in community and economic development across Appalachia, she’s worked in the public and nonprofit sectors, focusing on rural economic opportunity, microenterprise, and poverty alleviation. She holds a master’s in Communications and Environmental Systems, a B.S. in Communications, and Economic Development Institute accreditation. Off-duty, she enjoys travel, painting, gardening, birdwatching, and life on her mountain farm.

My home is located in a Resident Owned Community, fondly known as a ROC, for residents who are 55 years old and older. My personal story is not unlike that of many folks residing in manufactured housing communities. Everyone’s details are a bit different, but the basic need is the same – the need for a stable and affordable home in a good neighborhood.

Several years ago, I sold my home in the New York metropolitan area and returned to Maine, bringing my corporate job with me. For several years I lived in various rental properties. As the housing market became more volatile and less available, I realized the need to stabilize my living situation for the future and my retirement years. After much searching, I arrived at what I felt was an affordable solution – buying a manufactured home and leasing space in a privately-owned park. I was lucky enough to find a well-run park with attractive owner-occupied homes in the town where I had grown up. 

Three years after joining Mountainside, my real education in the world of manufactured housing began. The residents were advised that the park was up for sale. Since our location is a tourist destination and is prime coastal real-estate, our 27 acres were vulnerable to many forms of development. As homeowners, but not land owners, we were all extremely concerned for the stability of our resident status. Thankfully, rather than listing the property, opening it up to the highest bidder, the owner wanted to sell to the residents. He contacted Cooperative Development Institute (CDI) paving the way for us to purchase the park at a fair market value. With the assistance of CDI and ROC USA, many community meetings later, the residents of Mountainside became a not-for-profit corporation, formed a management team, and obtained financing. On December 11, 2019, we became owners of the land beneath our homes.

As we went through this process, I learned firsthand the rewards of owning our park: 

• Permanent tenancy based on carefully drafted bylaws and rules. 
• Stability of monthly lot fees based on the actual cost of maintaining the property and saving for future capital improvements. 
• 52 homes occupied by responsible homeowners and taxpayers working together for the good of their community.

With park ownership there have also been challenges. Through connection with other communities in the ROC network, I was exposed to the larger picture of manufactured housing communities.

I learned about other communities being bought up by investors, and rent increases that threatened the ability of residents to stay in their homes. I regularly receive inquiries from out-of-state investors wanting to add Mountainside to their real-estate portfolios.  

I learned that manufactured homes in our state are not eligible for standard home mortgages. This equates to limited funding and high interest rates, making it difficult to get financing for a home in our community. Because lenders categorize manufactured homes as non-essential chattel, they become the substandard guest at the homeownership table.

I decided to join the Maine ROC Strong Legislative Team. While testifying for Offer to Purchase legislation, I clearly saw prejudice and misinformation surrounding manufactured housing communities and their residents. Some elected officials were unaware of how many of their constituents lived in manufactured housing communities.

Our state is making great strides, but considering the housing crisis which exists in our nation today, there is still a great need for education and legislative action throughout our country, to clear the way and raise awareness of the changing face of this important nonsubsidized source of affordable housing.  

ROC’s structure provides a framework, guidance, and support for communities to be successfully owned and managed by residents. It was fortunate that we were able to adopt the process of park ownership. I will continue to advocate for my own community and to raise awareness so that others may have the opportunity to experience the stability and pride of home and park ownership.

Margaret Jones serves as Board President of Mountainside Community Cooperative, ROC Association New England Director, and is a member of the Maine Manufactured Housing Board. Since 2019, Margaret Jones has dedicated her efforts to the importance of raising the perception of manufactured housing communities and advocating for level playing fields for this valuable source of responsible and affordable home ownership.

We sat down with Julie Massa to learn more about resident-owned communities and how ROC USA puts the power in the hands of residents.

TSAL: Julie, can you share a bit about your background and how you became involved with ROC USA?

Julie Massa: Years ago, I started in the policy department of a food bank, working primarily on organizing, policy, and involving emergency food recipients in advocacy. Over time, housing became crucial to me, especially as I interacted with residents in manufactured home communities. I worked as a lobbyist for affordable housing providers and CASA of Oregon, helping communities organize and purchase the land beneath their homes through co-ops. When I joined ROC USA in 2020, I took on the role of relationship manager for ROC USA affiliates, known as Certified Technical Assistance Providers (CTAPs). Recently, my focus has shifted more toward the ROC Association, helping lead top community leaders nationwide. After 15 years, I’m still inspired by the mission – empowering residents to own and run their communities.

TSAL: For those unfamiliar, what exactly is a Resident-Owned Community (ROC), and how does it function?

Julie: A ROC is a community where the residents collectively own the land beneath their homes. Typically, these are incorporated as cooperatives. What this means is residents can elect a board, make collective decisions, and have real control and security over their futures – much different from being at the mercy of outside landlords or investors. ROC USA helps provide both access to capital and technical assistance to guide them through this process – formation, financing, and ongoing management.

TSAL: What are some misconceptions about manufactured housing and these communities?

Julie: “Mobile homes” are not truly mobile. It’s prohibitively expensive to move one, as high as $15,000 to move one ranch style home, and they often can’t be relocated at all. Another misconception is that these communities are rundown by default. In reality, I’ve seen beautiful, vibrant resident-owned communities, even gated neighborhoods, places with pride and cohesion. 

I don’t think the field thinks about manufactured housing as actually the largest source of unsubsidized affordable housing in the country. And if they’re cooperatives, they are self-sustaining. The cooperative owns it collectively, and the space rent is their revenue to operate the business. 

TSAL: What are the main threats facing manufactured home communities today?

Julie: The biggest threat is from private investors who see these parks as cash cows. Some park owners see the parks as legacy projects to hand down to their children. And real estate brokers make a lot of money when these parks sell. Some parks were selling three or four times in two years, and the brokers make closing costs each time they sell. It’s on the backs of the residents that fuel this profit that investors make. That’s the real story. It’s not an overlooked market.

When investors buy, rents tend to go up, infrastructure is neglected, and residents’ futures become uncertain. Sometimes, families are displaced with minimal compensation. Parks that once sold for $500,000 now sell for millions, making it harder for residents to compete and stay. ROC USA’s mission is to change that by helping residents buy these parks themselves before that happens.

The stigma of manufactured home communities is that they are undesirable or even blighted places to live. Many jurisdictions ban these communities and zone them out. In fact, the residents in these communities have yards and amenities that they would not have in an apartment. Mobile home communities should be a housing choice.

TSAL: Why is it so important that residents are able to own their parks?

Julie: One of my favorite stories is about a construction foreman who had lived in his community for years under a private owner, watching infrastructure decline. He was ready, with a list in hand, to fix everything once the residents took ownership. When the co-op formed and purchased the property, they made those improvements and created lasting stability. Another example is from Minnesota: the residents prioritized building a storm shelter for children waiting for the bus. It took ten years, combining reserves and raised funds, but they accomplished it together. The residents know best what they need in their parks. When they have ownership, they can make it happen. That’s true empowerment.

TSAL: Once residents own their communities, how does ROC USA continue to support them?

Julie: ROC USA and affiliated organizations provide ongoing technical assistance, especially monitoring democratic practices within the co-ops. Democracy isn’t always easy – sometimes there’s pressure to revert to top-down leadership. Our TAs act as democracy stewards, ensuring collective governance stays in place. We also hold communities accountable to their loan agreements; when ROC USA helps finance a purchase, the residents are expected to maintain the community, make improvements, and repay the loans.

TSAL: You mentioned legislative efforts to help residents buy their communities. Can you explain those?

Julie: The big push is for “opportunity to purchase” (OTP) or “right of first refusal” legislation – giving residents notice and a chance to match purchase offers for their parks. It doesn’t force owners to sell to residents, but it does give them a fair shot, time, and sometimes the benefit of media attention to bolster their offer. Implementation varies by state; for example, Oregon now requires owners to notify residents when parks go up for sale. ROC USA supports these efforts, but we’re careful to let residents and supporting attorneys lead the charge.

TSAL: What is a new narrative that you hope practitioners might understand about manufactured home communities?

Julie: I hope people recognize manufactured housing as a crucial element of affordable living – not a last resort, but a viable, dignified life option. Empowering residents leads to strong, stable communities. With the right support, these communities not only survive but thrive. If we don’t pay attention, we risk losing one of the most important sources of affordable housing in the U.S.

Julie Massa is the Network Support Manager with ROC USA.She previously worked as Lead Technical Assistance Provider in a ROC USA affiliate, CASA of Oregon. Julie has a long history of working to empower people of modest means to speak with elected officials and gain collective ownership of the land they live on.