In the heart of North Carolina, the story of the Carter family beats strong. A testament to resilience woven through Black America’s turbulent yet triumphant history. Their tale, rooted in Durham—a city alive with history and Black excellence—unfolds like a tapestry woven from the rich threads of New Jersey and North Carolina.
There is Deborah Kamilah Carter, at 75 the bedrock of her family, a living archive of stories. She is the grandmother of six, with one great-granddaughter, and the mother of three daughters, including Afiya Carter, 51. Afiya, alongside her wife, kynita stringer-stanback (as she styles her name), 49, parents Afiya’s two daughters, Naeemah Kelly, 31, and Assata Goff, 23, and son, Sekou Goff, 21. Each family member has carved their path of activism, championing education and community empowerment. What unites them all is a relentless commitment to fighting for racial justice, driven by a shared belief that their voices can spark the change their ancestors dreamed of.
But this isn’t just one family’s narrative; it’s the chronicle of countless Black women who have shouldered the weight of a nation.
Black women have long been the unsung heroes of the political arena—steadfast, unrelenting, and often unacknowledged. They are the backbone of voter turnout, driving civic engagement with fierce determination born from centuries of struggle and survival. And in a display of support unmatched in any other voting demographic, it is to one party they have shown allegiance. For nearly a quarter of a century, an astounding 90% or more of Black women voters have rallied behind the Democratic ticket in presidential elections. In the last election alone, in nearly every state, 80% to 90% of Black voters cast their ballot for the Democratic candidate. It’s a consistency that spans regions and decades. This isn’t merely about politics; for these voters it’s about survival and progress.
Yet even as Black women form part of the heart of the Democratic Party’s electorate, there is often a troubling dissonance in this relationship. Despite their overwhelming commitment and support—proving that they are not just participants in democracy but a very lifeblood of its promise—the Democratic Party frequently fails to deliver the substantive changes that Black communities desperately need in areas like education, health care costs, crime reduction, and addressing racial issues. It’s a bitter pill for the Carter family and many others, serving as a stark reminder of a system that continually asks for everything while offering so little in return. So why do they keep voting for the Democrats? And can the party keep taking their support for granted?
As the 2024 election nears, with Vice President Kamala Harris leading the Democratic ticket, the Carters’ story—at once unique yet emblematic—underscores the critical stakes for Black women voters and how their role in today’s political arena has evolved over the generations. It’s a love letter of sorts to the party they have supported for decades. And it’s a tale of hope, of dreams, of action, of fighting for their rights and taking the future into their own hands. But it’s also a caution, a warning shot across the bow, that a lifetime of unfulfilled promises is not enough for a community that has propelled presidents to victory but often been left behind.
The Big House: Where It All Began
“I didn’t always agree with everything the Democratic Party stood for, but I felt more aligned with their policies than anyone else’s,” Kamilah (she goes by her middle name) tells me, sitting in her cozy New Jersey home, her vibrant red ombré bob catching the afternoon light. “I never considered voting for a Republican. They never represented me or my family’s interests. Never. Not even with Ronald Reagan.”
The only Republican she vaguely recalls considering was Dwight Eisenhower, but she quickly dismisses that as childhood naivete. “I was probably in elementary school, just coming out of World War II. But as I grew older, I thought that the Republicans were against us at every turn.”
Her political education was shaped from the heart of her own home in Newark. Born in 1949, the youngest of three sisters, she remembers a house always buzzing with “political leaders. We’d wake up on Sundays never knowing who might join us for breakfast or dinner—figures like Melba Moore and Cicely Tyson.
“My father was an activist,” she explains.
As a result her family home—the “big house,” a 17-room family-owned property filled with cousins, dreams, and community in the South Ward of the city’s Clinton Hill neighborhood—was not just a residence but a nucleus of intellectual fervor, guided by a steadfast motto: “Family comes first, always.” Education, community service, and being “raised in the Democratic party” were pillars of their upbringing, instilled by her father, LeRoy Johnson—a WW II veteran who cast a presence that loomed large in their home in the 1960s. “He believed that once you completed your education, your first duty was to your family and community,” says Kamilah.
“He founded programs in our projects, including the Boy Scouts, and was involved in politics with the Committee for Unified Newark. We remember our dad going to the library, reading, talking about Marcus Garvey. He was a complete fan of Malcolm X.”
Spending a childhood surrounded by activists and thought leaders in a period of significant social upheaval and progress for Black communities across America—with the Civil Rights Movement in full swing and segregation’s end on the horizon—buoyed Kamilah with hope. “We always just felt good about who we were, the skin we were in. Even though we were aware of all the problems—because my dad always kept us abreast of them.”
LeRoy Johnson’s commitment to his children’s education—academic and societal—bore fruit when Kamilah’s eldest sister, Golden Elizabeth Johnson, became Newark’s first Black female judge at just 28. “She graduated as a scientist in bacteriology but felt the best way she could help was to go to law school because of what was going on in the world. She believed that reaching the corporate level was not helping the community and not helping her family.”
Kamilah’s own career path was more circuitous, although still rooted in education and nurture. The year after she graduated from college, she got married. And after having her three children, Afiya, Adiylah, and Nafisah, she focused on being a mother and wife. It was also during this time that Kamilah converted to Islam and discovered a new community to call a home.
“At the forefront, I thought my career was raising my children,” she says. “So I always had them in cultural activities. But reality set in, and I went to work. My girlfriend said, ‘You’re a social worker. Why are you just sitting home having babies?’”
In 1979 she relocated to Durham, North Carolina, with her youngest daughter, Nafisah Carter. The rest of the family—her then husband, Afiya, and Adiylah—joined them in February 1980. This move also gave Kamilah the opportunity to work outside the home. She started back to work as a housing counselor, then opened a day care, and later ventured into handcrafted and high-end fashion jewelry at Crabtree Valley Mall for more than a decade before returning to her true love—“family and community”—working as a clinical intake specialist for substance abuse programs. She describes that role as the highlight of her career.
But while her life evolved—and after many more decades brought her back again to New Jersey—her politics have remained steadfast. Kamilah can’t remember an election in which she hasn’t voted Democrat, and she intends to do the same this year.
“I still think that it’s the Democratic Party that’s going to show up for my personal interest more so than anyone else,” she says, “even with all the concerns and the issues that I have.”
And those concerns? She is enraged by the maternal health crisis: “How in this country, the United States of America, are we at the bottom of maternal health? How have so many women, especially Black women, died during childbirth? How does that happen?”
She is upset by corporate greed: “Companies that own our farmland and produce our food are making more money than ever, and we can’t even get to the grocery store without being price-gouged.” She is troubled by “the banning of books, the attacks on diversity, equity, and inclusion.” And, she says, “Foreign policy is a struggle for me. And the wars going on around the world—the situation in Gaza, Sudan, the Congo, Haiti…. It’s affecting my heart.”
Even though she accepts that some of these issues are as much failures of the Democrats as the Republicans—“Of course, I don’t agree with everything, but who does?”—Kamilah believes that the alternative is worse.
“I’m not sure that if someone else is in the office that we’ll still be able to go out and protest or go to a meeting and discuss stuff that we don’t believe in, and not be harmed by our opinions. I never could understand why Black folks, people of color, ever thought the Republican Party represented us at any level.”
Instead she has placed all her generations of pent-up hope in a new future, one that she feels has come closest to representing her right now. When Vice President Kamala Harris announced her candidacy for president in July, Kamilah was one of the 44,000 Black women who made history by raising over $1.4 million within three hours on the Win With Black Women call.
The Bull City
In a post–Black Girl Magic era, hope is the word the Carter family is holding onto. “Black women are having a moment,” says Afiya Carter from the front porch of her family home in Durham. Afiya, a 51-year-old Chancellor’s Distinguished Fellow at North Carolina A&T University, working on a PhD in applied science and technology with a focus on information technology, is the firstborn daughter of Kamilah.
She is thoughtful, calm, vastly knowledgeable, and the glue that holds her large, diverse family together. However, Afiya admits, “It’s hard for me to know that we’re having a moment while fearing for my children, afraid to counsel them to be their bright and shining selves.” The current divisive political climate casts a long shadow, creating uncertainty about the future.
With Afiya, the Carter family’s story moves beyond a tale of the past, becoming instead a narrative unfolding in today’s America, where cultural, and even local, identities are at the forefront of politics.
North Carolina has emerged as a pivotal swing state. The surge in Black voter turnout in 2020 (it went up 4%) showcased the community’s determination to shape the nation’s future, and Trump only narrowly won. With the 2024 election looming, the stakes for Black women in states like North Carolina couldn’t be higher.
At the heart of this political landscape is Durham—where Afiya and her wife, kynita, live—known as the City of Medicine. Its 36% Black population has significantly influenced the city’s development in education, health care, sports, science, business, and the arts. From the Civil War through the Civil Rights Movement and beyond, their contributions have molded the Bull City into a beacon of hope and progress. Icons like Booker T. Washington praised Durham’s Black leaders, including John Merrick, a former slave who founded Black Wall Street, fostering financial freedom in the Jim Crow South.
Yet Durham’s journey hasn’t been without struggle. Urban renewal projects decimated thriving Black neighborhoods like Hayti, redlining confined Black families and exacerbating economic and health disparities. Despite these challenges, leaders such as civil rights activist Ann Atwater stood tall, working with former Klan leader C.P. Ellis to transform the school system.
Durham’s Black history is its heartbeat, established by visionaries like architect Phil Freelon, who designed the Durham Station Transportation Center and the National Museum of African American History and Culture. The flourishing arts scene produced such figures as fashion editor André Leon Talley, painter Ernie Barnes, and jazz singer Nnenna Freelon.
Today, Durham is compared to Brooklyn and serves as a hub of Black achievement and creativity. From the halls of North Carolina Central University to the revived Black Wall Street, the Black community’s spirit of innovation and inspiration is palpable, making it a city where the Carter family and others can thrive. And it’s why, for them, local politics are as important as national.
As the election approaches, Afiya Carter is deeply concerned about such issues as gentrification, the sustainability of minority-owned businesses, and access to education. She actively advocates for these causes, trying to ensure that Black- and women-owned businesses thrive and that students have the resources to succeed in college or trade programs. Afiya has also fought against discriminatory state legislation such as Amendment One, which restricted family definitions in North Carolina, and the “bathroom bill” (House Bill 2), which mandated that people use bathrooms matching the gender on their birth certificate.
Born in New Jersey, Afiya and her siblings spent their early childhood in a culturally rich environment, celebrating traditions like Kwanzaa and later joining a vibrant Muslim community after their mother converted to Islam. “When we moved to Durham, it was definitely different,” Afiya recalls. “My parents had to explain Ramadan and fasting to our teachers.”
Afiya and her sisters had to navigate their unique identity. “The thing about Islam in my family was that functionally, we were different. Growing up surrounded by non-Muslims, it taught us to be okay with being different,” she says.
“It was a combination of all those things, along with activism and community advocacy, that set the stage for my parents to raise us,” Afiya explains. “They didn’t focus much on direct action like protesting, although I’ve done my fair share. Instead they instilled in us a deep understanding of our community and the world, encouraging us not to insulate ourselves from what was happening around us.”
Afiya’s journey in social justice began as a teenager. “My oldest daughter’s father and I advocated for a culturally responsive curriculum at the school board in the late ’80s or early ’90s, when we were in high school. I continued that advocacy throughout my life and raised my children to understand they were never too young to be active in the community,” she says. This commitment shaped her family dynamics.
When her two youngest children, Assata and Sekou, were just 15 and 13, she shared stories of kids marching for voting rights despite being too young to vote themselves. “My oldest daughter, Naeemah, grew into a leader through social justice camps at the Highlander Center and her tenure at Howard University,” Afiya says.
For Afiya, activism isn’t just ideological—it’s personal. She met kynita, a 49-year-old information activist, academic librarian, author, and water safety instructor, through their shared commitment to social justice. Together the women fought against Amendment One, which threatened marriage equality. “Amendment One was one of those things that I actively fought against where I helped to start a small coalition that went to all 100 counties to not get that amendment passed,” Afiya says.
Their relationship, and their activism, has had its costs: “kynita and I have lost friends and family members because we chose to be together, but ultimately we’re not crying about that. We’re not the only people who have lost folks to be together.
“It’s scary, too, to raise young adults in that kind of environment because I don’t always know how to counsel them,” says Afiya. But despite facing backlash for her beliefs, Afiya stands firm in not letting the differences tear them apart.
Her wife echoes this sentiment but also notes her own perspective. “I read the first draft of the Constitution, which excluded women, the enslaved, and the Indigenous. At 18, I realized this political system was set up without considering people like me,” says kynita. “So why should I register as a Republican or Democrat when neither party considered me a citizen?” Initially registered as independent, she says, “Today, my voter registration shows I’m unaffiliated.”
In 2012, when Obama was the incumbent Democratic Presidential candidate on the primary ballot in North Carolina, kynita saw an opportunity to make a strategic move. As an unaffiliated voter, she decided to use the Republican ballot and cast her vote for Newt Gingrich. “I knew he wasn’t going to win the nomination, but I wanted to take votes away from Mitt Romney,” she explains. This tactic underscores her approach to voting—as not just a straightforward Democratic voter, but a strategic participant who assesses the national landscape to determine where her vote can have the most impact.
History plays a big role in kynita’s political considerations: “They dropped bombs on Tulsa to take Black people’s businesses and land. The same sort of thing happened in Wilmington, North Carolina, in 1898. Wilmington was a major port with a Black postmaster and significant Black power in the community. There has never been a desire to share power, and I think that’s going to be our demise.”
Her connection to this struggle is deeply personal. “My maternal grandmother, Betty Jean Stringer, voted before the Voting Rights Act was passed in Rowan County and dared them to give her any kind of poll tax or test. My grandparents took voting very seriously, never missing an election. My paternal grandmother’s side of the family has been in Chapel Hill since the 1700s, and her ancestor, November Caldwell, was the coachman and footman to the first president of UNC Chapel Hill. Letting your voice be heard at the ballot box was something my grandparents thought was super important,” she says.
“My generation, Generation X of Black women in the South, were the first to be born with full citizenship rights,” kynita explains. The Voting Rights Act of 1965 and the Civil Rights Act of 1968 paved the way. “Voting wasn’t just a privilege; it was also a responsibility.”
Reflecting on the current political climate, kynita says, “I think Harris entering the race as the front-runner brings out vibrancy and youthfulness that has really been missing. She is speaking in a much more inclusive tone, focusing on the future of a United States, where all are included. That really resonates with a lot of people right now.”
Despite the deep grief of losing her father recently, kynita also holds onto the same hope as her wife and her mother-in-law. “I don’t want to give up on our country. I really don’t, and I think there are a lot of people, including my father, who are now my ancestors, who really fought hard for this nation. I’m going to do all that I can as a voter to make sure that I respect and honor that legacy and do my best as a voter to show up at the polls. I will do everything that I can to honor their struggle and their sacrifice.”
The Torchbearers: Carrying the Legacy
“My mom always gave me space to speak up and be heard, never belittling me as a child,” Naeemah tells me. At 31, Naeemah, the eldest daughter of Afiya, is soon to be a mother herself and works as the public relations director for Spirit House, a social justice organization in the state. Her life, filled with both joy and tragedy, has profoundly shaped her beliefs today. In her late teens and early adulthood, she faced significant trauma and has worked hard to move through it, healing in a way that has deeply influenced her political views.
“My brother, Zaire Beloved Kelly, on my paternal side, was killed less than a block away from his home by a young man who knew him his whole life. They were neighbors,” she recalls. Zaire was shot during an altercation. The young man who killed her brother had just been released from jail. He, too, died during the encounter. “My brother defended himself with a knife, and they both died right next to each other.”
The tragedy left both families with not just heartbreak, but so many unanswered questions. “The biggest question his family had was, ‘How did he get access to a gun when he had been home for less than a week? Where did he get the finances to purchase a gun?’”
For Naeemah, these questions highlight the systemic issues surrounding gun access and the cycle of violence in communities. “Of course he made his choices, but our society led him to those choices very strategically, and we just don’t really realize it,” she says.
Her experiences as a school student also inform her perspective: “I grew up going to a high school that had metal detectors, and there were times of violence at the school, but they were always led by other factors. Kids were hungry. Kids were in need of clothes. They were illiterate.”
She’s also acutely aware of how systemic issues within the prison, military, and police perpetuate a school-to-prison pipeline—and believes in dismantling them. “It’s all connected,” she explains.
Naeemah’s advocacy through her nonprofit focuses on addressing these root causes and pushing for policies that provide support and resources to prevent poverty, violence, and more. She believes that changes in these areas can directly improve the lives of the Black community, creating safer environments and empowering individuals to make better choices.
“I’ve worked to shed the skin of my trauma without erasing the person who went through it,” she says. Now motherhood has brought new perspectives for Naeemah. “When you have a little person inside you, you just can’t be angry all the time. My daughter doesn’t have any choice right now; she’s just in me.”
Naeemah’s work with a supportive nonprofit allows her six months of paid maternity leave, but she is stressed about the upcoming elections. “One candidate in North Carolina has said women should have no right to abortions, no matter the circumstance,” she says. The thought of her daughter growing up in a country where her body isn’t respected terrifies her. “I’ve thought about leaving the country to give her more options,” she admits.
For her, the Democratic Party offers the most hopeful path forward. She recalls the joy, when she was in ninth grade, when Obama won the Democratic primary. “I don’t know if any of the other generations will be able to appreciate that feeling of the first Black possible president. At the time it was just still a possibility, but it was crazy. The whole house roared and we just partied all night.” She has kept a picture of herself voting for him in 2012—her first presidential election. “I remember exactly what I was wearing.”
Today, though, she views politics through a more jaded lens. “The Underground Railroad, the Black Panther movement, any movement, pick a movement—Black women were at the center of it driving it, but we’re never written in history. I’ll always fight to receive something different. But at the end of the day, we influence politics and we do not get recognition for it. And the Democratic Party—it’s politics and using the people that you need to use to get the result that you would like.”
She still intends to vote Democrat, but it’s an increasingly less joyful experience. “Not voting is still making a choice. I want to be able to say I tried to make a difference for my child’s future,” she says. “That’s why I vote.”
Assata, the middle child and younger daughter of Afiya, represents a new generation with its own unique concerns—and perhaps the generation most at risk of deserting the party her ancestors have stood behind.
At 23 this artist brings a fresh perspective through her work in painting and sculpture. “I studied new media animation and Africana history at UNC Asheville,” she says. Since she was raised in the South as a Black Muslim, Assata’s background deeply influences her worldview. “I started taking discrimination personally in high school when we wore head wraps for Black History Month and were threatened with suspension. That experience opened my eyes to the nuances of discrimination,” she explains.
For Assata, activism “feels like walking up a slow incline, with your legs burning, but knowing there’s a beautiful view at the top,” she says. As an independent voter, she values gathering all the information and stepping outside her perspective, even when it challenges her beliefs. “Hurt people hurt people,” she notes, emphasizing the importance of understanding diverse viewpoints.
Current issues such as queer and transgender rights, bodily autonomy, and the erasure of Black history in education fuel her activism. “We show up for folks because we know that if we don’t vote, don’t speak our piece, don’t protest, everything we value can be taken away,” she says.
But she struggles with the anger she feels at society today. Of Black women she says: “We’re really good at getting our education, at showing up, at doing our research and using our vote that our ancestors have fought for. And in that aspect, it makes me feel really proud. And then it makes me feel really angry because people just take that for granted. And they do this thing where they’re like, they mobilize us. And we’re down and everything. And then it’s crickets for our rights and for the things that will ease our oppression.”
Assata remains hopeful by focusing on local elections and policies. “I see more immediate impacts in local efforts like Durham’s Harm-Free Zone [a community effort committed to repairing the damage of racism and oppression],” she says. National politics, however, leave her feeling disillusioned, and unlike almost all of the rest of her family, she is unsure what she will do come the election.
“I have been feeling like, What is the point of voting, and how do I use my vote in a constructive way, in a good way, in a way that is going to help everyone?” she says. Choosing between two parties feels like choosing “between a wolf and a fox,” she explains, drawing on Malcolm X’s words. “Both are eventually going to bite my head off—one in a direct way, and the other in an indirect way. And either way, it sucks.”
Photographed by Kennedi Carter
