By: Dr. Christiana Best-Giacomini
April 4, 2025
I’ve been part of the same book club since 2014, and while eleven years may not sound like much to some, it feels ancient to me—longer than my first marriage lasted. It began with an old friend’s invitation to join a group she was organizing. What started as a casual get-together quickly evolved into a tightly-knit circle of middle-aged women—with me, at 53, being the youngest.
At first glance, we may have seemed cut from the same cloth. Five of the six founding members were social workers; the sixth, a psychologist. Some of us were still working full-time in academia, while others had thriving private practices. Even those who had retired weren’t fully done—they continued part-time work, still deeply connected to the field. But beneath our shared professions and life stages, I stood out. I was the only immigrant. The only West Indian. That difference, once invisible, slowly emerged as meaningful. It shaped how I engaged in our conversations and, perhaps, how those conversations landed with me.
In those early days, we met monthly in one another’s homes. There were food, wine, and marked-up books, but also space for reflection, laughter, and vulnerability. Our discussions could be tender or intense—only social workers and therapists can dissect a novel with both clinical insight and personal truth. The book club was never just about reading; it was about witnessing one another’s lives unfold in real time.
As the years passed, things shifted. Life intervened. Some members moved away or became too busy to keep up. We expanded to eight members at one point, but eventually dwindled. When the pandemic hit, we moved our meetings online. Through it all, three of us remained—original members, still showing up month after month. That kind of consistency isn’t loud or flashy. It’s quiet, steady, and deeply meaningful.
Then came January 20, 2025.
A new federal administration had just taken office, and among its first acts was to pass a series of restrictive executive orders targeting immigrants. As a social worker and co-founder of the Immigration and Global Social Work Collective, I was outraged. I threw myself into research, striving to understand the full impact of the orders and how they would harm immigrant communities. I poured my findings into a policy brief, which was published by the National Association of Social Workers, hoping to equip fellow social workers with the tools and context to support their immigrant clients.
By the time our January 31st book club meeting rolled around, I was charged with urgency. When the Zoom room opened and we began our regular check-in, I jumped in first. I spoke—anxiously, passionately—about what was happening. The policy attacks. The terror they inspired. The stakes. These were the kinds of conversations we’d had before: ones grounded in injustice, trauma, and advocacy. Normally, we’d lean in, eager to process together.
But something felt different.
My friends listened, and they responded with empathy—but their tone was slower, more deliberate. There was a noticeable absence of urgency. The fire I expected—the activism we’d always shared—wasn’t there. I don’t remember every word exchanged, but I remember this: one of them said gently, “We’re resting. Black Americans are resting.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Over the next two months, I sat with it. As a Black woman living in America, I’ve always seen myself as connected to African American experiences. But this moment brought something into sharp relief: I am both an insider and an outsider. My identity as an immigrant means I bring a different urgency, a different lens, even among those I love and trust. My friends weren’t dismissive. They simply weren’t carrying the same weight, in the same way, at the same time.
Still, I was disappointed. These are women I deeply admire—women who have never hesitated to show up for justice. And yet, their activism felt absent when I expected it most.
So I turned to what I know best: research. I talked to colleagues and friends, explored social media, and listened. A clear message echoed across conversations: Black Americans are tired. Tired of being expected to lead every movement. Tired of putting their bodies on the line for causes that don’t always reciprocate their investment. Tired of being last hired, first fired. Tired of always being the moral compass of a nation that continues to fail them.
And they’re not wrong.
What I also learned was that African Americans have long fought for policies that immigrants like me now benefit from. When I began digging into the roots of birthright citizenship—a policy under attack in the recent executive orders—I found that its origins are deeply tied to Black liberation. The Fourteenth Amendment, ratified in 1868, was a direct response to the Dred Scott decision that declared people of African descent could never be citizens. The Citizenship Clause was created to ensure that all people born on U.S. soil would be recognized as citizens—regardless of race.
Fast forward to 1965: the Immigration and Nationality Act was passed, a landmark reform fueled by the momentum of the Civil Rights Movement. It ended the racially biased quota system and opened the door for people of color from Asia, Latin America, the Caribbean, and Africa to immigrate in greater numbers.
Even the 1990 Immigration Act, which created the Diversity Visa program, owes something to Black advocacy. In response to the bill’s push for “diversity,” the Congressional Black Caucus successfully lobbied for the inclusion of African nations. That visa has brought thousands of African immigrants to the U.S.
So, to my African American sisters, I say this: I understand your need to rest. Truly. And I thank you.
My family is here because you fought—sometimes alone, often relentlessly. My son was born with birthright citizenship because of the battles you’ve already waged. I am here, not just because of immigration policy, but because of Black resistance. Because you laid the foundation.
So rest. And know that while you do, some of us—those who benefited from your labor—will carry the next stretch forward.
Dr Christiana Best is a Assistant Professor at the University of Saint Joseph, Connecticut
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