Poet’s Corner: “Rosa Parks” by Nikki Giovanni

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North

Senior Editor

“Rosa Parks” by Nikki Giovanni from Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea. Copyright © 2002 by Nikki Giovanni. Reprinted in Poetry by permission of Harper Collins Publishers Inc.

A white sign with black capital letters, held up at a protest.

Note: This poem is not in the public domain! Please use the link above to read it.

In 1971, Nikki Giovanni spoke with James Baldwin at length in A Dialogue (also released as a book). When I first read it, not long after she passed away in December 2024, the texture and resonance of her voice felt like double-sided sticky tape. It hasn’t left me, and sticks to what I read now. Her conviction is unparalleled not only in its power but in its grace; grace as in its dexterity of love. And for that reason alone, I struggled to choose just one poem for this essay. Nikki still calls us with wit, fervour, and care. 

“Rosa Parks” stands out in its dense, uniform block of text. It conforms, you might say, to the shape of a column in a newspaper, complete with narrative flow. But it certainly doesn’t conform in its content, which isn’t beneath complex diction or syntax, but under the literal act of reading the poem. So few of us read poems by Black women. It’s a great month to start. They’ve been writing the truth—of love and violence—for centuries, under persecution and censorship, sowing wisdom the way enslaved Black women, aboard ships crossing the Atlantic, hid seeds in their hair.

Nikki’s poem is also the shape of an elegy, ode, or brick—to be thrown or built with. It’s the shape of heaviness. The ghosts of Thurgood Marshall, Gwendolyn Brooks, Emmett Till, and the Pullman Porters are with us. And they remain alive, in part because women like Rosa Parks (and Claudette Colvin, Viola White, Pauli Murray, and Elizabeth Jennings Graham) sat back down on a bus, and kept what was always theirs. It wasn’t her feet that were tired when Rosa, the field secretary of the NAACP, reclaimed that seat—on the bus and elsewhere. It was hers, and everyone’s before her. Nikki’s poem reminds us of a few things: Rest is a human right, and yes, Black women are strong in innumerable ways, one of which is when they choose rest as resistance.  

“Rosa Parks” further connects modes of transportation through time, non-linearly, resisting the linear flow of news that frequently refuses the past’s life in the present. “And this is / for all the people who said Never Again” remains a call to action. It feels eerily applicable, and even at the time the poem was written (2002), could be a reference to wars on Palestine and Afghanistan, still raging today.

And in our role, as readers and distributors of Nikki Giovanni’s poetry, we can look to the Pullman Porters she writes of. 

“The Pullman Company established its sleeper cars as a unique and luxurious way to travel, complete with the [carefully trained, typically formerly enslaved Black men], hired to be porters. Pullman Porters quickly became a staple of the Pullman Sleeping Car experience, often fighting to maintain a balance between good relations with the Pullman company and protesting for better conditions and wages. Pullman Porters are often attributed to helping create a [B]lack middle class in the United States, with their employees forming the first all-[B]lack union, The Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, in 1925.”

—Library of Congress

The Pullman Porters were the keepers of care and right to protest for their Black passengers. With this in mind, I admire the beckoning of a new manifesto, of sorts, with capitalization of ‘No’ in Nikki’s poem:

“No longer would / there be a reliance on the law; there was a higher law. When Mrs. / Parks brought that light of hers to expose the evil of the system, / the sun came and rested on her shoulders bringing the heat and / the light of truth. Others would follow Mrs. Parks. Four young / men in Greensboro, North Carolina, would also say No.”

“Rosa Parks” is an example of poetry as resistance, and therefore, as a commitment to storytelling in ongoing violence and its ever-unfolding aftermath. It’s a vow to truth-telling. And with that, because no one will ever say it better:

“But it was the / Pullman Porters who safely got Emmett to his granduncle and it / was Mrs. Rosa Parks who could not stand that death. And in not / being able to stand it. She sat back down.”

Why Libraries Are Vital Third Spaces, Featuring Dear TPL: The Passport Project

by Stephanie Ta for The 44 North

Co-Founder, The Toronto Public Library Passport Project

A black-and-white sketch of a public library

"The Toronto Public Library has supported people through moments that are deeply personal and often invisible. It has been there during unemployment, long study sessions, childhood afternoons, and later-in-life learning curves. These forms of support do not always get acknowledged."

On a beautiful summer day in July of 2024, I signed into our regular all-hands work meeting. Thirty minutes later, I signed off having learned that the full operations of the nonprofit we worked for would be closing its doors. We were all unemployed.

There was no dramatic buildup or warning, and it was strange how ordinary the information felt in the moment, even though everything was about to change. That kind of ordinariness sticks with you—it's a reminder that instability can creep up on you, even on beautiful summer days. 

It’s now 2026, and I still haven’t found long-term, permanent employment. Instead, I’ve juggled a long string of contracts. If I'm lucky, I have short roles and project-based work, meaning temporary positions with deliverable dates taking priority over purpose. This lifestyle has become familiar to zillennials in the questionable battlefield we call the workforce. With unpredictable employment crammed into long days and even longer nights, stability is an abstract concept; planning more than a few months ahead feels optimistic at best and foolhardy at worst.

It didn’t take long for me to realize how familiar my story is. Friends, colleagues, youth across the GTA, and hundreds of online strangers are all navigating similar realities. People are constantly moving between contracts, applications, side projects, and long stretches of waiting just to start. We’re all figuring out how to live without guarantees. Stability becomes less about things staying the same and more about knowing some places will still let you in. Life under capitalism means that we longingly emphasize our ability to own, control, and gain access. We yearn to have access—the type of access that means you don’t need to earn your right to exist in a space. You don’t have to be productive, successful, or certain. You can show up as you are, even when everything else feels in flux. 

This is the access we all dream about, which becomes grounding when nothing else feels secure or safe.

A model of the Riverdale branch of the Toronto Public Library, created from the pages of a book

During this very unplanned and unwanted gap period, I found myself spending a lot of time on the internet. I consume endless information that rarely makes me feel better. Feelings of comparison and competition close in even though I’m spending less time with real human beings. I needed a place to break out of these four walls and constant reminders of not having a place to actually be. I needed somewhere that did not expect productivity or optimism; somewhere that would let me exist without pressure. A place that doesn't cost anything. I’m one of the lucky ones because a place like that does exist. For me, one of those places is the TPL or its government name: The Toronto Public Library.

Some days, I went to the TPL to locate Knitting for Dummies. Other days, I went when I needed quiet space with outlets and backsupport. Most days, I just need to leave the house. The library has always given me somewhere to land. 

The library has always been important to me. Even as a kid, it felt special. It’s a place where you can wander without a goal and still feel like you’re going on an adventure. Walking through the aisles feels a bit like walking through a candy store. Every shelf offers a new possibility. You stumble into topics you never planned to learn about. If you speak more than one language, the world inside the library feels even bigger.

A library card unlocks more than books. It gives you access to museums, art galleries, and city attractions. It lets you learn how to sew or borrow equipment you might not be able to afford on your own. It makes curiosity feel affordable and within reach. It invites and welcomes you back into community. 

Youth Engagement Scarborough participants gathered on stage

Libraries are often described as quiet spaces, and they are. But they’re also places where people figure things out. For many, the library is one of the first public spaces they navigate independently. It’s where they print their first resume. It’s where they wait for friends after school. It’s where they sit without being told to buy something or move along. These moments are small, but they matter.

In my work with youth, I have seen how rare that kind of space is and how it’s continuing to dwindle. Many environments expect performance, progress, and answers. Libraries don’t. They allow people to exist while they are still becoming.

I know I’m not the only person who feels this way about libraries. So when my neighbour, Marisa, came to me with an idea, it immediately felt like something worth paying attention to.

Marisa told me about the unofficial Toronto Public Library passport—a passion project that encouraged people to collect stamps from each library branch they visited. As someone who moved to Toronto from the United States, Marisa discovered the library system as an adult. In many ways, she had explored more branches than people who grew up here. Her love for public access and community spaces made her wonder what the passport could become if it felt more intentional and reflective.

She asked if I wanted to help reimagine it, and of course, I said yes.

Stephanie on the steps of the Toronto Public Library’s Rivderdale branch in the winter

My background in nonprofit and social impact work meant I knew how to support a project like this. I knew how to coordinate people and move ideas forward. But it was my flexibility that made it possible. Contract work teaches you how to build things without waiting for perfect conditions. You learn how to make something real with what you have.

From the beginning, we were clear about one thing: This could not be a project about youth without youth being deeply involved. Too often, young people are asked to engage in ways that feel shallow. They are consulted after decisions are already made. They are invited to participate without being trusted to shape the work itself.

We wanted something different.

Youth volunteers were invited to visit their favourite branches not as researchers with scripts, but as community members. They talked to staff. They observed how people used the space. They noticed small details that are easy to overlook. They asked questions because they were curious, not because they were told to collect specific information.

What emerged were stories that felt real. They were not polished or uniform; they reflected how people actually experience the library.

One of the most meaningful parts of the project was the creation of branch-specific stamps. Designing a stamp sounds simple, but it requires people to think deeply about the place. What makes this branch feel like itself? What does it offer its neighbourhood? What stands out when you spend time there?

Turning those reflections into visual designs became a way of saying and emphasizing that their perspective mattered—not as a symbolic gesture, but in a real and tangible way.

This is what youth engagement can look like when it’s rooted in trust. Youth were not asked to represent an entire generation. They were not expected to perform expertise. They were invited to contribute as themselves.

Dear TPL: The Passport Project became our love letter to the Toronto Public Library. At a time when so much feels uncertain, it felt important to pay attention to the spaces that quietly support us. We wanted to capture what the library means to people and create room for reflection and memory.

Books stacked on top of a Toronto Public Library tote bag

Through Dear TPL, you’ll find a growing collection of stories, photos, and lived experiences from branches across the city. Youth and community volunteers documented moments that do not always appear in official histories. They focused on how spaces feel and why that feeling matters.

Creating something during a period of uncertainty can feel grounding. When the future feels distant or unclear, working on a project offers a way to stay present. Dear TPL was never meant to solve systemic problems. It was an act of care. A way of saying that these spaces mattered enough to be noticed.

The project is still growing, new stories are still being added, and youth are still encountering their local branches in meaningful ways. That ongoing nature feels right as libraries change alongside the communities they serve.

The Toronto Public Library has supported people through moments that are deeply personal and often invisible. It has been there during unemployment, long study sessions, childhood afternoons, and later-in-life learning curves. These forms of support do not always get acknowledged.

If Dear TPL does anything, I hope it encourages people to notice the spaces that support them and to share their own stories. For young people, especially, being trusted to help shape public memory is not just engagement; it is belonging. And sometimes, belonging is what keeps us going.

If you’d like to learn more or get involved—in Toronto or through the libraries in your city!—reach out to Stephanie here.

Why Climate Action Starts With Seeing People: The Warm Hearts Awareness Campaign

by Emily Kantardzic for The 44 North

Youth Climate Fellow—Stanford Climate Fellowship & Rustic Pathways

People in coats walking through a blizzard in a city

"One of the most important lessons the fellowship taught me is that you don’t need a perfect plan or a large platform to begin. I used to believe meaningful change required waiting—for the right idea, the right time, or the right level of confidence. This experience showed me that starting small isn’t a weakness. It’s often how change becomes possible."

Before joining the Stanford Climate Fellowship through Rustic Pathways, I thought climate change was something I understood. I followed the news, knew the statistics, and cared deeply about the issue. However, based on what I’d seen in the media, heard from adults, and believed, I thought: Because I’m a teenager, my voice isn’t big enough to make any change. It was amazing how wrong I was. After doing my research into the opportunities available to teens like me—who want to make change but don't know how to—everything shifted. My perspective on the change I could make transformed once I began connecting climate issues to real people and lived experiences through the sources that were right at my fingertips (and are at yours too!).

The fellowship wasn’t just about learning facts—it was about noticing how climate change shows up in everyday life. Through conversations, workshops, and shared projects, I started to see how environmental challenges are deeply tied to social ones, particularly for people who are already vulnerable.

One moment that stayed with me was realizing how extreme weather affects youth experiencing homelessness in my own city. Cold winters aren’t just uncomfortable—they can be dangerous. That realization pushed me to think differently about what climate awareness can look like when it’s rooted in local, human realities.

Learning to Take Action

As part of the fellowship, we were encouraged to design a project connected to our communities. That’s how Warm Hearts began—a youth-led awareness campaign focused on youth homelessness in Toronto alongside sustainable clothing practices. While it’s still early in its journey, Warm Hearts has already helped turn concern into action.

Through the campaign, I share information about youth homelessness, extreme cold, and the environmental impact of clothing waste on Instagram and TikTok (@warmheartsac). The idea is simple: donating gently used clothing can support young people in need while also reducing textile waste and the carbon footprint of fast fashion.

Partnering with Covenant House in Etobicoke, Warm Hearts has helped collect winter clothing and raise funds for youth experiencing homelessness. Equally meaningful are the conversations it sparks—moments when peers, friends, and community members pause to reflect on empathy, sustainability, and how they can make a difference in their own ways.

Emily wearing a red holiday sweater and a Santa hat, holding a hand-drawn Warm Hearts sign.

What I Took Away From the Fellowship

One of the most important lessons the fellowship taught me is that you don’t need a perfect plan or a large platform to begin. I used to believe meaningful change required waiting—for the right idea, the right time, or the right level of confidence. This experience showed me that starting small isn’t a weakness. It’s often how change becomes possible.

I also learned the power of sharing stories. When people understand why something matters, they’re more likely to care and stay engaged. That mindset has shaped how I think about climate issues, leadership, and community action.

Moving Forward

Warm Hearts is just the beginning. I hope it grows into a broader platform that inspires young people to get involved in issues they care about—whether that’s climate justice, homelessness, sustainability, or something else entirely.

More than anything, the fellowship gave me confidence: confidence to speak up, to try, and to keep going even when things feel uncertain.

The Warm Hearts logo

A Note to Other Young People

If you feel a calling to help change the world, that urge is already halfway to the goal. Your voice isn’t too small—don’t let anyone convince you any differently. In situations where most people follow the crowd and don't speak up about topics that really matter, don’t be a follower; be a leader. You don’t need everything figured out to begin. Paying attention, learning, and responding to what matters around you already counts.

Sometimes, meaningful change starts there—and if you want to see what that can look like, Warm Hearts is one example of how young people can take action in their communities. You can follow the journey on Instagram and TikTok @warmheartsac.