If history has taught us anything, it is that Black political power in Boston is fragile, often symbolic, sometimes sabotaged and nearly always dependent on relentless organizing. So where do we stand today? The answer is stark: nowhere near where we should be.
Black Bostonians make up nearly a quarter of this city, yet our political influence tells a very different story. On the City Council, only a handful of seats are consistently held by Black leaders, and the council presidency rises and falls without lasting leverage. At the state level, Andrea Campbell’s election as attorney general was groundbreaking, but too many Black legislators still take marching orders from white leadership rather than their own communities. Federally, Ayanna Pressley’s presence in Congress is monumental, but one voice in a 435-member chamber cannot carry the weight of an entire city.
Numbers don’t lie: we are underrepresented, under-leveraged, and under-engaged.
Voter turnout deepens the crisis. In municipal elections, participation in historically Black neighborhoods often hovers below 15%. That means nine out of 10 voices are absent.
In politics, silence is not neutral, it’s surrender. Low turnout gives candidates cover to ignore our concerns, allows policies to bypass our priorities and hands developers free rein to reshape neighborhoods without accountability.
Internal fractures have also cost us dearly. Take Charlotte Golar Ritchie’s 2013 mayoral run. She had a legitimate shot to become Boston’s first Black mayor, but other candidates of color stayed in the race long enough to divide the base. The result? Ritchie, despite strong credentials and citywide respect, was edged out. A history-making moment slipped away because ambition outweighed strategy.
Fast forward to 2021. Neither Kim Janey, serving as acting mayor, nor Andrea Campbell advanced to the final round. Instead, Michelle Wu, backed by progressive white voting blocs, and Annissa Essaibi George, a City Council member with union ties, went head-to-head. Wu’s victory was celebrated as historic, but it underscored the bitter truth: Boston has yet to elect a Black mayor, largely because we split our vote instead of consolidating it.
Even Deval Patrick’s gubernatorial rise, the first and only Black governor of Massachusetts, carried lessons. Patrick built a coalition beyond the Black community because he had to. While celebrated, his success didn’t translate into a lasting infrastructure for Black political power. We applauded the man but never built the machine.
And that is Boston’s enduring challenge: we’ve never created a durable Black political machine like the Irish, Italian or progressive white communities. Instead, we rely on individuals: Mel King, Chuck Turner, Gloria Fox, Dianne Wilkerson, Ruthzee Louijeune, Lydia Edwards, Liz Miranda. These leaders are extraordinary, but when they rise, they carry our hopes alone. When they falter, move on, or are blocked, the infrastructure collapses.
Sometimes, the wounds are self-inflicted. Politics in Boston’s Black community can be ruthless, endorsements traded for access, opportunities hoarded and fresh voices silenced under the guise of “waiting their turn.” Too often, we play politics with each other, competing for crumbs instead of demanding a seat at the head of the table. Worse still, we’ve seen “poverty pimps,” those who sell out the community for contracts, grants and proximity to power, prioritize personal gain over collective progress. Fresh leadership is dismissed, deferred or diluted by gatekeepers who claim to “build a bench” while blocking new players from the game. The result is a cycle of stagnation that weakens us from within as much as outside forces do from without.
Symbolism further clouds the picture. Wu’s election was hailed as progress, and it was. But she is not a Black woman. Symbolic victories matter, but symbolism without substance does not fix schools, create affordable housing or reduce violence in Roxbury, Dorchester and Mattapan.
Political power is a numbers game. When we do not show up, we forfeit our stake. When we split our votes, we weaken our chances. When we confuse symbolism with substance, we settle for representation without results.
Economic power follows political power. Zoning laws, contracts, budgets and development opportunities all flow through political decisions. Without consistent and organized engagement, those levers remain in others’ hands. Neighborhoods that vote become the priority; neighborhoods that don’t become invisible.
We are visible yet vulnerable. Our history is rich with pioneers, but our future is uncertain unless we shift. The stakes are not abstract; they shape schools, housing, policing, infrastructure and generational wealth. Boston thrives on a narrative of progress, but for Black Bostonians, the story is incomplete. We are present but underrepresented.
Celebrated symbolically yet sidelined systemically. History has shown that when we organize, we win; when we fracture or disengage, we lose.
The time for reflection is over. The time for collective action is now.
Civic invisibility is not destiny, it is a choice. And it is one our community can no longer afford.
We cannot clap for symbolic victories while our power slips away.
Boston’s Black political future depends on discipline, unity and relentless participation.
We are here. We are ready. If Part Two is about where we sit, then Part Three must ask, where do we go from here? Power is not inherited, it’s built. The next chapter must transform presence into permanence. History has handed us both a warning and a blueprint. The question is whether we will finally learn the lesson: divided we fall, organized we rise.
Jacquetta Van Zandt is a seasoned political strategist, commentator, and host of the podcast Politics and Prosecco, where she blends sharp political insight with accessible conversations on policy, power and civic engagement.
