Andrew Reginald Hairston

Hello to each of you–

I hope you’re hanging in there in these trying times. It’s been quite the season for me. I lost my second campaign for Justice of the Peace in Travis County, Texas six weeks ago, took a month off of work, rested, hit the road, and dreamed expansively of how to continually build upon my organizing as a Black socialist in the American South at this critical juncture of human history. As you can imagine, I have many thoughts; I’m excited to distill them through this forum.

On an administrative note, my Substack now serves as an archive. Feel free to check out my writing from 2023 to 2026 there. I imported my subscriber list to a WordPress-operated Jetpack newsletter, and you’ll now get updates from me here. I hope you’ll stay for the new phase of the journey, but I understand if you want to opt out. Send me a direct note if you want me to remove you from the list. If you do stay, please do consider becoming a paid supporter if you can swing it – the journey to the demise of capitalism is a long one.

I present the first piece of an updated newsletter: A Century Later

*****

Grandma Jackson entered the world on April 15, 1926 in Rodney, Mississippi. Like millions of Black people a century ago, she immediately faced exploitation as a sharecropper.

The same year, Fidel Castro was born in Cuba. Within that twelve-month stretch, Eugene Debs died, and the Austin Public Library commenced its operations.

A century is a significant milestone for a socialist. Literally one hundred years have elapsed since these monumental occurrences of 1926. It is humbling to connect with the rich intellectual tradition of comrades – through their writing and their personal impact on me – who lived ten decades ago. It is encouraging to see what mass movements won from 1926 to 2026 in a hostile organizing terrain. It is jarring that the conditions of the world in 2026, even with technological advancements, largely mirror what was happening in the mid-1920s.

A class of billionaires replaced oil barons. In 1926, the globe shifted from one world war to the next; in 2026, the United States needlessly devotes hundreds of billions of dollars toward imposing its corrupt, imperial will in Venezuela, Cuba, and Iran. A century ago, private philanthropy directed ill-gotten wealth toward building libraries; today, a wave of privatization threatens public goods through voucher programs & deregulated profiteering. What can be drawn from this seemingly endless history of imperialism, racism, and unrelenting greed?

I finished Socialism and Man in Cuba by Che Guevara and Fidel Castro yesterday, and I thank a dear comrade from Charlottesville for sending it to me at the end of 2025. Fidel’s contribution to this important text is basically a eulogy to Che, delivered in 1987 at the occasion of the twentieth anniversary of the American government murdering Che in Bolivia. Fidel expresses that “we must conclude that in the life of our revolution, Che never died, and that in reality he’s more alive than ever, is more influential than ever, and is a more powerful opponent of imperialism than ever.” He later remembers Che as “a man who never asked others to do something that he himself would not do first; a model of a righteous, honest, pure, courageous man, full of human solidarity.”

What a poignant legacy, clear vision, and rallying cry for socialists who are organizing today. We must consistently draw inspiration from our departed comrades, recognizing that our efforts will one day motivate comrades who have yet to arrive. On April 27, 1901, Eugene Debs spoke about the climax of capitalism, As he stared down his eventual prison sentences, he pushed us to realize that a glorious day would dawn when “the capitalists work for what they get, and the workers get what they work for.” He then reminded comrades that “every capitalist is your enemy, and every workingman is your friend.” In 2026, as isolation and despair run rampant, we must keep this wisdom in mind as we continue the work of our comrades from a century ago. We require a broad multinational, multiracial, and multigender coalition to achieve human dignity. We will get there with the foundation of socialist thought, which transcends time, as a bedrock. No one is disposable.

On what would’ve been Grandma Jackson’s one hundredth birthday, I reflect deeply on what she taught me and the gift she always will be to me. As a public school educator who worked in Madison Parish, Louisiana for thirty years, she taught me to think critically. She nurtured my love of reading as a child, and – in her own way – she pushed me to contend with the organized abandonment that generations of Black communities in the American South have faced. With her steadfast example in mind, I feel renewed each day to complete my mission and win a world where Black people own the means of production as they democratically determine how their public institutions operate. I am honored to remember Grandma Jackson as both a cherished forebear and a comrade.

We honor those who lived in 1926 – particularly Grandma Jackson – and look ahead to the better world that will await our comrades in 2126.

Venceremos (we will win)!

Toward the end of a recent work trip in Houston, I found myself with more free time than I imagined. Rather than rush back to Austin, I parked my rental right off of Allen Parkway and walked along the paths of Buffalo Bayou Park.

Earlier that morning, I grew restless as I refreshed the New York Times app on my phone. I witnessed broken windows, the deployment of tear gas, and brutal assaults – all done by masked police officers in Minneapolis, seemingly with impunity.

I meandered along a familiar small road, having spent time in the same park in the early days of the coronavirus pandemic. In some ways, my grief had abated; in others, it felt more pronounced than ever before.

I noticed the murky brown water flowing through the entire space. I knew it held memory in its own way. In its own fashion, it recalled the version of me from March 14, 2020; I appreciated this reality and gave into the continuity of time. What does one do when the world is too painful but go to a park? Six years later, a PJ Morton song plays in my head, and I acknowledge my pandemic-era evolution to truly flow like water through my life.

Houstonians passed me along the trail. The young, the old, the childless, the parent, the focused, and the dreamer converged on this public good during a quiet mid-January day. My soul sparked with each small nod, eavesdropped phone conversation, and subtle smile. We existed in this park together, connected in grand and unknowable ways.

I found a series of sculptures after thirty minutes on my sojourn. What was this meditative, inanimate person trying to tell me? I discovered them in a sequence – alone, but never far from another one. The artist who constructed them undoubtedly and intentionally placed each one. This powerful metaphor pushed me to a suspended spot, high above the ground below.

I reflected on the power of a bridge. Its deliberate measurements – fine-tuned at some of the smallest fractions in mathematics – make it easier to reach a desired point. Where could these structures take us if we fully invested in them and leaned into the manner in which they nurture our connectivity? What possibilities could await us if we moved away from walls, fences, and other barriers?

Toward the end of my walk, I behold construction in the distance. It served as a stark reminder of my existence in the heart of the empire, where greed and repression are unavoidable. As the country commemorates its 250th year in July, it continues to extract capital, exploit labor, and export violence across the globe. In 2026, the end goal of this nation’s leaders is to privatize everything — and make working people pay for all that they use. These oligarchs seek to eliminate the diversity that I consistently encountered across a 90-minute stretch and take away the ability for us to gather to celebrate the strength of our diversity.

I complete my time in Houston in contemplation of the miracle of a quiet day in a public park. Despite our collective and individual heartache, scores of people converged with me upon this incalculably important land. We understand intrinsically the need for public goods – a park, a library, a school – that are collectively owned and democratically governed.

In the heart of one of the largest cities in the United States – in a park – I achieved peace and restoration. Accordingly, I fight for a true public infrastructure with renewed zeal and clarity.

I told this story for Voices of Change: Sharing Our Humanity Through Song and Storytelling in Austin, Texas on Saturday, October 26. 2024.

In 2013, I sang triumphantly before at least one hundred people in downtown D.C.

The brisk spring air whipped through the buildings – the White House was directly in my line of vision and an edifice that housed the D.C. local government towered over me to the left. 

The spirit of activism freely flowed; an intergenerational crowd of primarily Black people sang and chanted. I was close to completing my senior year at Howard University, and I was getting more & more settled into my organizing work.

We remembered Travyon Martin, Aiyana Stanley-Jones, Troy Davis and other Black people prematurely & violently taken away from us.

A time came for me to take the stage. I can’t quite remember if it was by an explicit invitation or a general open call. 

I walked to the front of the crowd, grabbed a microphone, and lifted my voice steadily. The National Negro Anthem was the song of choice. I knew it well, and it brought back memories of the churches across the South & the Midwest that had raised me. 

The first stanza flowed well:

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us 

Sing a song, full of the hope that the present has brought us 

The crowd joined me, along with my college comrades who attended the event alongside me. The melody stood in strong opposition to racial capitalism, the prison industrial complex, and the many oppressive systems within the United States. 

I began the second stanza:

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears.

People swayed in the crowd, silently watching. I paused before continuing. I had swapped the beginning of the second stanza with the third. 

I stopped myself. I couldn’t believe that I’d made such a mistake. I scrambled to correct it and swiftly moved through the rest.

I resumed my place in the crowd, listening to other speakers reflect on bedrock principles like Black queer feminism, intersectional organizing, and relationship building in movement spaces. 

I tuned in and out. I honed in on my mistake and wouldn’t let it go. 

I meandered back to my dorm on campus, barely feeling the cool weather. I settled onto my bed and called my mother. 

“Momma, I messed up Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing at a protest.” 

She listened with deep empathy and reassured me that it wouldn’t be a mistake that would hinder my future activism. 

Still, I couldn’t shake my misstep – even as I drifted off into uneven, long rest. 

***

In the years since, I have participated in many more actions, advocacy days, convenings, and movement spaces. My mother was indeed right – I’m probably one of the few people who remembers my rendition of the National Negro Anthem on a spring day eleven years ago. 

(Well, save for you wonderful folks in Austin, Texas on October 26, 2024)

I now realize that such a mistake adds depth to the organizing and long-term visioning in which I engage. I’ve made other errors along the way; through it all, I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, and I’ve sung. After these indelible experiences, I arrived at a full understanding of my purpose on Earth: I fight unapologetically for Black children to convey their beautiful & complex humanity in whatever circumstance they find themselves. I returned from Houston yesterday, after a week of gathering with other Black Southerners to strategize about how we will achieve quality public schools for all. With that life’s mission in mind, I understand that I have to continually extend grace to myself and allow my own humanity to shine through. 

Of the utmost importance is the realization that I am never alone. I was not alone as a 21-year-old college student. I was not alone when Kate introduced me to Sarah, allowing this collaboration to blossom. I was not alone as Sarah, Sheniqua, and I gathered virtually over several weeks to plan this incredible event. I was not alone in writing this piece, as my work builds on itself like my community. 

None of us are alone as we navigate these uncertain times. Through our stumbles, which make us so deeply human, we recognize the vulnerability within one another and find deeper connection through it. No mistake can hinder us from leaning into the inherent collectivism that drives humanity. I invite you, as I did, to lean into the wisdom imparted by not saying the right thing, messing up the song verse, or not fully having your opinion formed on a political issue during a specific moment in time. As our melodious voices rise, so does a multiracial, intergenerational, and international movement for human dignity.

Thank you, Justin, for that gracious introduction – and for inviting me to the University of Houston Law Center to deliver remarks this evening to the American Constitution Society – and the broader community.  I first must acknowledge that today is the fifth anniversary of the passing of my maternal grandmother, Mary Lee Dunbar Jackson. My family has inspired my work across the decades, and they continue to do so.

Last month, I celebrated my seventh anniversary as an attorney. As I imagine is the case for all of you, I marvel at the passage of time. A decade ago, I was preparing for my first set of exams at LSU. Unlike me, y’all will absolutely CALI your classes. As I commemorated this anniversary in Jackson, Mississippi – for a work trip – I drew particular gratitude from certain reinforcing elements of this journey. ACS fits that bill quite perfectly. 

When I was in law school, as the president of the Black Law Students Association at LSU, my chapter collaborated with ACS to discuss an incident of police brutality that occurred in Lafayette in 2015. This impactful event remained with me, for reasons that I couldn’t quite articulate at the time. As it turned out, addressing and remedying police abuses – especially those that occur in schools – would come to be a central & defining drive of my professional life. 

In 2019, about a year and a half into my tenure as a staff attorney at Advancement Project, I traveled to Charlottesville to present at the ACS Student Convention that year. On a panel, I discussed the ways in which movement lawyering informed my approach to the racial justice causes I supported in that role. 

A couple weeks after that conference, I went to Philadelphia to support an incredible youth base-building organization called the Philadelphia Student Union. They were fighting against a proposal that would’ve placed more metal detectors in schools across the district. Motivated by my time at the ACS Student Convention, I took the Amtrak from D.C. to Philadelphia to strategize with youth organizers before the board meeting. I ultimately drafted a letter that detailed the harms of metal detectors, both empirically and anecdotally, and stood prepared to testify if they needed me to. Due to my ongoing political education, I understood more that such a proposal creates hardened and militarized school environments that fuel the school-to-prison pipeline. 

I didn’t testify during that board meeting, but, once again, I witnessed in the early stages of my legal career, through my partnership with directly impacted people, how certain threads were being weaved throughout my life. I moved to Austin a few months later to join Texas Appleseed, and I began my involvement with the ACS Austin Lawyer Chapter toward the end of 2019. 

We all know what came next. March 2020 barreled toward me – and each of us – and transformed the world. I worked remotely from my parents’ home in Oklahoma for virtually the rest of 2020, preparing for the 87th legislative session in Texas as I did so. For folks who may not know – to match an odd political environment, the Texas Legislature only meets during odd years. 

I took many opportunities in the first year of the pandemic to reflect on all that had occurred up to that point. I thought of my stints at the Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law and Advancement Project, with a particular emphasis on the parent and youth organizers I encountered along the way. 

As I testified at the Texas Legislature for the first time in April 2021, I kept them in mind, particularly as I highlighted how the pandemic was impacting student engagement, discipline, and the overall climate on school campuses across the state. As folks may imagine, the wins can be slim at the Legislature, but we did get a bill passed during that regular session – SB 179 – that explicitly stated that school counselors should spend the vast majority of their time on non-administrative duties. Such a framework largely illustrates the approach to dismantling the school-to-prison pipeline in our present conditions. Policymakers should devote as many discretionary funds as possible to mental health professionals – such as social workers, counselors, and psychologists, who can use their expertise in child development to create better conditions in schools – and significantly decrease the likelihood of violence on campus in the process. 

I engaged a bit during the special legislative sessions that took place later on in 2021. In July of that year, before the Senate State Affairs Committee, I made the case that critical race theory bans, and the censorship they bring, stand poised to exacerbate the school-to-prison pipeline. From my vantage point, Black and Brown students, LGBTQ young people, and kids with disabilities – those students most likely to be funneled in the pipeline – would be the ones to have their speech targeted for discipline. The critical race theory ban went into effect, but the effort to stop it reinforced the idea that broad coalitions will be the mechanisms that build community power and shift the tide.

During the regular session in 2023, which ran from January to May, I fought alongside advocates assiduously to oppose school hardening measures proposed in the aftermath of Uvalde. As that tragedy entered public consciousness, so did the reality that hundreds of police officers on the scene did nothing to stop that act of mass violence. I made that point as many times as I could before the House Select Committee on Youth Health & Safety, the Senate Education Committee, and the House Public Education Committee. Despite our best efforts, HB 3 went into effect after the regular session – requiring an armed school security officer on every campus across the state. 

With all of this in mind, here we are in November 2023. The legislative landscape looks bleak, with the Governor having just called another special session to push forward his unpopular school privatization schemes. For me, I often hold the contradictions of any given moment in time with the best balance I can; I am grateful to be a Black civil rights lawyer in Texas, doing this work in 2023; however, I realize that these fights, in many ways,  mirror those that were taking place in 1973, 1923, and 1873. I pose the question to myself, as I imagine y’all do, where does one draw hope? 

For me, it comes from collective community power. That takes the form of the support of a progressive legal network like ACS, as well as the resources and space to do this work in the present moment. Just last week, I collaborated with two central Texas organizations to host a convening in Austin focused on long-term planning for our work to achieve police-free schools. After all we have collectively endured, I don’t take that responsibility lightly. For George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Tony McDade, and so many Black folks who we have lost brutally and prematurely at the hands of the state, it is a privilege to do this work with an imaginative vision. That collective community power that I am supporting, fueled by working class people across the state, nation, and world, will carry this work many generations into the future. 

Many fights await us, but I’m encouraged by the next generation of civil rights lawyers & progressive attorneys I behold. Recognizing that I don’t want to make my work about me, I appreciate more recognition for my vision for a much better world. Last month, I appeared on KUT’s new podcast, the Mind of Texas, to discuss mental health in Texas public schools. There, and here, I appreciate that I can explicitly name that I do this work on behalf of Black children – one of the most misunderstood demographics living in twenty-first century America. I pronounce that I do this work for them, because, if we lift the tide for them, we lift the tide for everyone. 

I am so grateful for the past and present components of my journey. Through the support of a network like ACS, I find myself in a rich tradition, seeking human dignity and prosperity for all. This is an incalculably important gift, and I thank y’all for conferring it.

Betrayed Biking Draft – August 2022