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Time Magazine
20-05-2025
- Business
- Time Magazine
Cecilia Conrad
In 2023, when Yield Giving founder MacKenzie Scott wanted to give $250 million to 250 charities serving low-income households and people facing discrimination, she turned to Cecilia Conrad for help choosing which groups most deserved the grants. Conrad runs Lever for Change, a nonprofit that connects donors with organizations through 'open calls,' or competitions for funding, then brings in experts to evaluate applicants for financial soundness, impact, and effectiveness. It's a reversal of the typical invitation-only system most foundations use for grants, and gave, on the one hand, little-known nonprofits a shot at significant funding and, on the other, donors a chance to discover compelling new groups to support. The upshot for Scott? Lever for Change identified so many promising organizations that last year she ended up more than doubling her initial pledge, giving away $640 million to 361 groups, chosen from more than 6,000 applicants. Such is the transformative power of Conrad, a Stanford-trained economics professor-turned philanthropy executive who previously led the MacArthur Foundation's Fellows program, aka its 'Genius' grants. She founded Lever for Change in 2019 to dismantle barriers in philanthropy. 'There are donors who want to fund creative, effective organizations and creative, effective organizations who need funding but they have trouble finding each other,' Conrad says. To date, Lever for Change, which has also advised LinkedIn co-founder Reid Hoffman, has influenced $2.5 billion in donations to more than 500 charities. And more is coming: The organization is now vetting hundreds more charities to help Melinda French Gates decide how to allocate $250 million to improve women's health. 'We exist to help donors discover new ideas, new potential," Conrad says.
Axios
06-05-2025
- Politics
- Axios
GiveNOLA Day arrives amid growing strain on nonprofits
GiveNOLA Day is Tuesday, marking one of the biggest, single-day charity drives in New Orleans. The big picture: The average nonprofit in the South gets 26% of their annual revenue from government sources, according to the Urban Institute. In Louisiana, 84% of nonprofits got at least one government grant or contract in 2023, the study found. Yes, but: The Trump administration is cutting grant funding, especially for social welfare, education and environmental projects, according to the Foundation List. In New Orleans, nonprofit leaders told City Council members last month that the cuts are hurting their ability to feed the hungry and care for sexual assault victims. Council vice president Helena Moreno said at the time she instructed the city's chief administrative officer to push back against the changes and to see what can be done to fill the gaps. Zoom out: Nonprofits nationally are responding to federal reductions by seeking more corporate sponsorships and private donors, the Foundation List says. The MacArthur Foundation, Bloomberg Philanthropies and other groups say they will increase their giving, according to the New York Observer. Susannah Burley, executive director of Sustaining Our Urban Landscape in New Orleans, tells Axios she's stepping up efforts for private donations to plant trees after millions in federal funds were frozen or canceled. How it works: The Greater New Orleans Foundation spearheads GiveNOLA Day and connects donors with hundreds of nonprofits in 13 parishes.
New York Times
05-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
Branden Jacobs-Jenkins on Winning a Pulitzer for ‘Purpose'
Branden Jacobs-Jenkins was getting ready for his first Met Gala on Monday afternoon when he got the news: his latest play, 'Purpose,' which is now on Broadway, won this year's Pulitzer Prize for drama. The other finalists were Cole Escola's 'Oh, Mary!,' which is also running on Broadway, and 'The Ally,' by Itamar Moses, which had an Off Broadway run last year at the Public Theater. Jacobs-Jenkins, 40, has been a Pulitzer finalist twice before, for 'Gloria' in 2016 and for 'Everybody' in 2018, and last year he won a Tony Award for 'Appropriate.' In 2016 he also won a so-called genius grant from the MacArthur Foundation. He grew up in Washington, D.C., and now lives in Brooklyn. 'An Octoroon' and 'The Comeuppance' are among his other well-received works. 'Purpose,' directed by Phylicia Rashad, was first staged last year by Steppenwolf Theater Company in Chicago, which had commissioned the play; Jacobs-Jenkins wrote it for the company's actors. The Broadway production opened in March, and has been nominated for six Tonys, including best play. 'Purpose' is currently on Broadway at the Helen Hayes Theater in Manhattan. The cast includes, from left: LaTanya Richardson Jackson, Jon Michael Hill, Kara Young and Alana Arenas. Credit... Sara Krulwich/The New York Times Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times. Thank you for your patience while we verify access. Already a subscriber? Log in. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
Yahoo
29-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
SunFest's beginnings: Debut in 1983 was a free 10-day festival with a high-wire act
The music grew bolder, bigger and louder during the course of SunFest's magical 42-year run before coming to a sudden stop this year. In many ways, the origins of West Palm Beach's waterfront extravaganza are a reflection of how the city evolved over the past four decades, starting out in the spring of 1983 as a small local jazz and arts festival before quickly transforming into a mega-concert series that booked big acts over the course of a four- and five-day span. The roots of SunFest can be traced to the Royal Palm Festival, a multi-event hodgepodge that was held at various days in August. That fall fest ultimately was shelved in favor of an event on the first weekend in May, promoting art and jazz and labeled "the festival by the sea." The initial plan for the waterfront festival was hatched by developer Llwyd Ecclestone, urban planner Bill Finley, public relations executive Anita Mitchell, former Mayor Pat Pepper and developer and arts community leader Bob Armour. Finley, president of the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation's real estate company, had seen the Royal Palm Festival with a VIP seat and described it with some choice words. 'It was awful,' Finley told The Post in 2012. "It was a series of disorganized activities (throughout) the county. They had as a highlight the funniest parade you ever saw: six paper floats; marching bands from high schools, half of whom did not have uniforms and had never marched before, let alone played together; and a series of pickup trucks carrying girls in cowboy hats with signs glued to the side of the truck," Finley said. "Llwyd Ecclestone was the chairman, and at the end of the parade he said, 'What do you think of the show?' I said, 'It's the worst thing I ever saw in my whole life.'" Ecclestone later reached out to Finley, 'Well if you have better ideas, tell us.' Finley didn't hold back. 'I knew it had to be in the spring, on the water, with arts, music and ethnic foods,' Finley told The Post. Without realizing it, Finley's ideas were so popular he instantly became of the festival's founders. 'The board of directors thought the festival would be much better centered in one spot in the spring rather than the summer,' Executive Director Frank Hannah said at the time. The name "SunFest" was suggested by board member Judy Goodman to promote cultural, educational and non-professional sports activities. The festival has traditionally been held in early May, positioned in hopes of extending beyond Easter the season and the economic boost tourists bring to the region. Founded in 1982 and launched the following spring in 1983, SunFest was a 10-day event with free admission. The event drew big crowds but lost about $100,000. Among the performers that weekend were the Flying Wallendas, the legendary hire-wire performers that operated without a safety net. Carla Wallenda, who performed that weekend and was the last surviving child of the founder of the troupe, died in Sarasota in 2021 at the age of 85. Other acts included the WKAO Big Band and the Boca Raton Symphonic Pops Orchestra. The fact that it lost money prompted organizers to cut SunFest three days in 1984. Other changes followed. By the time Sue Twyford was brought in as executive director in November 1985, the festival had $12,000 in the bank. In its early days, SunFest didn't even have a copy machine. The phones had only one line and it was impossible to put anyone on hold. "The accountants would come in and I'd have a stack of bills and I'd say, 'OK, which ones can we pay?'" Twyford told The Post in a 1990 interview. SunFest year-by-year: A look back at 42-year history of the West Palm waterfront festival IN DEPTH: For the first time in 44 years, SunFest isn't happening this weekend - what sank it? "Prior to her arrival, it was a kind of bring your blanket, hang out, listen to some jazz sort of an event," recalled Twyford's husband Tom Twyford in an interview in 2012. "Sue loved that, but she was hired to really put the festival on the map, and she, in her wisdom, knew that some tough decisions had to be made." Here is the final day schedule of the inaugural 10-day festival: 7:30 a.m. – 9:30a.m. – 10-kilometer run. 10 a.m. – 10 p.m. – Palm Beach County arts and crafts pavilion, Chuck E. Cheese and Jasper Jowels, X-34 Pelican and U.S. Klowns entertain throughout SunFest site, boat and fashion show, Max Straw band ($1 admission), health and social services pavilion, exhibit pavilion, FoodFest, SunFest photo contest entries on display and antique and race car show. 10 a.m. – dusk – SunFest regatta (on Lake Worth). Noon – 12:30 p.m. - Carla Wallenda Aerial Thrill Show and Family Circus. Noon – 2 p.m. – Barry Dean, Royal Alexander and Tina Pappas; Bruce Gold magic (Flagler center stage). 1-2 p.m. – Mime show and George McGee (children's area). 1-3 p.m. – Hellenics (white stage); Fish ones (red stage). 1-5 p.m. – Petting Zoo. 2-3 p.m. – Palm Beach Ballet Company (Clematis stage); Golden Flyers unicyclists (children area); Chermar School of Dance (blue stage). 3-4 p.m. – West Palm Beach All-Star Twirlers (white stage); marionette show (library steps stage); Jupiter Middle School Band; Singing Mariners (blue stage). 4-5 p.m. – Gold Coast Banjos-Bob Stamm (Flagler Center stage). 4-6 p.m. – Vic Knight and the WDBF Big Band (Clematis stage); fencing tournament (red stage). 4:30-5 p.m. – North Shore High school-student council (blue stage). 5-6:30 p.m. – High Rising Phoenix Dancers (Flagler Center stage). 5-7 p.m. – Harmony Express (white stage). 6-8 p.m. – Cheap Sneakers Band (red state); North Shore High School Fantasia and Choraleers (library steps stage). 6:30-7 p.m. – Carla Wallenda Aerial Thrill Show and Family Circus. 7-8 p.m. – Breeze (white stage). 7-10 p.m. – The G Agents (Flagler Center stage). 8-10 p.m. – Southern Daze (white stage); the Stage Company presents I'm Getting My ---t Together and Taking It on the Road (Clematis stage). By the late 1980s, Twyford and the city knew it had a hit. In 1991, attendance reached an astounding 380,000, highlighted by a Sunday night finale that featured Crosby, Stills & Nash. SunFest was such a huge draw, city officials dealt with crowd complaints for the first time. Twyford stepped down in 1996 to spend more time with her family, but she remained devoted to SunFest until her death in 2003. What started as a free concert open to downtown eventually became a pay-at-the-gate event with hopes admissions would cover some of the rising costs. And the days of stretching out on the lawns with chairs, blankets and coolers faded, overcome by raucous crowds elbowing for standing room during the headliner acts. Through the years, SunFest evolved from a chill jazz-only arts festival to a musical extravaganza that featured concerts for Generations X, Y and Z. Gradually, music overtook art as the reason people came to SunFest. James Coleman is a journalist at The Palm Beach Post, part of the USA TODAY Florida Network. You can reach him at jcoleman@ and follow him on X (formerly known as Twitter) at @JimColeman11. Help support our journalism. Subscribe today. This article originally appeared on Palm Beach Post: SunFest quickly evolved from an arts and jazz fest into a music festival
Indian Express
28-04-2025
- Politics
- Indian Express
Who was Leonard Zeskind, the relentless watchdog of white nationalism?
Leonard Harold Zeskind, who spent a lifetime mapping the dark and tangled undercurrents of American white nationalism died April 15 at his home in Kansas City. He was 75. The cause, as confirmed by his longtime colleague Devin Burghart, was cancer. Zeskind had been fighting it for years, though if you knew him, you also knew he was never one to make a big production out of personal hardship. He had other battles on his mind. Over more than four decades, Zeskind established himself as one of the country's fiercest, and, most stubborn, chroniclers of racist, anti-Semitic, and anti-government extremist groups. His 2009 book, Blood and Politics: The History of the White Nationalist Movement from the Margins to the Mainstream, remains, even now, the definitive roadmap for understanding how hate moves, how it adapts, and how it sneaks into places it shouldn't belong. He wasn't the flashiest activist. Or the loudest. He was the guy still in the archives at 2 AM., still trying to cross-reference the tenth alias of a neo-Nazi leader most Americans had never heard of (yet). For his trouble, in 1998, the MacArthur Foundation gave him one of their Genius Grants, recognising a career spent mostly working in the shadows. A childhood shaped by justice Zeskind was born in Baltimore in 1949, the son of Stanley and Shirley (Berman) Zeskind. When he was about 10, the family packed up and moved to Miami, chasing new opportunities like so many mid-century American families did. It was the early '60s. The country was cracking open with civil rights protests, sit-ins, the slow, grinding march toward change. Zeskind soaked it in. He remembered, later in life, the moment a local NAACP president spoke at his synagogue during his bar mitzvah. It wasn't a thing that most kids would necessarily remember forever, but Zeskind did. 'It was the way you grew up in those days,' he said. 'And I just didn't stray from that.' College? He gave it a shot. University of Florida first, then University of Kansas, studying philosophy — which made sense for a guy who liked to question everything. But he didn't make it to a degree. The Vietnam War was raging, and Zeskind ended up getting expelled from KU for protesting the ROTC program. (He was proud of it.) Instead, he went to work. Real work, welding, ironwork, auto plants. Thirteen years of it. Somewhere along the way, he started organizing on the East Side of Kansas City, trying to cool the tensions between working-class white and Black neighbors who, frankly, had been set up to resent each other. It was messy, thankless work. He didn't expect a medal. Building a life on the front lines By the mid-1960s, Zeskind had found what would be his true calling: fighting racism not by grandstanding, but by getting into the weeds. The idea was simple enough, white people needed to organize other white people against racism, but living it out wasn't so simple. He started in Kansas City, talking to poor white kids who'd grown up believing the deck was stacked against them (because it was, just not in the way they thought). And when the Klan started bubbling back up in the late '70s, along with newer, slicker hate groups — Zeskind shifted gears. Watching wasn't enough anymore. Someone needed to document it. In 1982, he launched a little magazine called The Hammer, anti-racist, anti-fascist, fiercely independent. It wasn't exactly a bestseller, but it got noticed. Three years later, he became research director at the National Anti-Klan Network, and by 1983, he'd founded the Institute for Research and Education on Human Rights (IREHR) back in Kansas City, where he could do the kind of methodical, painstaking work he believed in. Zeskind's research was the opposite of surface-level. Court documents, extremist newsletters, informants, first-hand field notes, he dug everywhere. He knew who these groups were, not from TV soundbites, but because he'd sat in on their rallies, read their screeds, traced their networks across states and decades. One of the biggest myths he loved to demolish was the idea that white supremacists were all ignorant hillbillies. 'They think that white supremacists are uneducated people with tobacco juice dripping from their mouths,' he once said, almost wearily. 'Nothing could be farther from the truth.' A lot of them were middle-class – professionals, teachers, small business owners, the guy fixing your car, the woman arguing about property taxes at the town council meeting. And they weren't looking to preserve the old racial order anymore. They wanted to overturn it completely. Blood and politics If you want to understand just how far ahead Zeskind was, look no further than Blood and Politics. Sixteen years of research went into that book, and not the comfortable kind of research you do in an air-conditioned library, either. The book traced the white nationalist movement from the margins to the edge of the mainstream, following figures like David Duke, Willis Carto, and William Pierce. It laid out strategies like 'mainstreaming' – toning down the rhetoric just enough to sound respectable, and 'vanguardism,' which aimed to build smaller, hardcore cells to take power when society collapsed. When it first came out, some readers thought Zeskind was being alarmist. He wasn't. Charlottesville in 2017. January 6 in 2021. The Proud Boys, Oath Keepers, Trumpism, all of it was there, sketched out in Blood and Politics, before most people even knew they should be looking. Zeskind also wasn't shy about pointing to figures like Pat Buchanan, whose presidential runs in the '90s flirted with white nationalist talking points. He saw the signs early, maybe too early for most people's comfort. Even after he was gone, the battles he fought kept raging. In 2025, the Trump administration oversaw a purge of 381 books, mostly on racism, civil rights, diversity, from the U.S. Naval Academy library. Blood and Politics was one of them. Burghart, who succeeded him at IREHR, called it what it was: 'a systematic attempt to erase and exterminate Civil Rights.' Leonard Zeskind never wanted to be a hero. He didn't even much like the spotlight. But he understood, better than almost anyone, that silence, even polite, well-meaning silence, is what lets hate grow. And he refused to be silent.
