Some stories stay with a family for generations.

They are told in pieces at the table, at gatherings, in quiet moments when someone decides it is time to remember.

The story of my great-great-grandfather, Smallwood “Small” Ackiss, is one of those stories.

He was born into slavery in Virginia. He lived through a time when freedom was uncertain, and the future was not promised. But he endured. He worked. He believed in something more.

When the Civil War came, he joined the United States Colored Troops and fought for that freedom.

After the war, he returned home and built a life rooted in faith, family, and hard work. And in 1867, he stood in line and voted for the very first time, claiming a right that had once been denied to him.

That moment matters. Because his courage did not end with him.

Generations later, his great-granddaughter, my mother, Evelyn Butts, took that same fight to the United States Supreme Court and helped end the poll tax, a barrier that had kept so many from voting.

This is the legacy I come from.

And it is the story I wanted children to understand.

I wrote Small’s Big Journey because I believe children deserve to know that history is not just something that happened long ago, it lives in families, in choices, and in the courage passed from one generation to the next.

I also wrote it because some parts of our history are not always fully recorded. For those born into slavery, details like exact birthplaces were not always preserved. But their lives, their strength, and their impact are no less real.

This book is my way of honoring that truth.

It is a story about freedom, about perseverance, and about what it means to stand for something, even when the path is difficult.

And now, I’m honored to share it. Small’s Big Journey is now available for preorder:

https://smallwoodcharlottepress.com/

Books will ship beginning May 1, 2026.

Thank you for being part of this journey.

Norfolk, Virginia, 1961. I am on the right, age twelve, holding my first protest sign, standing beside Rowena Warren Stancil during a demonstration at Foreman Field.

Every so often, a photograph reminds us not just of where we were, but of who we were becoming. This is the story behind one such photo — and the first time I ever carried a protest sign.

There is a photograph of me at twelve years old standing beside my mother’s friend, Rowena Warren Stancil. We are holding protest signs next to a bus. Hers reads, “$50,000 Reward for the First Black Kiwanian in Norfolk.” Mine says, “In War We Fight Together. Why Not Sit Together in Peace?”

I am young, neatly dressed, and serious. I did not know then that this small moment would become one of the clearest markers of who I was becoming.

The protest took place in 1961 at Foreman Field, on the local campus of the College of William and Mary in Norfolk. Every year before football season, the Kiwanis Club sponsored an exhibition game there between the Washington Redskins and the Baltimore Colts.

That year, Mama and several of her friends decided to protest the game for three reasons. First, the seating in the stands was segregated. Second, the Washington Redskins—alone among NFL teams at the time—refused to hire Black players. And third, the Kiwanis Club itself was an all-white organization, yet this event was being held in a state-supported facility.

The Colts made it known they would not play if the seating remained segregated. The NAACP met with Colts management and, after being assured that the stands would not include a “colored” section, announced that it would not support a demonstration at the event.

But not everyone believed the issue was settled.

Joe Jordan, Ed Dawley, and Len Holt believed that making a fuss was still necessary. They printed flyers announcing a protest and, in a move that was both bold and controversial, put the name and phone number of the NAACP president, Robert D. Robertson, on the flyer and told people to call him. Robertson responded by getting an injunction to stop the flyers from being distributed.

Mama did not believe that an injunction or polite assurances meant the deeper problems had been solved. She brought my sisters and me to the protest anyway.

That day, at twelve years old, I carried a sign for the first time.

I did not fully understand all the politics or the negotiations happening behind the scenes. But I understood something simpler and more important: things were not fair, and grown people I respected were willing to stand in public and say so.

Miss Rowena stood beside me holding her sign about the Kiwanis Club. I held mine about war and peace. The words had been chosen carefully. They were not angry words. They were moral words. They asked a question that did not need much explaining.

Before the game, two Black players from the Colts—Lenny Moore and Johnny Sample—came out to talk to us while we were protesting. That mattered. They did not have to do that. They acknowledged us. Then they went back inside and helped the Colts trample the Redskins, 41–7.

It would take many years for me to fully understand how much courage it took for my mother and her friends to do what they did, and how much pressure surrounded even small acts of protest in those days.

No one paid us to be there. No one paid my mother. No one paid Miss Rowena. No one paid the people who stood and handed out flyers or held signs or took the risk of being seen. THEN AND NOW, PEOPLE DEMONSTRATE BECAUSE THEY CARE, NOT BECAUSE SOMEONE IS HANDING THEM MONEY.

We were there because we believed that citizenship meant participation, and that silence was a kind of consent.

I am 77 years old now. That was my first protest, but it was not my last. It was the beginning of a lifetime of believing that ordinary people have both the right and the responsibility to stand up in public for what is right—even when it is uncomfortable, even when it is inconvenient, even when powerful institutions say the problem has already been solved.

When people today talk about protest as if it is something un-American, I think about that photograph. I think about a twelve-year-old girl holding a sign that asked a simple, honest question.

And I think about how this country itself was born not from quiet agreement, but from people who were willing to make a fuss.

If you have a memory of the first time you stood up for something you believed in, I’d love to hear it in the comments.

What continues to bother me about the Virginia redistricting referendum situation is not just the ruling itself, but the timeline.

By January 2026, the courts had already recognized serious legal questions about whether the amendment had even been placed on the ballot within the required constitutional timeframe. Lawsuits had already been filed. Judges were already ruling on it. This was not something discovered at the last minute, right before Election Day.

Yet the election was still allowed to move forward.

On January 27, a judge ruled the amendment unlawful and blocked it from appearing on the April ballot. Then the case was appealed. On February 13, the Virginia Supreme Court allowed the referendum to proceed. On February 19, another judge again ruled the amendment unlawful on different grounds. Then on March 2, the court basically said the election could move forward and the legal issues could be sorted out afterward.

Early voting started on March 6. That is the part I still struggle with. People keep talking about “avoiding confusion,” but honestly, what would have been more confusing than allowing Virginians to vote in an election that was still under serious legal dispute?

At that point, early voting had not even started yet. There was still time to stop, fully review the issue, and either approve the process or move the election date.

Instead, everybody moved forward under uncertainty.

More than $15 million was spent. Campaigns organized around the election. Election officials prepared for it. Voters participated in good faith believing the process had been cleared to proceed. Once the courts allowed the election to continue, most ordinary people naturally assumed the legal problems either had been resolved or were not serious enough to stop the election.

That matters.

The courts knew they still had the power to overturn things later if they chose to. They also knew there was always the possibility voters themselves might reject the amendment anyway, making the whole controversy irrelevant.

So I keep coming back to the same question:
If the courts knew as early as January that the timing might be unconstitutional, why not fully deal with it before voting started?

I understand there were probably concerns about the upcoming primaries, redistricting deadlines, and keeping the election calendar moving. But to me, that makes early clarity even more important, not less.

The larger the consequences, the more important it becomes to settle the legality before people vote.

What troubles me most is the growing feeling that institutions are becoming more focused on keeping the machinery running than making sure the public has confidence in the process itself.

At some point, protecting trust in democracy requires more than telling people to trust the system. It requires resolving major legal questions before voters spend their time, money, energy, and votes participating in an election that may still be legally unsettled.

Today, the Supreme Court of the United States handed down a decision that feels like a step backward, and I do not say that lightly.

I think about my great-great-grandfather, Smallwood “Small” Ackiss, who was born into slavery and, after the Civil War, became one of the first Black men in his community to vote, something that was not given but claimed at great cost.

I also think about his great-granddaughter, Evelyn Butts, who challenged the poll tax all the way to the Supreme Court and helped end a system that made people pay to vote.

That history is not distant to me, it is my family, and that is why today’s decision lands the way it does.

The Court has made it harder to challenge voting maps that weaken the power of minority voters, because what once could be shown through a harmful effect will now often require proof of intentional discrimination.

Anyone who understands our history knows how difficult that is, because discrimination has rarely announced itself plainly and has instead adapted, using neutral language while producing unequal results.

This decision does not erase the right to vote, but it changes how that right is protected, and for me, that is where the concern lies.

From Small’s first vote to Evelyn’s fight, the lesson has always been the same: access alone is not enough, protection matters, participation matters, and vigilance matters.

We have seen barriers before, some obvious and some carefully constructed, and the question now is not only what the Court has done, but what we do next, how we participate, and whether we choose to use the rights that so many fought to secure.

Black communities in this country understand something deeply: what it means to be denied the right to vote. Poll taxes, literacy tests, intimidation, and barriers that were never subtle were all designed to keep people out of the democratic process.

That history is not distant. It lives through family stories, community memory, and the lived experiences passed from one generation to the next. People fought against those barriers at enormous personal cost. Some risked their jobs, their safety, and even their lives so future generations could participate fully in American democracy.

Because of that struggle, doors that had long been closed were finally forced open. That matters. But it also raises an important question for us today: what are we doing with the access that so many fought to secure?

We now have more opportunities to vote than at almost any other time in our history. People can vote early, vote by mail, or vote on Election Day itself. Information about candidates and issues is more accessible than ever before. Yet participation still falls short of what it could and should be.

We cannot ignore that reality.

We know what voter suppression looks like because our communities have lived through it. At the same time, when access exists, we also have to recognize responsibility. The struggle was never only about removing barriers. It was about making participation possible.

And once participation becomes possible, it must be used.

We do not honor the sacrifices of those who fought for voting rights by standing still or tuning out. We honor them by showing up, paying attention, staying engaged, and participating in the process they worked so hard to open to us.

Because the right to vote is not simply something that was won in the past. It is something that must continue to be exercised, protected, and valued in every generation.

In recent months, I have been reflecting on how much we have gained and how much we seem to be losing in terms of unity, empathy, and shared purpose. I have heard some Black women say they no longer feel called to protest or demonstrate, believing that others have benefited more from the struggles we have led. I understand that pain deeply.

But I also think of my mother, Evelyn Thomas Butts, who never stopped believing in the power of ordinary people to make extraordinary change. Her courage reminds me that even in times of division, we cannot afford to give up on each other.

This essay is both a reflection and a call to rebuild, not through anger or despair, but through honesty, compassion, and shared responsibility.

I have been feeling a heaviness lately, a quiet sense that we are losing the ground so many before us fought to gain. Some Black women tell me they no longer want to join demonstrations because they believe that when the struggle ends, white women often receive more of the benefits. I understand that feeling.

For generations, Black women have been the backbone of justice movements that shaped this country. We have organized, marched, and sacrificed, often without recognition. Yet time and again, the rewards of those struggles have not been shared equally. Many now look at how a majority of white women voted against our interests and wonder what happened to solidarity.

Still, if we stop showing up and abandon the belief that this nation can live up to its promises, we give away the very power that has carried us forward. The answer is not to withdraw. The answer is to rebuild together.

When I think about rebuilding, I think about my mother, Evelyn Thomas Butts. She was an ordinary seamstress from Norfolk, Virginia, who had the courage to do something extraordinary. In 1963, she filed the lawsuit that went all the way to the United States Supreme Court and ended Virginia’s poll tax, a law that had silenced Black voters for decades. My mother did not wait for others to lead. She stood up and changed history.

Her fight was not only about a court ruling. It was about dignity and inclusion, and about ensuring that everyone had a voice in their own future. She believed that progress comes only when all of us take part, even when the road is long and unfair.

That is the spirit we need again today. We can rebuild by talking honestly across our divides, by listening to one another’s pain without judgment, and by remembering that our shared humanity matters more than any political label. We can rebuild by working side by side in our neighborhoods, mentoring young people, caring for elders, and creating examples of cooperation that restore trust and hope.

Progress has never come easily. It did not when my ancestors sought freedom, and it did not when my mother fought to abolish the poll tax. It will not come easily now. But we are still capable of greatness, not the kind handed down from power, but the kind that we build together from the ground up.

As I think about the road ahead, I believe our strength still lies in our willingness to reach for one another, even when it feels difficult. Real progress will come when we choose to listen, to learn, and to stand together again. If this essay speaks to you, I hope you will share your thoughts or experiences in the comments. Every voice adds another thread to the fabric of understanding we are trying to mend.

The Constitution didn’t accidentally leave elections to the states. It was a safeguard against control. History shows us exactly why that still matters today.

From the beginning, Americans understood something fundamental: whoever controls elections controls power. History shows that when that control becomes concentrated, access to the vote is often the first thing to shrink.

For my family, that is not just a principle. It is something we have lived across generations.

The Constitution places the primary responsibility for elections in the hands of the states. Under the Elections Clause, states are given the authority to determine the “times, places, and manner” of elections. This was not an oversight. It was a safeguard.

The founders had just broken away from a centralized authority that ruled from afar. They were not interested in replacing one distant power with another. Instead, they built a system that dispersed control, making it harder for any one person or institution to manipulate the vote.

The Tenth Amendment reinforced this structure by reserving to the states powers not explicitly granted to the federal government. Elections, how they are run, how voters are registered, and how ballots are cast—fit squarely within that design.

A System Built to Resist Control

This decentralized system has never been perfect, but it has served an essential purpose. It prevents any single authority from deciding who gets to participate in democracy.

My great-great-grandfather, Smallwood “Small” Ackiss, was born into slavery in Virginia. After the Civil War, when the opportunity to vote was finally extended to Black men during Reconstruction, he stood in line and cast a ballot. That moment was not guaranteed. It came after a lifetime of being denied control over his own life.

But that access did not hold.

Throughout American history, the greatest threats to voting rights have often come from efforts to restrict access, not expand it.

After Reconstruction, Southern states imposed poll taxes, literacy tests, and other barriers designed to exclude Black voters and poor citizens. These were not accidents. They were deliberate attempts to control the electorate. It took decades, and the courage of ordinary people, to dismantle those systems.

One of those people was my mother, Evelyn Butts of Norfolk, Virginia.

Her case helped lead to the Supreme Court’s decision in Harper v. Virginia Board of Elections, which struck down the poll tax in state elections.

Her fight was not just about a fee. It was about a principle: no one should be forced to overcome extra barriers simply to exercise the right to vote.

Virginia Remembers

In Virginia, this history is not distant. It is personal.

In my own family, it stretches from a man who was once enslaved and later voted for the first time, to a woman who stood up nearly a century later to remove barriers that should never have existed.

Poll taxes were not an abstract policy. They were a real barrier to voting. Families had to choose between paying to vote or meeting basic needs. My mother saw that clearly. She understood what it meant for people to be shut out not by law alone, but by cost.

And yet, Virginians fought back.

From formerly enslaved men like Smallwood Ackiss, who claimed their rights when they were first granted, to civil rights leaders like my mother, Evelyn Butts, the struggle for voting rights in Virginia has always been about access, dignity, and fairness.

That legacy still matters. Every generation faces the same underlying question: who gets to participate, and who gets to decide?

Why Centralization Raises Concern

Today, proposals that move toward more centralized control over voting, whether through national databases, restrictions on voting methods, or federal pressure on state systems, raise legitimate concerns.

Not because every proposal is harmful, but because history shows how control over the process can become control over participation.

A single centralized system, especially one without strong and transparent safeguards, introduces new risks. Errors can affect millions at once. Decisions can be made far from the communities they impact. Access can be narrowed under the language of “integrity.” And once access is reduced, it is not always easy to restore.

My family has already seen how quickly access can be given and how quickly it can be taken away.

The Balance We Must Protect

The United States has always operated on a balance: states run elections, and the federal government protects voting rights.

When that balance holds, the system functions with resilience, even if imperfectly. When it shifts too far in either direction, problems follow.

Too little federal protection allowed discrimination to flourish in the past. Too much centralized control raises a different concern: the concentration of power over who gets to participate.

This Is Not Abstract

This is not just a legal debate. It is a lived reality.

I come from a family where one generation was finally allowed to vote after slavery, and another had to go to court to remove barriers that should never have been there in the first place.

Families remember when voting was restricted. Communities remember when barriers were justified as necessary. History shows how quickly access can be narrowed and how long it can take to restore.

The Bottom Line

The states control elections for a reason. That reason is not a theory. It is experience.

Democracy is not safeguarded by good intentions alone. It is protected by limits on power and by vigilance over who controls access.

When those limits begin to shift, history gives us a clear guide to what to watch and what is at stake.

Because democracy depends on access and on ensuring that no single authority has the power to take away that access.