Category: Membership News

By: Daya Irene Taylor, Ph.D., AIA, NOMA

Every day, I work beneath the canopy of the Emancipation Oak on the campus of Hampton University. Long before I arrived, generations of newly emancipated African Americans gathered beneath its branches to receive an education and imagine futures that slavery had denied them. Beneath that tree, people sought knowledge, opportunity, dignity, and the freedom to determine the course of their own lives. The Emancipation Oak is more than a historic landmark. It is a living reminder that freedom is not simply declared. Freedom must be cultivated, protected, and expanded from one generation to the next.

As an architect and educator, I often find myself asking a simple question: What does freedom look like when it becomes physical space?

That question sits at the heart of Juneteenth, and it is one that architects are uniquely positioned to consider. For many Americans, Juneteenth remains unfamiliar. Some encounter it for the first time and wonder why they never learned about it in school. Others question whether it is a holiday intended only for Black Americans. I would suggest that Juneteenth belongs to all of us. It is not a celebration of slavery. It is a recognition of freedom and a reminder that the promises of liberty, opportunity, and human dignity are most meaningful when they extend to everyone.

Too often, Juneteenth is viewed as a chapter in Black history rather than a chapter in American history. Yet the questions raised by Juneteenth transcend race, geography, and time. Who belongs? Who has access to opportunity? Who is protected by the law? Who is visible within the national story? These questions are not uniquely American, nor are they uniquely Black. They are fundamentally human.

Throughout history, people have crossed oceans, borders, and continents in search of freedom, opportunity, safety, and a better future for their families. The desire to belong is one of humanity’s most universal aspirations. Learning about Juneteenth does not diminish anyone’s story. It expands our understanding of the American story. The opposite of learning is not disagreement. The opposite of learning is indifference. A mature nation has the courage to tell its whole story, including its triumphs, its contradictions, its failures, and its progress. We do not become weaker by understanding more of our history. We become stronger.

For architects, Juneteenth matters because freedom has always had a physical dimension. Architecture is often described as the design of buildings. In reality, architecture is the design of possibility. The history of freedom in America has always been expressed through space: who could own land, who could attend school, who could vote, who could occupy public spaces, who could secure a mortgage, and who could build wealth through homeownership. Laws may be written on paper, but their consequences are experienced in neighborhoods, schools, courthouses, streets, parks, and homes.

Architects understand this intuitively because space is never neutral. Every design decision communicates values. Every plan reflects priorities. Every community tells a story about who belongs there. The question of belonging is not merely social or political. It is spatial. Freedom itself has a spatial dimension, and the built environment becomes one of the most visible expressions of whether a society is expanding opportunity or restricting it.

History does not remain in the past. It becomes the foundation upon which the present is built. Many of the housing challenges we confront today did not emerge in isolation. Patterns of segregation, disinvestment, exclusionary zoning, urban renewal, and inequitable access to homeownership helped shape the communities we have inherited. Understanding that history is not about assigning blame. It is about recognizing context. Architects cannot meaningfully address housing affordability, neighborhood revitalization, or equitable access to opportunity without understanding the forces that shaped the built environment we have today.

The same lesson applies to climate resilience. As architects, we are increasingly called upon to respond to sea level rise, extreme weather events, environmental degradation, and aging infrastructure. Yet climate vulnerability is rarely distributed equally. Communities with fewer resources often face the greatest environmental risks while possessing the fewest tools to respond. The future of architecture requires us to think beyond individual buildings and beyond property lines. Resilience is not simply a technical challenge. It is a human challenge. The communities that thrive in the future will be those intentionally designed to be resilient, adaptable, connected, and inclusive.

At this point, it is important to remember that the African American story is not only a story of what was taken. It is also a story of what was given. The contributions of Africans and African Americans are woven throughout American life and culture. They can be found in music, language, agriculture, craftsmanship, entrepreneurship, faith traditions, foodways, scholarship, innovation, and community building. These contributions are not peripheral to the American story. They are central to it.

As architects, we understand that culture leaves physical traces. It shapes how communities gather, celebrate, mourn, worship, and create meaning. It influences the form of neighborhoods, the use of public space, and the character of civic life. The story of African Americans is not simply a story of endurance. It is also a story of creation. It is a story of people who built communities, institutions, and places of belonging even when they were denied full participation within them. In many respects, it is a story of placemaking under circumstances that would have made community building seem impossible.

For those of us practicing architecture in Virginia, these lessons carry particular significance. We work in a Commonwealth where the American story is not abstract. It is visible in the landscape itself. Within a relatively short distance stand Jamestown, Williamsburg, Yorktown, Fort Monroe, and Hampton University. Together, these places tell a story that spans centuries. They speak of aspiration and contradiction, independence and exclusion, progress and persistence.

At Fort Monroe, enslaved people sought refuge during the Civil War, transforming a military installation into a gateway to freedom. Just a few miles away, beneath the Emancipation Oak, newly freed African Americans gathered to pursue something equally powerful: education. One site represented freedom from. The other represented freedom for. Freedom from bondage. Freedom for possibility. As architects, we should understand the difference. Design is never solely about what we remove. It is also about what we create. Removing barriers matters. Creating opportunity matters more.

As our nation approaches its 250th Anniversary, the semiquincentennial of American independence, there will be fireworks, parades, speeches, celebrations, and commemorations across the country. There should be. Two hundred and fifty years is an extraordinary milestone. Yet anniversaries invite us to do more than celebrate. They invite us to reflect.

Two hundred and fifty years ago, colonists demanded liberty, self-determination, and representation. Those ideals remain worthy of celebration. At the same time, many people living within the colonies remained excluded from those promises. The history of America has been, in many ways, the ongoing effort to close the distance between our ideals and our reality. Juneteenth is one chapter in that journey. Its significance is not found solely in what happened in 1865. Its significance is found in the questions it continues to ask us today. How do we expand opportunity? How do we strengthen communities? How do we create a society in which more people can flourish? How do we design places that reflect dignity, belonging, and hope? These are architectural questions.

The housing crisis is an architectural question. Climate resilience is an architectural question. Access to public space is an architectural question. The design of schools, libraries, neighborhoods, and civic institutions is an architectural question. At their core, each asks the same thing: Who belongs here?

Architecture answers that question every day. Every building becomes a statement about who was considered, who was prioritized, and who was imagined as part of the future. That reality places a profound responsibility upon our profession. The next 250 years of American history have not yet been written. The communities that will exist in 2276 have not yet been designed. The public spaces where future generations will gather have not yet been imagined. The housing they will inhabit has not yet been built. The resilience strategies they will depend upon have not yet been implemented. Those responsibilities belong to us.

Every day, students continue to walk beneath the Emancipation Oak. Its branches have witnessed people emerging from slavery, pursuing education, building careers, raising families, creating businesses, serving communities, and expanding opportunities for generations that followed. The Oak remains rooted in the same soil, yet everything around it has changed. Perhaps that is the lesson.

Progress does not require us to forget. Progress requires us to remember honestly while building courageously. We honor what must be honored. We mourn what must be mourned. We learn what must be learned. Then we build.

As architects, our responsibility is not merely to preserve history. Our responsibility is to shape what comes next. The next 250 years of American history have not yet been written. The communities that will exist in 2276 have not yet been designed. The public spaces where future generations will gather have not yet been imagined. The housing they will inhabit has not yet been built. The resilience strategies they will depend upon have not yet been implemented.

Standing beneath the Emancipation Oak, it is impossible not to think about those who gathered there believing in a future they would never fully see for themselves. Their work was unfinished. Ours will be too.

Future generations will inherit the consequences of our decisions. The question is whether the places we create will bring us closer to the ideals we continue to celebrate: opportunity, dignity, belonging, and freedom. That work begins at the drawing board.