A group of volunteers and community organizers who sustain the hyper-local community program, “Heal the Hood”. They are standing together in two rows looking at the camera.
Image credit: Jacob Garcia

It’s a sleepy Saturday afternoon in Boston’s Roxbury neighborhood, but inside the Reggie Lewis Track & Athletic Center, it’s anything but quiet. People of all ages fill the massive field, lining up for free resources like haircuts, professional clothes, resume coaching, yoga flows, and record expungement assistance.

It’s all thanks to a program called “G’s to Gents,” started by Heal the Hood, a tiny, newly minted nonprofit that occupies a once-vacant storefront in Jamaica Plain, Boston. 

Standing above the crowds of people are Heal the Hood’s leaders and guest speakers, a small group of men, all Black and Brown, who deliver a powerful panel discussion about moving toward a path of positivity. It’s the type of conversation they wish their older siblings or parents had with them that would have helped them avoid wrong turns in life. 

Some three-quarters of nonprofits operate on budgets of less than $500,000, and two-thirds on less than $100,000.

This is just one of the programs the fledgling organization has mounted since opening up shop in August 2021, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, as a grassroots community service organization based on an ethos of Black and Brown liberation.

It’s an effort that hearkens to the kinds of hyperlocal community programs, often termed “community survival,” pioneered by groups like the Black Panthers, the Young Lords, and the American Indian Movement in the late 1960s and 1970s. 

As cofounder Derrell “Slim” Weathers tells NPQ, the organization’s mission is to “dismantle the plantation, eliminate suffering, and free the people.”

The scrappy organization, which gained nonprofit status in December of 2022 under the name Voices of Liberation, also serves as a reminder of a massive swath of the US nonprofit sector that often goes overlooked. Some three-quarters of nonprofits operate on budgets of less than $500,000, and two-thirds on less than $100,000. (Heal the Hood reported a budget of just over $120,000 in 2022.) 

Like many nonprofits, Heal the Hood has struggled since its inception for funding, recognition, and support—all while demonstrating the power of a small group of dedicated activists to make a difference in their community.

From Incarceration to Liberation

The idea for Heal the Hood came from founder Slim Weathers, who was recently released from jail after a 2017 arrest and determined to turn his life around.

The organization’s mission is to “dismantle the plantation.”

The Boston native grew up bouncing around Section 8 housing in the Boston neighborhoods of Mattapan, Roxbury, and Dorchester, which influenced his perspective on the state of democracy and fostered his desire for deep systemic change. 

“We’re all coming from heavily impoverished areas, crime-stricken, kidnapping, rape—all that exists where we come from, and we really come from the trenches in the bottom,” says Weathers.

But through that adversity, Weathers shares, he and a close group of comrades grew into a deeper understanding of the systemic forces at play: “We knew that this was a capitalistic game.”

They’re unapologetic abolitionists and anti-capitalists.

The tight group of friends already possessed a talent for bringing people from the community together, organizing art and music events that would draw hundreds. Over time, they realized they could harness their organizing skills to more ambitious ends. 

“It started out from being on the ground. We were so connected with the community, and we knew our powers,” says Weathers. “We ended up coming together like the Power Rangers.” 

In time, the effort would grow into Heal the Hood. 

Weathers and the group’s other founders carry with them a strong critique of the systems in which they grew up. They’re unapologetic abolitionists and anti-capitalists, and as Weathers says, he has “quit this ‘Democracy.’” But he and his colleagues haven’t given up on their community. 

Healing the Hood

In 2021, Heal the Hood launched one of its first official initiatives, opening a “free store” that aimed to help lighten the financial burden on families by providing staples, like food and household goods, for free. 

But the first iteration needed tweaking. 

“We did it outside, in front of the store, and rich people started grabbing shampoo, toothpaste, and all types of clothes,” says Weathers. 

Rather than helping struggling families, the Free Store was being taken advantage of by people driving luxury cars. The free table only lasted an hour before being moved inside. 

So, the organization pivoted and decided to bring aid directly to families. A call was put out requesting groceries. Heal the Hood was overwhelmed by the response. Weathers remembers one friend who reached out: “He was like, ‘Yo, I got some food in the back and it ain’t out of date, but it’s still good for the hood.’” 

Heal the Hood delivered groceries to 350 families in Boston public housing developments that weekend.

“The following week, we had no cars—we went to Uber and the dude in the Uber canceled his job and helped us with the grocery bags,” recalls Weathers. 

Now, each Sunday, 20 to 25 volunteers spend five hours delivering a month’s worth of groceries, including meats, fresh produce, clothes, sneakers, and other essentials, to about 200 homes in Boston public housing—with no help from grocery or retail stores as part of Heal the Hood’s Feed the Hood program.

“Rich people don’t help us. Organizations don’t help us. Individuals help us,” says Weathers. 

Other programs include open mics for youth, community calisthenics, and an “Anti-Gentrification Task Force” focused on tenant rights education and mutual aid. 

But the biggest focus for Heal the Hood is fostering the next generation of community leaders with programs such as summer activities, basketball league sponsorship, and using the group’s small storefront as a safe, creative space for youth to hang out. 

“They’re here to save us,” says Director of Programming Phoenix Printemps of the youth in the community. “They’re here to remind us what we’ve forgotten.”

Unfulfilled Promises 

Like many small nonprofits operating on shoestring budgets and personal passion, Heal the Hood has struggled at times to implement its ambitious visions of community healing and empowerment.

This past summer, Weathers says, city employees approached the group about the potential availability of paid summer jobs to employ youth Heal the Hood was already working with. Despite his deep-seated distrust of city government, Weathers was excited about the potential benefit to the youth.

He spent hours shuttling over a dozen high schoolers to city buildings to complete the necessary paperwork for the paid summer jobs—but none of the students were offered employment. 

“They ignored me for over a month,” says Weathers. 

By the time he heard back, it was too late. He was told the program was out of funds.

The lack of support and funding remains a consistent hurdle for Heal the Hood. At the same time, its leaders question the effectiveness of the city’s own better-funded efforts to support struggling communities.

“The reality is the work is not being done,” says Printemps. “And the people who are doing the work”—people like Heal the Hood—“do not get compensated for it. Nor do they get recognized for it.”

Despite the hurdles, Heal the Hood has managed to survive and deliver mutual aid, education, and community support for three years—and counting.

“Whether the people see me, whether nobody gives me graciousness,” says Weathers. “I know that at the end of the day, this world could give me shit, but I’m gonna make honey out of everything and give it to the hood.”