Affordability Means Nothing Without Access

I’ve always believed in affordability — especially now, when so many people are struggling just to buy the basics. From groceries to gas to rent, prices keep going up while wages and opportunities stay the same. Every conversation seems to come back to one word: affordability. But for Black communities like mine, that word has always meant something deeper. It’s not just about what things cost. It’s about whether we even have access to them in the first place.

Because when you don’t have a Black-owned grocery store in your community, affordability doesn’t mean much. When banks refuse loans or approve them with sky-high interest rates, affordability doesn’t mean much. When schools in our neighborhoods lack resources, or when quality healthcare is out of reach, affordability becomes an illusion — a promise that doesn’t include us.

We’re living in a time when people talk about “equal opportunity,” but access remains unequal. For generations, Black communities have been locked out of systems that build wealth and stability. We’ve been told to “pull ourselves up by our bootstraps,” yet denied the very boots. You can’t talk about affordability without talking about accessibility — who gets to participate, who gets to benefit, and who gets left out.

Look around Detroit and you’ll see what I mean. Many of our neighborhoods are food deserts, where families have to travel miles just to find fresh produce. Black entrepreneurs still struggle to get loans despite strong business plans and community support. Schools in predominantly Black neighborhoods continue to face inequities in funding, while healthcare gaps persist and life expectancy remains lower than in neighboring areas. These are not coincidences; they’re the results of policies and priorities that have failed to value our communities.

When we talk about affordability, we need to shift the focus from just price to power — the power to access, to own, and to build. A grocery store owned by someone in the community keeps dollars circulating locally. A bank that lends fairly helps families buy homes and build generational wealth. A well-resourced school and accessible clinic don’t just meet needs; they create hope and opportunity. That’s what real affordability looks like — when access meets equity.

It’s also time for our policymakers to listen differently. The solutions won’t come from another study or commission; they’ll come from empowering people who live the reality every day. We don’t need more charity — we need fairness. We don’t need saviors — we need systems that work for everyone. Supporting Black businesses, expanding community investment, reforming lending practices, and making healthcare and education truly accessible are not radical ideas. They’re necessary steps toward an economy that includes all of us.

So yes, I’m all about affordability. But as a Black person, I know affordability without accessibility is just another barrier dressed up as progress. It’s time to redefine what affordable really means — not just cheaper goods, but equal access to opportunity, ownership, and dignity.

Because when every community can afford to thrive, we all rise together.