Follow the Chirp: The Sound of Change

By LaDawn Sullivan

Earlier in the day, I opened my bedroom window. Nothing dramatic. Just letting in a little fresh air, enjoying the day, doing what we do when we want the outside to come in for a minute.

Then I closed it. Hours later, sometime in the middle of the night, I became convinced I had also invited in a cricket.

Chirp. Silence. Chirp. Chirp. More silence. And then—CHIRP.

Now, during the daytime, a cricket can sound downright poetic. Nature’s little soundtrack. A reminder of summer nights, warm air, and the beauty of creation. At 2:17 in the morning?That cricket is a problem.

I lay there listening, trying to figure out where it was. Near the window? Under something? Actually in the room? I couldn’t tell. It sounded so close that I was certain if I turned on the light, I would find it sitting on my nightstand looking at me like, What? You opened the window.

But every time I tried to pinpoint the sound, it seemed farther away. Close enough to hear clearly. Too far away to find.

And somewhere between being annoyed, amused, and desperate for sleep, I thought: Well, if this isn’t community work.

Those of us who have spent years working for stronger communities know this feeling - Change can sound so close. We hear it in the language of philanthropy. Equity. Justice. Community-centered. Trust-based. Systems change. Power shifting.

Chirp. Chirp.

We hear it in strategic plans, conference keynotes, foundation commitments, and beautifully designed reports. We hear people say that communities closest to the challenges should be closest to the resources and decisions.

And sometimes I want to sit straight up in bed and say, “I hear you. But where ARE you?”

Because lasting change has a funny way of sounding closer than it actually is.

I have spent enough years moving between community tables and foundation tables – and plenty of kitchen tables in between – to recognize that distance. I have watched organizations rooted in Black communities finally receive some of the attention they have deserved all along. I have watched leaders gain access to rooms where decisions are made. I have seen institutions acknowledge inequities that communities have been naming for generations. And as someone who has tried to raise good people while helping build stronger communities, I know that the world we are working toward is never theoretical. It is deeply personal.

And still, sometimes, the distance between acknowledgment and action can feel enormous.

The cricket keeps chirping.

But here’s the other thing I realized as I lay there wishing that little creature would take a water break: the cricket wasn’t whispering. It was singing. Relentlessly.

There is something powerful about being small in a very big world and still making enough noise to fill an entire room. Community knows something about that. Black communities certainly know something about that.

Our organizations are often working with too few resources against problems that were built over generations. And yet, we keep showing up. We build. We organize. We care for children and elders. We create businesses, nonprofits, movements, and solutions. We turn small investments into outsized impact. We make something beautiful out of circumstances that were never designed for us to thrive.

And we keep singing. That is the part philanthropy cannot afford to miss.

The goal cannot simply be to hear community. We have gotten very good at listening sessions. We have reports documenting what communities need. We have surveys, focus groups, and community advisory tables.

At some point, we have to stop admiring the sound and follow it.

Follow it to the neighborhood organizations doing extraordinary work without extraordinary budgets.

Follow it to the leaders who have been solving problems long before somebody gave the problem a funding category.

Follow it to Black-led organizations that don’t need to prove their resilience one more time—they need investment worthy of their vision.

That is the work we keep pushing toward at BRIC: shortening the distance between what we say we believe and what we are actually willing to build. Because change should not forever be something we can hear but cannot reach.

Eventually, I did fall asleep. The cricket kept chirping. And maybe that is the lesson.

When you know you have something worth singing about, keep making noise. Keep calling attention to what matters. Keep showing up. Keep building. Keep pushing the people with resources and power to come closer.

Somewhere out there, change is chirping.

The question is whether we are willing to get up, follow the sound, and finally find it. 🦗