Old School Still Works: Don't Forget the Recipe That Got Us Here

By LaDawn Sullivan

We live in a world where everything is getting smarter, faster, and more complicated. Artificial intelligence can write your emails, your phone can tell you when to breathe, and apparently, there's an app for everything except good old-fashioned common sense. We've got algorithms predicting our behavior, virtual meetings replacing front porches, and enough technology to connect us to the entire world while somehow leaving us disconnected from the people right next door.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I appreciate progress. I love a good shortcut, and I have absolutely no intention of giving up my GPS to return to folding a Rand McNally map across the steering wheel. But there are some things that modern technology, new methodologies, and fancy frameworks simply cannot replace.

Some of the best recipes for survival, resilience, and change were perfected long before anybody thought to give them a trademark, a strategic plan, or a TED Talk.

And for Black folks, those recipes are etched in our bones.

Our ancestors knew how to build community without a community engagement consultant. They knew how to organize without an online registration platform. They raised money without crowdfunding software, developed leaders without expensive fellowships, and created movements without hashtags. They passed the hat, opened their homes, shared what little they had, and somehow made enough out of not enough to keep entire communities standing.

That's not nostalgia. That's brilliance.

I grew up understanding that the old-school way wasn't always the easy way, but it was often the way that worked. You showed up. You kept your word. You respected your elders, even when you thought they were being a little extra. You looked after somebody else's children because they were everybody's responsibility. And when something needed to get done, you didn't spend six months deciding who should chair the committee. Somebody grabbed a folding table, somebody brought food, and somebody started making phone calls.

The work got done because the people understood that their survival was connected to one another.

I was fortunate enough to sit at the feet of a master, soaking up wisdom, lessons learned, and original recipes that could never be captured on an index card or measured with a teaspoon. Some things were learned by watching, listening, touching, feeling, and tasting until you knew it was just right. A little of this, a pinch of that, and a whole lot of knowing what you were doing. The same was true of lessons about life, leadership, community, and survival. There wasn't always a written playbook, but there was a way. And when you paid attention, you learned that the secret wasn't simply in the ingredients. It was in the hands that prepared them, the experience that perfected them, and the love and intention behind what was being passed down.

That's the kind of wisdom you can't download, manufacture, or learn in a weekend workshop. It has to be shared, practiced, and passed on. And if we're not careful, we risk losing the very people and practices that taught us how to make something extraordinary out of what others considered ordinary.

That understanding built Black churches, businesses, schools, civic organizations, mutual aid networks, and civil rights movements. It sustained families through segregation, economic exclusion, and deliberate attempts to deny us opportunity. It wasn't perfect, and we shouldn't romanticize the hardships that made these practices necessary. But we would be foolish to discard the wisdom they produced.

Today, in philanthropy and the nonprofit sector, we spend a whole lot of time talking about innovation. We develop theories of change, logic models, dashboards, and strategic frameworks. And yes, those tools have their place. But sometimes I wonder whether we're spending so much time trying to reinvent the wheel that we've forgotten who built the wagon, who pulled it, and who made sure everybody had a seat.

Our communities practiced collective giving long before philanthropy became an industry. We pooled money through church offerings, giving circles, rent parties, mutual aid societies, and neighborhood collections. We shared our time, talent, treasure, testimony, and ties long before we at the BRIC Fund gave those practices a name: the 5Ts.

We didn't invent generosity. We inherited it. Our responsibility is to strengthen it, expand it, and pass it forward.

That's part of what drives our work at the BRIC Fund. Building strong Black communities isn't some shiny new concept. It's a continuation of generations of Black people investing in one another when traditional institutions either wouldn't or couldn't. The tools may be different, but the responsibility remains the same.

And let's talk about leadership. Old-school leadership understood that your title didn't make you important; your contribution made you accountable. You didn't have to be the loudest person in the room to carry the greatest wisdom. Sometimes the most powerful person in the community was the grandmother who knew everybody, remembered everything, and could organize 40 people before breakfast. No LinkedIn profile necessary.

But honoring the old school doesn't mean preserving everything about it. Some traditions deserve retirement, particularly those that silence younger voices, protect egos, or demand respect without accountability. We must know the difference between preserving wisdom and protecting habits that no longer serve us.

Our children and grandchildren deserve the best of both worlds: the technology to move us forward and the ancestral wisdom to keep us grounded. They need to know that progress isn't always about creating something new. Sometimes it's about remembering something powerful.

Because when the systems fail, the funding disappears, the internet goes down, or the next crisis comes knocking, the things that have carried us through generations will still matter: relationships, courage, resourcefulness, collective responsibility, faith in one another, and the willingness to show up.

Those are the ingredients that sustained us. They are also the ingredients that can help us thrive.

So yes, bring on the innovation. Embrace the technology. Challenge outdated systems and imagine possibilities our ancestors could only dream about.

But don't throw away the old recipe just because somebody bought a new stove.

The recipe still works. The ingredients are still ours. And the wisdom of those who came before us deserves more than a place in history. It deserves a place in our future.

Let us never forget from whence we came. Not because we're trying to go backward, but because we know exactly what helped bring us this far.

And beloved, we've still got some cooking to do.