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Op-Ed: California Must Keep Its Promise to Rising Scholars

By Homie Scholarz Network

In 2020, California made a public commitment to support students impacted by incarceration through the Rising Scholars Network.

Backed by $30 million in Proposition 98 funding, the goal was clear: expand programs to all 116 community colleges and build pathways to success for some of the most marginalized students in higher education.

Today, nearly five years later, that promise remains only half-kept.

Of the 93 community colleges that have signed onto the Rising Scholars Network, only 80 have received state funding.

Another 13 colleges operate without it, relying on patchwork local support.

The remainder have no program at all.

The gap is not simply administrative.

It is systemic.

For justice-impacted students — many of whom are Black, Brown, and Indigenous — education is not a luxury.

It is a lifeline.

Research is clear: those who access higher education are dramatically less likely to reoffend and far more likely to rebuild stable, thriving lives.

A RAND Corporation study found a 43% reduction in recidivism among incarcerated individuals who participated in educational programs.

The benefits are undeniable.

Yet, California’s delays in fully funding Rising Scholars programs deny hundreds — perhaps thousands — of students the chance to access that future.

The Rising Scholars Network was not just an initiative; it was supposed to be a reckoning.

A recognition that higher education is a critical piece of reentry.

A refusal to let past incarceration define the possibilities of a person’s future.

If California is serious about equity, serious about second chances, serious about public safety, then it must fully fund the Rising Scholars Network at every community college.

Words are no longer enough.

Budgets are policy.

Promises are meaningless if they are not kept.

The students are ready.

The programs are ready.

The future cannot wait.

California must act — and act now.

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How the Homies Are Introducing Spreads to Campus

A spread ain’t just something to eat—it’s survival turned ceremony. A ritual passed down through hard time and harder days.

But not all time is the same. County jail and prison are different worlds, and that shows up in the spreads, too.

In prison, if you're fortunate enough to get a package or hit the canteen, your options open up. You might chef up something seafood-based—shrimp ramen with spicy lime, oysters, clams, imitation crab, shrimp meat. Add a lil’ crunch with chips or some tang from hot sauce packets, and you got something that reminds you—you’re still human.

But in county jail, it’s a whole different game. Canteen is limited, sometimes nonexistent. You’re working with what they give you on the tray. Beans. Chicken from a dinner. Maybe bologna—if you’re desperate. Mayo packets. Ketchup. Mustard. Soy sauce if you're lucky. Apples from a sack lunch to sweeten up the tuna. It’s not fancy—it’s resourceful. It’s survival in motion, crafted with creativity, hunger, and heart.

What makes a spread sacred isn’t just what’s in it. It’s who you share it with.

Inside, we broke bread with those who had our back. Sometimes folks couldn’t chip in—but they still got a bowl. Because that's what real ones do. That’s what solidarity looks like behind those walls.

And now? That same love is showing up at California campuses.

Recently, I was scrolling through Instagram and caught a moment that hit me deep. Some Homie Scholars at Mt. San Antonio College were making a spread—in a see-through trash bag, just like back in the day. But this wasn’t behind the wall—this was out in the open, at a college event. Students and faculty gathered around. No judgment. No shame. Just curiosity, respect, and real ones breaking bread.

Man, I don’t even know if “happy” is the right word, but I felt moved—grateful, proud, seen. Watching the homies lace up the onlookers, giving them game—sharing not just how we make spreads, but why. The history. The struggle. The love behind every packet of seasoning and scoop of beans. And to see folks listening, learning, leaning in?

That was healing in action.

Because making a spread ain’t just about feeding yourself—it’s about feeding your people. It’s about saying:

“We ain’t invisible no more.”

“We’re here, and our culture is real.”

“This is what community looks like—unapologetic, rooted, generous.”

A spread is built from scraps, but it holds stories, memory, and meaning. It’s communal care served warm. It’s nourishment, and it’s a declaration—that even in the most stripped-down spaces, we found ways to take care of each other.

And now we’re doing that same thing on the outside.

Still taking care.

Still building family.

Still making something out of nothing.

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Tupac Shakur: A Rebel’s Fire, A Panther’s Spirit

Tupac Shakur is often delivered to us in a softened, sanitized form—a hip-hop icon, a poet, a tragic figure taken too soon. The world loves to quote his lyrics, admire his tattoos, and frame him as a rebel without fully recognizing what he stood for. But Tupac was not just an entertainer; he was a product of struggle, a child of revolution, and someone who responded to oppression with fire, not just words.

Raised by his mother, Afeni Shakur, a former Black Panther, Tupac was not simply an artist who stumbled into activism—he was born into it. From an early age, he was taught self-defense, resilience, and the importance of standing up against systemic injustice. His mother’s involvement in the Black Panther Party exposed him to revolutionary thought, survival strategies, and the necessity of fighting back when confronted with oppression. He wasn’t just rapping about resistance; he lived it.

When people discuss Tupac, they often focus on his contradictions—the poet and the thug, the thinker and the fighter—but those contradictions are the very essence of his identity. His music was a direct response to the conditions he witnessed: police brutality, mass incarceration, economic struggle, and systemic racism. Songs like Trapped and Changes weren’t just reflections of his reality; they were calls to action. He spoke to the pain of the streets because he lived it, and he wasn’t afraid to challenge those in power.

The incident in Atlanta in 1993, where Tupac shot two off-duty police officers after witnessing them harassing a Black motorist, is often downplayed in discussions about his life. But this moment is crucial to understanding who he really was—a man who didn’t just talk about fighting back but actually did. The charges were dropped when it was revealed that the officers were intoxicated and carrying stolen weapons, but the event solidified Tupac’s image as someone who wouldn’t just accept oppression.

His legacy is deeper than rap, fame, or even his untimely death. Tupac embodied the spirit of resistance that his mother and the Black Panthers instilled in him. His defiance was not just for show—it was a philosophy of survival and empowerment. The system feared him not because he was a rapper, but because he was a revolutionary voice with the potential to awaken the people.

If we truly want to honor Tupac, we must see him for who he was—not just a rapper, but a warrior in the fight for justice.

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Homies in Higher Education

Who Are the Homies?

When I say "homies," I’m talking about current and former gang members—those who have been shaped by their neighborhoods, whether they remain active or not. Active, in this sense, doesn’t necessarily mean engaging in destructive activities but rather being a known figure in their community, a presence in the neighborhood structure. Many homies who pursue higher education don’t entirely leave behind their affiliations; instead, they redefine what it means to represent where they’re from.

For too long, society has painted gang members with a single brush, defining them only by the violence and crime often associated with gangs. But the reality is more complex. Gangs formed out of necessity, out of the need for protection, community, and belonging in neighborhoods abandoned by the system. If we knew better, we would do better—but systemic oppression, economic barriers, and generational cycles of survival have made it difficult for homies to access opportunities beyond the streets.

Education as a Tool for Liberation

I’ve always said—and you can quote me on this—I’m not against gang culture; I’m against violence. I believe we all want to belong to something. I am against killing each other. Now that I’ve gained education and empowerment, I see how America has intentionally created conditions that pit us against each other, setting up cycles of violence and poverty that keep our communities struggling. But with knowledge, I now understand that the real fight isn’t with each other—it’s with the institutions and systems that placed us here to begin with.

For homies who step into higher education, the goal isn’t to erase where we come from but to use education as a tool to uplift ourselves and our communities. We don’t stop being homies when we go to college; we just take what we’ve learned and apply it in new ways. Instead of using our pain, anger, and experiences for self-destruction, we channel them into breaking down oppressive structures—the same ones that created the conditions for gangs in the first place.

The Role of Higher Education for Homies

Higher education provides something the streets never could: the ability to critically analyze the systems that have shaped us. When homies enter academia, they bring lived experience that no textbook can teach. We understand systemic oppression not because we read about it in class but because we’ve survived it firsthand.

Education liberates the mind, but it also empowers us to act. A homie with knowledge is dangerous—not to his own people but to the institutions that have historically tried to keep us down. Imagine the power of a generation of homies who use their intelligence, leadership, and resilience to dismantle the very foundations that sought to destroy them. That’s what higher education can do for us.

Representing the Neighborhood in New Ways

Going to college doesn’t mean abandoning your roots—it means redefining them. It means showing up in academic spaces as our authentic selves, refusing to assimilate, and proving that homies belong here too. It means using education to bring resources back to our communities, to mentor the next generation, and to create opportunities where none existed before.

We Are the Leaders

Homies in higher education aren’t just students—we are the leaders our communities have been waiting for. We are proof that transformation is possible, that resilience runs deep, and that knowledge is the most powerful tool we can wield. We are not just studying history; we are making it.

Leadership is about more than holding a title—it’s about action. As homies in higher education, we take what we’ve learned and bring it back to our people, creating pathways for others to follow. We mentor, we organize, we fight for policy changes, and we disrupt spaces that were never meant for us. We stand at the intersection of lived experience and academic knowledge, bridging the gap between the streets and the institutions that have historically excluded us.

The world has long underestimated the intelligence, strategy, and strength that homies possess. But now, as we enter these spaces with our heads held high, we redefine what leadership looks like. We are no longer asking for a seat at the table—we are building our own tables, in our own way, on our own terms.

Alexzander Calderon / P. Flakoe

Mara Salvatrucha

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The Imposter Syndrome of a Cholo.

I Am Supposed to Be Dead or in Prison—Not on Campus.

For most of my life, I was told that my future held only two destinations—prison or death. And I believed it. Not just believed it, but embraced it. I lived by it, spoke it into existence, made it my identity. The streets raised me, my hood defined me, and my purpose was clear: to represent until the casket drops. There was no fear in that—only pride. I was ready to do 25 to life if it came to that, more than ready. I wanted to. I needed to prove to myself and my homies that I was down, that I was willing to give everything for the cause. My name, my reputation, my stripes—all of it mattered more than anything else.

And then somehow, against every odd, I ended up in college.

Walking onto a college campus, fresh out of a world where survival meant never showing weakness, was like stepping onto an alien planet. Nothing made sense. The way people talked, the things they worried about, the way they carried themselves—it was all foreign. I was used to eye contact meaning a challenge, to every space being a battlefield where you had to establish your presence. Here, people avoided looking too long, lost in their own worlds of books, deadlines, and career plans.

For years, I had built my identity around being hard, being fearless, being willing to throw my life away for something bigger than myself. But in this new world, that meant nothing. Professors didn’t care about my past. Classmates had no idea what it took for me just to sit in that seat, to even consider the possibility that I could be something other than what the system had always told me I was. And worst of all, I felt like I didn’t belong. Like I had somehow cheated my fate and was waiting for the moment I would be exposed as a fraud.

Imposter syndrome for someone like me wasn’t just about feeling academically unprepared. It was about my entire existence being in conflict with the space I was in. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Every time I sat in a classroom, every time I wrote a paper, every time I heard someone talk about their future, I felt like I was playing a role that wasn’t meant for me. My whole life, I had told myself I didn’t give a f***. Now, suddenly, I had to care. But how do you care about something when you spent years convincing yourself that nothing mattered except the streets?

The hardest part wasn’t the schoolwork. It was the silence. In the hood, silence was rare. Life was loud—cars bumping, homies posted, the constant tension of knowing at any moment, things could pop off. In prison, silence was dangerous. It meant something was about to go down. But in college, silence was normal. People sat in libraries for hours, heads down, lost in books. And in that silence, I had to sit with myself. No distractions. No homies around to validate me. Just me and the thoughts I had spent years drowning out with action.

I questioned everything. Who was I without the gang? What did I really want? Did I even have the right to be here? The weight of that doubt was heavier than any sentence I had ever prepared myself for. And the worst part? No one around me could understand. How could they? Their struggles were different. Real, but different. They worried about grades and internships. I worried about whether I was betraying the only life I had ever known by even daring to imagine a different future.

But for a homie, for a cholo, for a gang member—imposter syndrome feels even deeper. Because it’s not just about feeling like you don’t belong in school. It’s about feeling like you cheated your own destiny. Like you broke a promise you made to yourself and to the hood. I was supposed to be dead. I was supposed to be in prison. I told myself that for years, and I meant it. I didn’t just accept it—I welcomed it. I wanted it. Because that’s what I said I would do. I was going to die gangbanging, or I was going to go to prison and wear that as a badge of honor. That was the path I laid out for myself, the one I was proud to walk.

But I didn’t. And now, every time I step on campus, I think about that. I think about all the times I swore to myself and to my homies that I would never be this, that I would never leave the life behind. And it messes with me. Because if I’m not that, then what am I? If I’m not living out the fate I carved for myself, does that mean I lost myself? Or does it mean I found something bigger?

When people talk about imposter syndrome, they usually mean feeling like they’re not smart enough or capable enough for a certain space. But what is imposter syndrome to a gang member, to someone who was supposed to be dead or locked up? It’s looking in the mirror and not recognizing yourself. It’s walking through a campus and feeling like a ghost, like you’re living in an alternate reality where you survived when you weren’t supposed to. It’s carrying the weight of a past that says you should have never made it here, while trying to figure out if you even deserve to stay.

The same survival skills that kept me alive in the streets—the ability to read people, to adapt, to stay sharp under pressure—were the same ones that helped me navigate college. The discipline it took to put in work for the hood was the same discipline it took to study and succeed. The only difference was the purpose. The same fire that once made me willing to die for something now had the potential to make me live for something greater.

Imposter syndrome doesn’t just disappear. Some days, I still feel it. But the biggest realization I’ve had is this: I do belong here. Not because I’ve changed who I am, but because who I am was always bigger than the box I was placed in. My past doesn’t disqualify me—it fuels me. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the realest thing I’ve ever done.

Alexzander Calderon

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The Origin of Student Debt: How Fear of an "Educated Proletariat" Put the System on Lock

The Origin of Student Debt: How Fear of an "Educated Proletariat" Put the System on Lock

In 1970, Roger Freeman, an adviser to both Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan, let the mask slip. He warned that providing free college would create a “dangerous educated proletariat.” Translation? Let too many of the homies and working-class folks get educated, and the whole system might flip. Freeman wasn’t talking about budget cuts — he was talking about control. Because knowledge is power, and power in the hands of the people scares the hell outta those in charge.

How They Played the Game

Let’s take it back. Post-World War II, the GI Bill was letting veterans hit up college for free, and states were investing heavy in public universities. California was leading the way — public colleges were basically free, and the University of California system was a gold standard. Then the 60s hit, and young people started waking up. Protests against Vietnam, the civil rights movement, feminist organizing — a whole generation of educated youth was out in the streets, questioning the system. And the people in power were shook.

When Reagan came up as governor of California, he saw free education not as a flex, but as a threat. He straight-up said taxpayers shouldn’t have to “subsidize curiosity” — meaning, why should the state educate people who might turn around and challenge the very system holding them down? That’s when they started cutting public funding for schools and making students pick up the tab. Freeman’s whole "educated proletariat" fear? That was code for “keep poor and working-class kids from getting too smart — or else they’ll stop playing by the rules.”

Turning Education Into a Trap

Here’s where it gets grimy. When the state pulled back on funding, tuition shot up. But instead of helping students with grants, the government rolled out loans. Now you got a whole generation of students going into debt just to learn. And debt ain't just money — it's leverage. When you owe tens of thousands straight outta college, you’re less likely to take risks. Less likely to organize. Less likely to push back. 'Cause how you gonna stand up to the system when you’re one paycheck away from default?

That’s the whole point — to keep you locked into the cycle. To make sure the smartest, most aware, most critical generation isn’t free to act on that knowledge. That’s why they engineered this debt system — not to educate you, but to control you.

From Hustle to Resistance

Fast forward 50 years, and the student debt crisis is at $1.7 trillion — that’s trillion with a T. It didn’t happen by accident. It’s the long game. The system was set up to make higher education a hustle — but not for you. They made sure the burden fell hardest on working-class students, students of color, and marginalized communities. They knew exactly what they were doing. Keep the homies in debt, keep ‘em too stressed to fight back.

But here’s where they messed up — they underestimated us. The fact that you’re reading this, that you’re in school despite the system trying to lock you out — that’s already resistance. That’s power. Movements for student loan forgiveness, free college, and debt relief? That’s the educated proletariat they were scared of — and it’s already in motion.

Flip the Script

Here’s the truth they don’t want you to know: they’re not scared of broke students — they’re scared of educated ones. An educated society is a dangerous society — dangerous to the elite, to the system that profits off of ignorance and compliance. That’s why they rigged the game in the first place. But it’s time to flip the script.

This ain't about affordability — it’s about power. They knew that if enough of us got educated, the game would change. So let's change it. Push for debt cancellation. Fight for free public college. Demand that education be treated like a right, not a privilege. Because once you get the knowledge — once you unlock the cheat code — the system can’t hold you down anymore. And that’s exactly what they were afraid of.

They feared the rise of the educated proletariat. Now it’s time to give ‘em exactly what they were scared of.

Alexzander Calderon

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The Difference Between System-Impacted and Formerly Incarcerated Students

The terms system-impacted and formerly incarcerated both describe individuals whose lives have been affected by the criminal justice system, but they refer to different experiences and levels of involvement:

Formerly Incarcerated Students – This term refers specifically to individuals who have been in jail or prison and have since been released. These students have directly experienced incarceration and are navigating life, education, and work after being imprisoned. Their experiences often include barriers related to reentry, such as housing insecurity, employment challenges, and social stigma.

System-Impacted Students – This term has a broader scope and includes individuals whose lives have been affected by the criminal justice system, even if they were not incarcerated themselves. This can include:

Students who have a parent, sibling, or close family member who has been incarcerated.

Individuals who have been involved with the foster care system due to parental incarceration.

Students who have experienced policing, surveillance, or court involvement without necessarily being incarcerated.

Key Difference

Formerly incarcerated students have directly served time in prison or jail.

System-impacted students may not have been incarcerated themselves but have been affected by the justice system through family members, policing, or other forms of state intervention.

In education and advocacy spaces, recognizing this distinction is important for tailoring support services and resources to address the specific challenges each group faces. But over time, the line between these categories has become blurred — and in some cases, that’s led to real tension and exclusion.

Jumping on the Bandwagon

About three years ago, I attended a presentation at Southwestern Law School that really made me reflect on how these identities are defined and how that affects the spaces we create.

I met a student who had never had any prior involvement or connection with the criminal justice system. She wasn’t system-impacted — no family members had ever been incarcerated, and she hadn’t grown up around policing or surveillance. What made her "formerly incarcerated" was that she had been arrested and served time for multiple DUIs. Because of this, she was part of a group of students who identified as "formerly incarcerated."

This raised some real questions. While her incarceration was technically real and carried consequences, some students whose parents or family members were incarcerated expressed frustration that they weren’t seen as equally entitled to these spaces. They argued that growing up with an incarcerated parent — dealing with the emotional, social, and financial fallout — created long-term barriers that mirrored the struggles of those who had been incarcerated themselves.

But it went even deeper than that. What I’ve seen since then is that some system-impacted students — those whose experiences were shaped by incarceration from the outside — have shifted from being allies to taking over the space.

These were once the people standing alongside us, helping to create platforms for those of us who had actually served time. Now, in some cases, they’re leading the conversations and setting the terms for how "justice-impacted" identities are defined.

It’s like they jumped on the bandwagon. The original goal was to create spaces where formerly incarcerated students could find support and community — a place where the people who had been through the system could lead and shape the conversation. But now, some system-impacted students are stepping into leadership roles, speaking on behalf of experiences they never lived, and crowding out the voices of those who have actually been behind bars.

The Reality

The truth is, being system-impacted and being formerly incarcerated are not the same thing. System-impacted students face real challenges, but the experience of incarceration — of losing your freedom, of navigating parole, of rebuilding life with a record hanging over you — is different. There’s a depth to that trauma that can’t be fully understood from the outside.

When system-impacted students take over the space, it risks watering down the voices and experiences of those who’ve actually lived through the system. And that’s a problem.

It’s not about excluding anyone — it’s about recognizing that these experiences are not interchangeable. System-impacted students have a place in the conversation, but formerly incarcerated students need to be the ones driving it. That presentation at Southwestern opened my eyes to this dynamic — and it’s only become clearer since then.

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Higher Education and Incarceration: Reclaiming the Leadership That Homies Built System-Impacted Allies Are Taking Up Space — It’s Time to Put Formerly Incarcerated Leaders Back at the Forefront

Higher Education and Incarceration: Reclaiming the Leadership That Homies Built

There was a time when higher education and incarceration weren’t as disconnected as they are today. In the 1950s, 60s, and 70s, homies on the inside could pursue college degrees while serving time. Through programs like Pell Grants and partnerships with universities, incarcerated people had the opportunity to earn meaningful degrees, opening pathways to rehabilitation and reintegration into society. Homies were getting their degrees in sociology, business, even law — sometimes from some of the most respected universities in the country — without ever having to leave the prison walls.

But that all came crashing down in 1994 with the passage of the Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act, which stripped incarcerated people of access to Pell Grants. Almost overnight, the doors to higher education in prison slammed shut. The programs dried up, the college partnerships disappeared, and homies were left without the chance to access one of the most transformative tools for breaking the cycle of incarceration: education.

For nearly two decades, that’s where things stayed — until a resurgence of higher education in prison started to take shape. Programs like Project Rebound, originally founded in 1967 by John Irwin, a formerly incarcerated professor at San Francisco State University, were instrumental in keeping the idea alive that homies deserve access to education. Irwin had served time himself and knew firsthand that higher education was one of the most powerful tools for breaking the cycle of incarceration. His vision for Project Rebound was to create a program that didn’t just provide academic access but gave formerly incarcerated students the tools, mentorship, and support to thrive in higher education.

Over the past 20 years, Project Rebound has expanded from San Francisco State to multiple California State University campuses, becoming a statewide model for how to support formerly incarcerated students in higher education. Programs like Underground Scholars at the University of California and Rising Scholars in the California Community College system have followed similar models — creating spaces where formerly incarcerated students can find community, financial aid, academic counseling, and emotional support. And thanks to the dedicated work of formerly incarcerated students, organizers, and faculty, access to education for homies has started to grow again.

But here’s the issue: as these programs have grown more successful and more visible, leadership roles have started shifting away from the formerly incarcerated community. It’s no secret that the visibility and success of Project Rebound, Underground Scholars, and Rising Scholars have attracted attention. Universities and colleges love a good success story — the smiling faces of formerly incarcerated graduates on social media, the guest speaker events, the panels at academic conferences. But behind the scenes, the leadership of these programs is increasingly being filled by system-impacted individuals or allies — people who may have grown up in over-policed communities or had incarcerated family members — but who never experienced incarceration themselves.

It’s one thing to understand incarceration from a distance — it’s another thing to have lived it. Direct lived experience of incarceration brings a different level of understanding, resilience, and connection to the work. The truth is, many of the people holding titles like Coordinator or Director in Project Rebound, Underground Scholars, and Rising Scholars are not formerly incarcerated. And that’s a problem.

It’s not to say that allies and system-impacted professionals don’t have value — they do. But the core mission of these programs is to uplift and empower formerly incarcerated students. That means those leadership positions should reflect that mission. Homies built these programs. Homies fought for the right to access education after incarceration. Homies were the ones organizing, advocating, and breaking down barriers to make these programs what they are today. And now that the programs are successful, homies are being pushed to the side while system-impacted allies and professionals are the ones stepping into the leadership roles.

This needs to change. If these programs were built to empower formerly incarcerated students, then formerly incarcerated students should be leading them. Universities and colleges need to create intentional pipelines that prioritize formerly incarcerated leadership. That means when coordinator and director positions open up, they should be recruiting and training formerly incarcerated students and alumni to step into those roles.

More importantly, those who currently hold those positions but aren’t formerly incarcerated need to step back. If you’re a coordinator or director of a program like Project Rebound, Underground Scholars, or Rising Scholars — and you’ve never done time — you need to ask yourself why you’re holding that seat. The purpose of these programs is to create leadership opportunities for formerly incarcerated students — not to create career tracks for well-meaning allies. It’s time for some of those seats to open up. If you’re not formerly incarcerated and you’re sitting in a leadership position that could be filled by someone who is, it might be time to step aside and encourage a homie to apply.

It’s not enough to just provide access to education — the leadership of these programs needs to reflect the communities they serve. Formerly incarcerated students don’t just need a seat at the table — they need to be leading the conversation. The whole point of programs like Project Rebound and Underground Scholars was to empower formerly incarcerated students. That empowerment can’t stop at graduation — it needs to extend into leadership.

Homies built this. Homies should be the ones guiding where it goes next.

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Vigilance and Resistance: Navigating White Supremacy in Higher Education

Higher education is often sold as a gateway to opportunity, a place where diverse perspectives are welcomed and cultivated. But for those of us on the margins—Black, Brown, Indigenous, formerly incarcerated, undocumented, queer, and system-impacted students—our reality is starkly different. We walk into these institutions carrying the weight of history, trauma, and lived experiences that the academy too often dismisses, exploits, or actively silences.

The recent arrest of a Temple University student for impersonating an ICE officer serves as a chilling reminder of the white supremacy culture that festers in these spaces. This wasn’t just a "prank" or an isolated incident. It was an act of racialized intimidation, meant to instill fear, assert dominance, and remind certain students that they do not belong.

We must reject the lie that these are random events. They are part of a larger pattern. From racial profiling on campuses to the over-policing of Black and Brown students, from curriculum erasure to microaggressions by faculty and peers—these are all manifestations of a system designed to protect whiteness and punish those who challenge it.

Stay Vigilant, Stay Connected

We cannot afford to navigate these institutions alone. White supremacy thrives in isolation, in our exhaustion, in our silence. The best way to resist is to build community, to organize, and to demand accountability.

Here’s how we fight back:

1. Join or Build Student Organizations

Connect with Rising Scholars, Underground Scholars, MEChA, Black Student Unions, and Ethnic Studies collectives. These organizations provide spaces where we can support each other, share knowledge, and strategize resistance.

2. Demand Accountability from Your Institution

If incidents like this happen at your school, don't let them be swept under the rug. Demand transparency, call for policy changes, and expose the ways administration enables white supremacy.

3. Know Your Rights

Whether it’s knowing your legal protections as an undocumented student, understanding Title VI civil rights violations, or learning how to challenge racial bias in grading and discipline, knowledge is power.

4. Center Abolitionist Thinking in Campus Advocacy

We must push beyond reform and demand transformative change. Police abolition, divestment from prison labor, and an end to the surveillance of marginalized students are necessary steps toward real liberation.

5. Build Coalitions with Faculty and Staff Who Share the Struggle

There are professors, advisors, and staff who understand that higher education must be decolonized. Find them. Work with them. Hold space for each other.

Higher Education is a Battleground

We are not guests in these institutions. We are builders, creators, revolutionaries. Every student who has been criminalized, every faculty member who has been silenced for teaching radical truth, every activist who has been surveilled for organizing—our struggles are interconnected.

White supremacy will not disappear from these campuses on its own. It must be named, exposed, and dismantled. That work starts with us, together.

Get connected. Stay vigilant. Resist always.

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Title: From Prison Yards to Campus Quads: How Education for the Homie Students Is Growing and Why We Need Better Transitions

Over the past few years, education programs in California state prisons have been blowing up, giving incarcerated folks—the homie students—the chance to earn GEDs, vocational certificates, and even college degrees. Programs like Rising Scholars and Underground Scholars are out here changing lives, showing people behind bars that there’s more to life than the system that’s tried to keep them down. But while these programs are making waves, there’s still a big gap when it comes to helping the homie students transition from in-prison education to community colleges and universities once they’re released.

Most of the homie students coming out of prison aren’t just dealing with school stuff—they’re carrying the weight of violence, trauma, and survival from both inside and outside. The streets don’t let up, and neither does the system. So, how do we make sure that when the homie students step onto campus, they’re not just thrown into the deep end? How can colleges meet the needs of folks who’ve been through it and are now trying to build something better for themselves and their communities?

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1. How Prison Education Is Growing for the Homie Students

California’s been leading the charge when it comes to bringing education into prisons. Programs like Rising Scholars are spreading across the state, giving incarcerated students a shot at real education, not just busywork. Plus, with Pell Grants back on the table, more people can afford to go after their degrees while they’re locked up. These programs aren’t just about getting a piece of paper—they’re about giving people the tools to break free from the cycle of incarceration and build something real.

But here’s the thing: education doesn’t stop when the prison gates open. That transition from the yard to the classroom is where a lot of the homie students hit a wall. The support they had inside doesn’t always follow them outside, and too many are left feeling lost, isolated, and overwhelmed.

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2. Why We Need Stronger Transitions for the Homie Students

If we’re serious about using education as a tool for freedom, we’ve got to make sure that transition from prison to college is smooth. Here’s what’s needed:

a) Solid Transition Programs:

Colleges need Bridge Programs that are built for the homie students. These programs can link people up with mentors, academic advisors, and workshops that break down everything from financial aid to navigating life on the outside.

b) Homie Support Networks:

Programs like Underground Scholars prove that there’s nothing like having a crew that gets you. Peer support isn’t just about friendship—it’s about survival. The homie students need spaces where they feel seen and heard, where they can share their stories without judgment.

c) Trauma-Informed Practices:

Let’s be real—prison isn’t just about serving time. It’s about surviving trauma. From the streets to the cells, the homie students have been through it all. Colleges need to step up with trauma-informed practices—that means counseling services, safe spaces, and training for professors so they know how to support students who’ve lived through serious struggles.

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3. The Real Struggles the Homie Students Face After Prison

Getting out of prison and stepping onto a college campus sounds good in theory, but the homie students face some real challenges:

Housing and Money Problems: Most folks coming out don’t have stable housing or a job lined up. Colleges need to partner with local groups to help find housing and job opportunities.

Mental Health Struggles: The mental health toll from prison life is real. PTSD, anxiety, depression—you name it. The homie students need access to affordable, accessible mental health support.

Catching Up on Academics: Some of the homie students haven’t been in a classroom for years, and even if they have, prison education isn’t always up to par. They need tutoring, remedial classes, and flexible learning options to get back on track.

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4. How Colleges Can Step Up for the Homie Students

If colleges in California really want to support the homie students, they’ve got to do more than just admit them. It’s about creating an environment where they can thrive.

a) Create Spaces That Feel Like Home:

Professors and staff need to be trained on how to work with system-impacted students. Colleges should be safe spaces where the homie students feel like they belong, not like outsiders.

b) Build Strong Ties with Prisons:

Colleges need to connect directly with prisons to help prepare students before they’re released. Pre-release college readiness programs can make sure the homie students hit the ground running.

c) Give Homie Students a Chance to Lead:

The homie students should have opportunities to lead on campus. Whether it’s through student government, clubs, or events, giving them a voice helps them—and the entire campus—grow.

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5. Education as Liberation for the Homie Students

At the end of the day, education is more than just books and grades. It’s about freedom. It’s about giving the homie students the chance to rewrite their stories and break the cycles that have held them down for too long. But for education to truly set people free, it needs to extend beyond prison walls.

By building stronger bridges between prison education and community colleges, we can make sure the homie students aren’t just surviving—they’re thriving. It’s time for California’s colleges to step up, meet the homie students where they’re at, and recognize the strength, resilience, and brilliance they bring to the table.

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When we invest in education, we’re not just investing in individuals—we’re investing in entire communities. Let’s keep building these bridges for the homie students, because their success is our success.

[therisingscholarzpost]

Student Homies Under Attack: Trump's Immigration Crackdown Puts Formerly Incarcerated & Undocumented Students Homies at Risk

The fight for education just got harder for our formerly incarcerated & undocumented student homies. Trump’s latest immigration policies are opening the door for ICE to pull up on college campuses, targeting students who are just trying to rebuild their lives.

For years, programs like Rising Scholars, Project Rebound, and Underground Scholars have created pathways for student homies to pursue higher education, break cycles of incarceration, and contribute to their communities. But now, the administration’s crackdown threatens everything they’ve worked for.

What’s Going Down?

ICE can now arrest student homies on college campuses, a place that used to be considered a "safe zone" for undocumented students.

Formerly incarcerated student homies with pending immigration cases or parole approvals are at risk of deportation, even if they’ve followed all legal procedures.

States like Florida are stripping undocumented student homies of in-state tuition benefits, making college even less accessible for those who need it most.

Trump’s policies are also canceling student visas for people labeled as “Hamas sympathizers,” raising fears that more student homies will be unfairly targeted.

What Can Student Homies Do?

Now is the time to get informed, get organized, and stay connected to the movement fighting for our rights.

✅ Know your rights! ICE has rules they have to follow. Learn what they can and CAN’T do when approaching student homies on campus.

✅ Get legal support. Hit up Immigrant Legal Resource Center (ILRC) at www.ilrc.org for resources on deportation defense and immigrant rights.

✅ Tap into community. Programs like Rising Scholars, Project Rebound, and Underground Scholars are standing strong to protect our student homies. Join them, speak out, and demand that colleges take a stand.

🔗 Follow @RisingScholarzPost for more updates and ways to fight back! ✊🏽🔥 #StudentHomies #EducationNotDeportation #RisingScholarz #ProjectRebound #UndergroundScholars

🚨 Student homies, this is our fight. We’ve overcome too much to let them take our education away. Stay informed, stay loud, and stay in school.