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Black American History, 2020 Clement Street, Atlanta (2026)

16/05/2026

Rihanna grew up without much. There were days she came to school barefoot because her shoes were broken and there was nothing to replace them with. Her teacher, Miss Roberts, noticed — and without making it a moment, without drawing attention to it, she quietly bought her a new pair of shoes and said nothing about it to anyone.No announcement. No expectation of return. Just a private decision made by someone who saw a child's need and met it.Years passed. Rihanna's life changed in ways that classroom could never have predicted. And somewhere along the way, she learned that Miss Roberts was struggling — the kind of hardship that arrives without warning and reshapes everything.So she bought her a house. And arranged monthly financial support to follow.What makes this story stay with people isn't the scale of either gesture. It's the symmetry. A teacher who gave without expectation. A student who never forgot what it felt like to be quietly seen. Decades between the two acts, and yet they belong to the same conversation — one that never needed words to begin with.Generosity that expects nothing in return has a way of traveling further than any calculated investment. Miss Roberts wasn't building a relationship with a future billionaire. She was looking at a child who needed shoes and making a decision that cost her something.That decision came back. It always does, in one form or another — though rarely as precisely or as beautifully as this.A pair of shoes. A house. Decades apart. The same act of love, answered.

16/05/2026

Caleb Anderson is 12 years old. He transferred from Chattahoochee Technical College to Georgia Tech, where he is currently majoring in Aerospace Engineering. His plan after completing his undergraduate degree is to pursue a master's. His long-term goal is NASA.He is 12.The gap between where most 12-year-olds are in their educational journey and where Caleb Anderson is cannot be understated — and it is worth sitting with not just as a remarkable individual story but as a prompt to examine what systems and support structures make something like this possible, and how frequently those systems fail to identify and nurture this level of ability in children who don't fit the expected profile.Caleb is a young Black boy pursuing aerospace engineering — a field in which both youth and Blackness are significantly underrepresented, particularly at the most elite levels of research and exploration. His presence at Georgia Tech at 12, studying the mechanics of the systems that take humans beyond Earth, is not just personally extraordinary. It is a visible disruption of assumptions about who belongs in those rooms and at what stage of life.His stated ambition — NASA — is not a child's vague dream. It is a specific, informed goal being pursued through a specific, rigorous pathway by someone who has already demonstrated the ability to operate at a level most adults in his chosen field have not yet reached.The sky, as the saying goes, is not the limit. Caleb Anderson appears to have already taken that saying literally.12 years old. Georgia Tech. Aerospace Engineering. NASA in his sights. The future is not waiting for him — he's already in it.

16/05/2026

Baby Paris is nine months old and she is fighting.Her mother Ternysha McPherson reached out to Stay Inspired from Hampton, Georgia, asking for prayers and asking to be seen in a moment that has asked more of her than any mother should have to carry alone. Paris was hospitalized after developing blood clots in her arm and a severe infection that caused swelling in her eye. While in the hospital, she experienced a seizure that led to cardiac arrest. The medical team brought her back. She is now in the ICU on advanced life support. Her heart is still weak. Her lungs are fragile. Blood clots remain throughout her body, traveling from where they first appeared in her arm.Ternysha has been at the hospital through all of it. And because she has been at the hospital through all of it, she lost her job.She is not complaining about that in her statement. She is expressing gratitude for the donations and the prayers that have reached her family since this began. She wants people to know that Paris is off the life support machine — which is progress, even as the fight continues.A GoFundMe page titled Support for Paris's Medical Emergency was created on April 16, 2026. More than 3,200 dollars has been raised so far. Every contribution has come from people who heard this story and decided that doing something small was better than doing nothing. We are sharing this because Ternysha should know she is not alone. Paris should know people are pulling for her.If you are able to contribute, the GoFundMe is active. If you are not, hold them in your thoughts.Keep fighting, Paris.

15/05/2026

NYPD beat Miles Davis bloody on a sidewalk while his name was in lights above the door. Minutes earlier, he'd been playing trumpet for American soldiers on a government broadcast. They asked him to be the voice of America, then beat him for standing outside. Somewhere in a radio archive, there is a tape of Miles Davis playing trumpet for American soldiers on the night of August 25, 1959. It was recorded at Birdland, the self-proclaimed jazz corner of the world, on Broadway just north of 52nd Street in Midtown Manhattan, for an Armed Forces Radio Service broadcast beamed through Voice of America to military bases around the globe. The United States government asked Miles Davis to be the sound of the nation that evening, and he said yes, and he played. When the tape ran out and the microphones went cold, he walked upstairs into the August heat, stood on the sidewalk beneath a marquee that spelled his name in lights, and a police officer told him he didn't belong there. Eight days earlier, Columbia Records had released Kind of Blue. It would become the bestselling jazz album in history, a record that has never gone out of print, a work so quietly revolutionary that musicians in every genre would spend decades trying to explain what Miles had done to the architecture of sound. John Coltrane was on that record. So were Cannonball Adderley, Bill Evans, Paul Chambers, Jimmy Cobb, and Wynton Kelly. The men who played on Kind of Blue went on to reshape American music in six different directions, and every one of them traced some part of what they became back to those two sessions in March and April of 1959, in Columbia's 30th Street Studio. Miles stood in the center of the room and barely said a word because the music was already doing the talking. That was Miles. He did not explain himself, not to journalists, not to record executives, not to audiences who wanted him to smile and bow and perform gratitude for the privilege of being heard. He dressed like he owned the room because he did. His father, Dr. Miles Dewey Davis Jr., was one of the most successful Black dentists in Illinois, a man who owned a 200-acre estate near Millstadt where he raised champion Landrace hogs imported from Winston Churchill's farm in England. His mother, Cleota Mae Henry, was a music teacher and violinist whose taste in clothes and refusal to cook or clean for anyone shaped her son's lifelong conviction that presentation was not vanity but discipline. Miles grew up in a house with a cook and a maid in East St. Louis, and his uncle went to Harvard. None of that mattered on the sidewalk outside Birdland. The night was hot and muggy, the kind of August evening in Manhattan where the air sits on your chest. Miles had just finished the Armed Forces broadcast and walked a woman named Judy to the curb to hail her a cab. She was white. She got in the taxi and left, and Miles stood there in his khaki suit, smoking, cooling off between sets, his name glowing above him on the club's marquee for anyone who cared to look. A patrolman named Gerald Kilduff walked up and told him to move along. Miles pointed up at the sign and told the officer he was working downstairs, that his name was right there in lights, that he had no reason to move. Kilduff told him he didn't care where Miles worked. He said if Miles didn't move, he was going to arrest him. Miles looked at the officer's face and did not move. He had been boxing for years by then, training seriously, and he recognized something in the way Kilduff shifted his weight. The patrolman handled himself like an ex-fighter, and Miles knew what a man looks like when he is calculating distance. So instead of stepping back, Miles stepped closer, because boxers had taught him that if someone is about to hit you, the worst thing you can do is give them room to swing. Kilduff reached for his handcuffs and stumbled, and his equipment fell to the sidewalk. A crowd materialized from the Midtown night, two hundred people who seemed to come from nowhere, drawn by the spectacle of a Black man in a fine suit standing his ground against a white officer on Broadway. And then, from somewhere Miles could not see, a plainclothes detective named Don Rolker came running in from behind and cracked him across the skull with a blackjack. Miles never saw the blow coming. Blood ran down the khaki suit. Rolker kept swinging, and Miles later wrote that the detective's breath reeked of liquor. The crowd surged, and for a moment the scene threatened to become something much larger, a confrontation between two hundred witnesses and the officers who had just beaten the most famous jazz musician in the world beneath his own name. The police got nervous and rushed Miles into a squad car before the situation broke open entirely. They took him to the 54th Precinct and photographed him bleeding. At the station, they bumped into him in the hallway, trying to provoke a reaction that would justify hitting him again. They called him a wiseguy. They charged him with disorderly conduct and assaulting an officer, which is a sentence that reads the same in 1959 as it does today, the old trick of turning a beating into the victim's crime. From the precinct, they took him to St. Clare's Hospital, where a doctor put five stitches in his scalp, and then they brought him back for booking. Frances Taylor, Miles's wife, came to the station. She was a Broadway dancer, elegant and fierce, and when she saw him with blood all over his face and his clothes, she screamed. Miles wrote later that he thought the officers started to realize they had made a mistake, not because they had beaten an innocent man, but because a beautiful woman was screaming over him and suddenly their brutality had a witness they could not ignore. Dorothy Kilgallen, the newspaper columnist and television personality, also came to the station that night, and her column about the beating ran the next day in the New York Journal-American. The photographs hit the front pages of newspapers across the country. Jerry Kinstler shot the images for the New York Daily News, and they show Miles sitting in the precinct with a bandage wrapped around his head, blood on his collar, a patrolman beside him, his face a study in something beyond anger. The Amsterdam News ran the story under a headline declaring that witnesses called it police brutality. There was a picture of Miles leaving custody, head bandaged, clothes stained, and Frances walking in front of him, a woman he described in his autobiography as moving like a proud stallion. The city revoked his cabaret card. That detail gets lost in the telling, but it was the punishment that kept punishing. New York City's cabaret card system required any musician performing in a venue that served alcohol to carry a license issued by the police department, and the police could revoke it at their discretion. They used it for decades to control Black musicians, to silence anyone who got arrested, who used drugs, who made trouble, who refused to shuffle. Billie Holiday lost her card, and Thelonious Monk lost his three separate times. When Miles lost his in August 1959, it meant the man who had just recorded the most important jazz album of the century could not legally perform in any club in New York City. The system was not abolished until 1967. He told reporters he did not care, that he did not want to work at Birdland anymore, did not want to work any place where a man could not put a lady in a taxi and stand on a sidewalk without being attacked by the police. But that was pride talking, and pride was something Miles Davis had in such abundance that people who did not understand it called it arrogance and people who did called it survival. Five months later, there were two court hearings, one for each charge. In the first, held in October 1959, Magistrate Kenneth Phipps ruled that a civilian did not have to obey a police officer's order to move if there was no sound reason for the directive. By January 1960, Miles was acquitted of both disorderly conduct and third-degree assault. His cabaret card was restored. The justice stopped there. Miles wanted to sue the NYPD for half a million dollars. He had eyewitnesses, photographs, a drunk detective with a blackjack, and a crowd of two hundred people who saw everything. But the civil suit never went anywhere. His attorney either failed to file before the statute of limitations expired or Miles himself decided to drop it, afraid that an angry police department would find ways to make his life even harder, and biographers still disagree on which version is true. The officers who beat him were never disciplined, never fired, never charged with anything. That was the final accounting for the night the voice of America was beaten on an American sidewalk. That Voice of America tape still exists. Somewhere in an archive, there is a recording of Miles Davis playing for American soldiers on the last night before everything in his head turned bitter and cynical again. He wrote in his autobiography that the incident changed his whole life and whole attitude, that he had been starting to feel good about the things that had changed in the country. And then something happened on a sidewalk that reminded him of exactly what those changes were worth. Dizzy Gillespie, his old friend and fellow trumpet player, said it plainly years later. He said the country had not overcome the hurdle of being racist, that it did not matter how big you got, that there was always the possibility of the dragon showing its ugly head. Miles went on. He always went on. He recorded Sketches of Spain with Gil Evans and formed the second great quintet with Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, and Tony Williams. He turned jazz inside out with Bi***es Brew and walked into electric music while purists howled behind him. He titled a 1985 album You're Under Arrest, and if you listen to it knowing what happened on August 25, 1959, you can hear a man who carried that sidewalk with him for twenty-six years and finally put it on a record. Musicians who worked with him in the decades after said he would sometimes seem to flash back to that night, that something in his body remembered the blow he never saw coming. His wife Frances once told an interviewer that Miles always said if he had been a white Miles Davis, he would have been much further ahead. He used to ask her to walk into hotels before him so they would not be turned away because of his complexion. The man who changed American music more times than anyone could count spent his life calculating which doors would open and which ones would close based on the color of his skin. That is not a metaphor. On the night of August 25, 1959, the United States of America asked Miles Davis to be its voice. He played trumpet into a microphone so that soldiers on bases around the world could hear what this country sounded like at its most beautiful. Then he walked outside, and the same country beat him until blood ran down his suit, arrested him, charged him with crimes he did not commit, took away his right to work, and never once apologized. The tape is still there, the country is still here, and the question of who gets to stand on a sidewalk in America is still not settled. I put a lot of effort into researching and sharing stories that matter. If you’d like to support the work, here’s the link: Every coffee helps me keep creating.

15/05/2026

In March 2017 in Louisville, a five year old boy named Jax asked his mother if he could shave his head.His reason was simple. His best friend Reddy had a shaved head. Jax wanted them to look the same when they went to school together so that people would have a harder time telling them apart.His mother shared the story online. It spread quickly and widely — not because it was staged or because anyone was trying to make a point, but because it was completely, uncomplicatedly true. A child saw his friend, saw a difference, and decided the most logical response was to close the distance himself.Children are not born with the social architecture that teaches adults to categorize, distance, and qualify their connections based on how people look. That architecture is learned. It is absorbed from the environments children move through, the messages they receive about who is like them and who is not, and the choices adults around them make about who belongs in which spaces.Jax had not learned it yet. Or perhaps more accurately — he had learned something different. He had learned that his best friend was his best friend, and that showing up for a person you love sometimes means changing something about yourself to make them feel less alone.There is no complexity in what he did. That is precisely why it spread the way it did.Adults spend years trying to articulate in policy language and diversity frameworks what a five year old in Louisville understood instinctively — that belonging is something you can choose to build for someone else.Jax chose it. With a razor and a Tuesday morning and absolutely no hesitation.

15/05/2026

Christophe Maleau is 12 years old. He swam 40 kilometers through icy water. It took 13 hours. He did not stop. He did it for his mother, who is fighting breast cancer. There is a particular quality of love that reveals itself not in words or gestures but in the willingness to endure something genuinely difficult for someone else — to put your body through hours of sustained, cold, exhausting effort because the person you're doing it for is putting their body through something harder and you want them to know they are not doing it alone. Christophe cannot fight cancer for his mother. He cannot take her treatment, remove her fear, or guarantee her outcome. What he can do is swim. What he can do is choose something difficult, complete it without stopping, and offer the completion of it as evidence — concrete, physical, undeniable evidence — that she has someone in her corner who will not stop either. 40 kilometers. 13 hours. Icy water. A 12-year-old who decided that showing up for his mother meant showing up completely. The message he sent that day traveled further than the distance he swam. It reached every person watching a parent fight illness and wondering what they could possibly do that would mean anything. It reached every parent lying in a hospital bed wondering if their child understood how much they were loved. Christophe answered both questions simultaneously. Some of the most powerful hearts in the world are 12 years old. He couldn't take her pain. So he chose his own — and swam 40km to tell her she wasn't alone in hers.

14/05/2026

576 Black bodies buried under a cemetery on Staten Island with no headstones. Nobody knew they were there until a radar machine found them in 2015. This is Sandy Ground. Read this. Ninety-seven headstones. That is all you can count if you walk through the cemetery behind the Rossville A.M.E. Zion Church on Crabtree Avenue in Staten Island. Some are tilted, some cracked, some so worn by salt air and time that the names have gone soft. For more than a century, that number was the official record of who lay beneath this 1.6 acres of consecrated ground. Then, in 2015, a team from Illinois arrived with a machine that could see through soil. The dirt told a different story. Ground-penetrating radar found 576 additional graves beneath the surface. Five hundred and seventy-six people buried without a single stone to say they had lived, worked, loved, or died on this patch of earth. The math was staggering. For every headstone visible above the grass, nearly six more people lay beneath it with nothing. That ratio tells you everything you need to know about Sandy Ground. This is the oldest continuously inhabited free Black settlement in the United States. It sits on the South Shore of Staten Island, inside New York City but a world apart from it, tucked between Arthur Kill and Raritan Bay in a neighborhood called Rossville. Most New Yorkers have never heard of it. Most Americans have no idea it exists. The story begins eight months after freedom. New York State abolished slavery on July 4, 1827, and the celebration on Staten Island lasted two days, with speeches, picnics, pageants, and fireworks at the Swan Hotel on Richmond Terrace. Rooms had been reserved for months by abolitionists and prominent free Black people from across the region. But celebration is one thing, and what happened next was something else entirely. On February 23, 1828, a man named Captain John Jackson walked into a land office and purchased property in what was then called Westfield. It was the first recorded land purchase by a Black man in Richmond County. Jackson operated the Lewis Columbia ferry between Rossville and Manhattan. He understood something that would shape every generation that followed him: freedom without land is a lease on someone else's terms. Other free Black families followed. Among them were two brothers from New Jersey named Moses and Silas Harris, who came to work as gardeners in the 1820s and ended up buying land of their own. The Harris brothers also held property in Manhattan. They planted strawberries, and their farm grew so productive that the settlement became known as Harrisville. Before that, local maps had called it Africa, or Little Africa. The soil was sandy and difficult to farm, which is how the community got the name that stuck. White buyers considered the ground nearly worthless. What others discarded, free Black families built a world on. By the 1840s, word had traveled south. Free Black oystermen working the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland, many of them from Snow Hill, began making the journey north to Staten Island. Maryland had been passing increasingly restrictive laws throughout the 1820s, tightening what free Black people could own, where they could work, and whether they could captain their own boats. The oystermen had been selling their shellfish in Manhattan markets for years and knew the waters around Staten Island. When the laws back home made staying impossible, they packed their boats and followed the coastline north. They settled on a sandy hummock where the land was cheap and the oyster beds of Prince's Bay were among the richest in the country. They arrived in Sandy Ground around 1850, and the community transformed. The oystermen brought skill, capital, and connections, harvesting oysters within walking distance of their homes, building their own boats, and selling directly to markets across the harbor. Sandy Ground became self-sufficient in a way that few Black communities of that era could claim. Blacksmiths, store owners, teachers, midwives, doctors, dentists, police officers, postmen, and florists all lived and worked within its borders. The founding families, the Bishops, the Henmans, the Landins, the Purnells, the Robbins, the Stevens, built something that looked like what freedom was supposed to look like. They established the Rossville A.M.E. Zion Church in 1850, affiliating with the denomination known as the Freedom Church for its leadership in the abolitionist movement. The congregation purchased land on Crabtree Avenue in 1852 and built their first church there. By 1890, they had outgrown it and constructed a new building on Bloomingdale Road, where descendants still worship today. Esther Purnell and Julia Hurd ran an integrated private school that operated for more than sixty years. An 1860 census showed that sixty percent of Sandy Ground's residents were literate, an unusually high proportion for any community in the country at that time, Black or white. Every July 5th, the town held a parade celebrating New York State's Emancipation Day. The A.M.E. Zion Church hosted a yearly revival that drew people from as far as Virginia and Connecticut. Sandy Ground was also a stop on the Underground Railroad. The church and the community sheltered people escaping enslavement, passing them along a network that ran through Staten Island. The settlement is now an Official Site on the National Underground Railroad Network to Freedom Trail. The people who lived there were not just building a neighborhood, they were building a station on the road from bo***ge to something better. At its peak in the 1880s and 1890s, Sandy Ground stretched across nearly two square miles. It held over 150 families and more than 50 homes. Black people owned their land, ran their businesses, educated their children, worshipped in their own church, and buried their dead in their own cemetery. The doors were never locked at night, and if your child misbehaved at the neighbor's house, the news would beat you home. Then the water turned. In 1916, the New York City Health Department condemned the oyster beds across the harbor after an outbreak of typhoid linked to decades of industrial pollution. The oystermen, whose skills and boats had been the economic engine of the community, found themselves without a livelihood overnight. Some residents believed the closure was political, a convenient way to push Black oystermen out of a profitable industry. The beds were shut, and families began to leave. The community held on for decades after that, quieter now, more rural than ever. It was a place of dirt roads and wild turkeys and thick woods where children played without worry. Families kept their homes and the church kept its doors open. The Order of the Eastern Star kept civic life running. Then came April 20, 1963, the day Staten Island calls Black Saturday. Three massive brush fires swept across the island's South Shore simultaneously, driven by thirty-mile-per-hour winds and bone-dry conditions. Hydrants ran dry across the borough. For the first time in FDNY history, mutual aid was requested from Jersey City. More than a hundred homes across Staten Island were destroyed that day, over five hundred people left homeless, and more than two million dollars in damage done. Sandy Ground took the worst of it. About half of the community's remaining twenty-five homes were razed in the fire. Houses that had stood for a century, homes where grandchildren had learned to walk in the same rooms where grandparents had been born, were reduced to ash in a single afternoon. Nineteen months later, the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge opened, connecting Staten Island to Brooklyn. The real erasure began. Developers flooded the South Shore, bulldozed the woods, paved the dirt roads, and packed in tract houses on the land where Sandy Ground's homes and farms had once stood. The fire had damaged homes that Black families could not afford to repair, and the cheap property that resulted attracted banks and developers looking to bring white buyers into the area. Black residents were pushed to the North Shore or out of Staten Island entirely. By 1979, a Sandy Ground fundraising flyer described what was left: a tiny hamlet sitting between two major highways, with liquid nitrogen gas tanks at the end of its main road and a growing white community pressing in on every side. During this time, teenagers desecrated the A.M.E. Zion cemetery, pushing over and smashing headstones. The graves that had been marked were now being deliberately unmade. But the people of Sandy Ground did what they had always done. They held the ground. In 1980, the Sandy Ground Historical Society was organized at 1538 Woodrow Road. Led by descendants of the founding families, the society pushed for recognition, preservation, and protection. In 1982, Sandy Ground was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. In 2011, the Landmarks Preservation Commission designated five structures as New York City landmarks, including the church, the cemetery, and three residential homes. One of those homes is the circa 1906 house of Isaac Harris at 444 Bloomingdale Road. Isaac was the son of Silas Harris, one of the two brothers who had first settled there more than eighty years before. The museum at 1538 Woodrow Road now holds the largest documentary collection of African American culture and history on Staten Island. It reaches about ten thousand people a year, four thousand of them children. The woman who runs the Sandy Ground Historical Society today is Julie Moody Lewis, a direct descendant of the original settlers. In 2017, she helped launch the Sandy Ground Oral History Project, in which community members recorded their memories with the New York Public Library. The voices from that project carry what the headstones cannot. Irene Cooper, born in Sandy Ground in 1929, remembers when it was all country. Charlotte Griggs remembers that no one locked their doors, and that if the neighbors saw you doing something wrong, you were in for it. Lucille Herring, one of the founders of the Historical Society, remembers the long bumpy drives to visit her grandparents and a place with just one shop, no dry cleaner, no meat man, just kind and calm people. Julie Moody Lewis remembers the church most of all. She remembers the sweet smell that was always inside the building, the sound of the organ, and the huge picture of Christ that hung near the entrance. She said that picture brought warmth and spirituality into every service. The church was not just where people prayed, it was where they were baptized, married, and mourned. On February 25, 2022, New York City Mayor Eric Adams stood at a commissioning ceremony for a new Staten Island Ferry vessel. The boat was named the Sandy Ground, the first ferry in the fleet ever named to honor the history of Black New Yorkers on Staten Island. Captain Zeita Merchant, the first African American captain of the Port of New York, signed the official certificate. A ferry, crossing the same waters that Captain John Jackson once navigated, now carries the name of the community he helped build. Today, fewer than ten families who trace their roots to the original settlers still live in Sandy Ground. The community is surrounded by suburban development, cul-de-sacs, and strip malls. The dense woods are gone. The oyster beds are long dead. But the church is still there on Bloomingdale Road. The cemetery is still there on Crabtree Avenue, and the museum is still telling the story. Beneath the grass of that 1.6-acre burial ground, the full truth of Sandy Ground lies waiting. Ninety-seven headstones mark what the world chose to remember, and 576 unmarked graves hold what the world tried to forget. The wooden crosses and planted flowers and small grave goods that once marked those resting places have long since returned to the soil. But the people are still there. Sandy Ground was never the kind of place that made headlines. It was the kind of place that made life possible. A piece of sandy, unwanted earth that free Black people turned into a home, a livelihood, a church, a school, a station on the road to freedom, and a cemetery that holds more souls than anyone knew. The oldest living proof that when this country would not give Black people a future, they bought the cheapest dirt they could find and built one anyway. The ferry named Sandy Ground crosses New York Harbor every day now. If you stand on the deck and look south toward Staten Island's shore, you are looking toward the place where freedom put down roots in soil that nobody else wanted. That soil held. I put a lot of effort into researching and sharing stories that matter. If you'd like to support the work, here's the link: Every coffee helps me keep creating. Source: Research compiled from the Sandy Ground Historical Society, the New York Landmarks Conservancy, the American Historical Association, the Billion Oyster Project, the New York Public Library Sandy Ground Oral History Project, NYC Mayor's Office, Staten Island Advance, VOA, Fordham University SAPIENTIA, and the Cultural Landscape Foundation. NOTE: If you want to support the preservation of Sandy Ground, visit the Sandy Ground Historical Society at 1538 Woodrow Road, Staten Island, NY 10309, or find them online. They are still doing the work.

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