It’s Friday night in Detroit. The TV hums low with news about “record job growth,” but nobody in this room feels it. The air smells like reheated pizza and tired dreams. Six of us sit in a half-lit living room, cousins, friends, co-workers, survivors. Everyone’s got a story. Everyone’s got a scar.
“Man, they said unemployment is down to 4%,” Malik mutters, shaking his head. “But for who? It sure ain’t us.”
He’s right. The Bureau of Labor Statistics (2025) says Black unemployment stands at 8.1%, nearly double the national rate. For Black men ages 20-34, it’s even higher, 9.7%. Those numbers don’t count the ones “working poor,” clocking in 40 hours a week but still behind on rent.
“I been working at that warehouse since January,” says Danielle, folding her arms. “$17.25 an hour. No benefits. No health insurance. They cut overtime, so now I’m bringing home less. I had to move back with my mama last month. And I’m grown. Thirty-one. But rent out here? You need three jobs just to afford one roof.”
She isn’t exaggerating. The National Low-Income Housing Coalition (2025) reports that a full-time worker earning minimum wage, even at Washington state’s $17.14, must work 85 hours a week to afford a modest one-bedroom apartment. Meanwhile, evictions among Black renters rose 29% nationwide since January, according to the Eviction Lab at Princeton University.
Across the room, Tasha scrolls her phone. “I just got an email from the dealership. They are taking the car Monday.” Her voice trembles, half rage, half defeat. “They said I missed two payments. I told them I got laid off when that call center shut down. They didn’t care.”
Repossessions have become routine. The Consumer Financial Protection Bureau (CFPB) reports that auto repossessions among Black borrowers are 33% higher than pre-pandemic levels.
“I was driving DoorDash just to make ends meet,” Malik adds, “but I had to stop, gas hit $5.09 again this week. I was spending more than I made.”
The room falls silent. Somebody sighs. Somebody laughs, that kind of laugh that’s half pain, half disbelief.
“Every day, I feel like I’m working just to breathe,” says Renee, a single mother of two. “My check is gone before I even see it. Groceries, gas, daycare. SNAP got cut, and my landlord just raised rent. I applied for 10 jobs this month, all paying $16.50. I used to make $24 an hour before layoffs. Now I’m supposed to smile about ‘economic recovery’?”
Her words linger like smoke.
This is what the government doesn’t see when they brag about “strong labor markets.” The Economic Policy Institute (EPI, 2025) notes that Black workers are twice as likely to hold low-wage, unstable jobs and three times more likely to face discrimination during hiring. For every Black woman who earns a promotion, two are laid off, reassigned, or replaced under “budget adjustments.”
But even in this small room of grief and grit, hope hums low, steady and stubborn.
“We gon’ be alright,” Malik finally says. “We always are.”
Renee nods. “Yeah,” she whispers. “But tired got a face now. And it looks like all of us.”
No one disagrees. The TV keeps talking about “growth.”
But in this room, growth means learning to survive in the cracks, again.
Because for Black America in 2025, we’re still working. We just ain’t living.