Examining how community struggles are exploited in the name of politics and the urgent need for authentic advocacy.
In the wake of the devastating May 16 tornado that tore through St. Louis—ravaging neighborhoods on the North Side, West Side, and parts of the Central West End—we find ourselves once again facing not just the aftermath of a natural disaster, but also the ever-present debris of political opportunism and systemic neglect. In too many urban areas across America, when tragedy strikes, the physical destruction merely unearths the deeper structural wounds that have long festered: disinvestment, economic marginalization, and civic abandonment.
Let us be clear: the blight we see in neighborhoods like those hardest hit by the storm is not born of some inherent flaw in the people who live there. From the outside looking in, a narrative often takes root—one that defines these communities by their poverty, crime, or decay. But that narrative is neither honest nor complete. It omits the long, painful history of redlining, underfunded public services, and the cycle of broken promises. And worse still, it ignores the roles of those who claim to be stewards of the community, yet exploit it from within.
There is a term for this: poverty pimping. It refers to the individuals and organizations who position themselves as community champions while draining resources and goodwill for political gain or personal enrichment. They exist in every sector—among nonprofit executives, in the pulpit, and even in elected office. To be clear, this is not an indictment of all who serve. Many are driven by love, duty, and vision. But the silence or complicity of those who exploit public pain for private benefit must be addressed.
In recent days, I’ve been asked about the criticism surrounding Mayor Cara Spencer’s response to the tornado’s devastation. Having served in elected office, I understand the burden of leadership, especially during crises. It is fair and necessary to hold public officials accountable and demand transparency. It is also fair that people, especially those directly affected, voice frustration and confusion—even if they don’t fully grasp the inner workings of governance or the chain of command. Pain doesn’t wait for procedural clarity.
However, there is a difference between criticism and weaponization. When those who do understand how systems function choose to manipulate public emotion for political gain, that is not leadership—it is opportunism. This political score-settling, what I call “I-Gotchu Politics,” undermines collective healing and distracts from the real work ahead.
We’ve seen this before. Former Mayor Tishaura Jones was unfairly saddled with the full burden of “SnowGate,” as if she controlled every snowplow in the city. Prosecutor Kim Gardner bore the brunt of crime statistics that were decades in the making. And now, some are using the tornado’s aftermath to launch similar volleys at Mayor Spencer. What’s worse, some do so under the guise of revenge: “What goes around comes around,” they say. But must our civic discourse be so petty, so transactional?
There is a time for reckoning, yes. But in this moment, our community needs something different: unity, compassion, and purpose. The storm laid bare more than downed trees and shattered homes. It revealed a deeper question—whether we will continue to politicize our pain or organize to overcome it.
We’ve seen, even in this tragedy, glimpses of what’s possible. Neighbors helping neighbors. Strangers clearing debris. Volunteers feeding entire blocks. These moments remind us of the beauty that exists beneath the rubble—if only we protect it from the corrosive forces of polarization and self-interest.
In the film Troy, after Achilles slays Hector, even in the thick of war, a ceasefire is called to honor the dead. Can we not, in the face of collective suffering, pause our political battles long enough to center humanity?
Let us rebuild—not just homes, but trust. Let us remember that leadership is not about blame, but about responsibility. And let us make room, finally, for a politics rooted not in pain, but in purpose.
