Lauren Turner Hines, Founder/ Executive Director, André Cailloux Center for Performing Arts and Cultural Justice

Interview with Blake Haney

Key Points

Can you share a bit about your background and the work at the André Cailloux Center?

Sure. I’m a theater producer, storyteller, and director, and I’ve been working in the theater for over 20 years. I founded a company in New Orleans called No Dream Deferred in 2015. Our mission was—and still is—to center the voices, agency, and creative ownership of Black theater makers. At the time, there wasn’t much visible leadership in the arts—especially in theater—held by Black, Indigenous, or other people of color, either locally or nationally. We set out to change that.

When we launched, it was common to see Black stories highlighted only during Black History Month—February would come, and theaters would produce a few shows by or about Black folks, and then that would be it for the rest of the year. That kind of pattern was part of what we wanted to disrupt.

Around the same time, I was working with Southern Rep Theater, a historically white company preparing to relocate from Loyola to the old St. Rose de Lima Church on Bayou Road—a historically Black corridor in the 7th Ward. I came on board as their Producer of Artistic and Community Engagement to help navigate that move and bring some of my community-based initiatives to the process. While I did meaningful work there, the environment was incredibly difficult—what I now recognize as racialized trauma. I left in 2018 and focused fully on growing No Dream Deferred.

Two years later, the developers who had transformed the church into a performance space called me. Southern Rep had closed—partly due to COVID, partly financial, but also because of a real rejection from the community. The developers asked: “If you had access to this space again, what would you do?”

I told them I would build a space where Black-led arts organizations could thrive. A space that provides not only performance opportunities, but access to rehearsal space, shared resources, and the stability needed for these groups to last. Because here’s the truth: In the 1980s and ’90s, there were more than 60 Black theater troupes in New Orleans. Today, I can count the number of active Black-led theater companies on one hand. That’s not because of a lack of talent or passion—it’s about access to space and sustainability.

At first, I told them “no.” The trauma I had experienced in that building was still very real. But shortly after, one of my mentors, Adella Adella the Storyteller, passed away. She used to always ask me, “Where does the legacy live?”—the legacy of storytelling as resistance, of griots passing on tradition. I would say, “In the people,” and she always seemed dissatisfied with that answer. After her passing, I kept hearing her voice asking me that same question.

That’s when I realized: legacy lives in people, yes—but people also transition. We need physical spaces that can carry that legacy forward. Spaces that are just as resistant to displacement and injustice as our stories are. That realization convicted me. And so I said yes.

That “yes” became the André Cailloux Center for Performing Arts and Cultural Justice—a space dedicated to honoring those who came before us and sustaining those who are still here. Planning began in 2022, and we opened in 2023. It's been a wild ride—personally and professionally. We face constant challenges, like grant requirements that literally ban us from using the words “Black,” “historic,” or “cultural justice.” But somehow, support always shows up when we need it. A resource, a person, a partner.

I truly believe this work is approved by something bigger than me, and I’m simply one of many who will help shape and steward this vision. The André Cailloux Center is not about one person. It’s about community, continuity, and creating space that honors our past while building toward a just future.

I’ve experienced this myself—planting an idea, watching it get embraced by others or the universe, and then suddenly realizing: “Oh no… now I actually have to do this.” At what point did you realize you had to fully commit to creating the André Cailloux Center and dedicate a big part of your life to making it real?

Oh, I definitely had that moment. Early on, I knew this was going to be a huge task, but I was really resistant to the idea that I had to be the one to carry it all. So my first move was to convince myself that I couldn’t do it alone—that I wasn’t equipped to lead this part of the work. I went out looking for partners, trying to build a team that could take this on with me.

But in doing that, I made some really poor partnership decisions. And as those relationships dissolved—as they naturally would, because this phase of the vision was really meant for me to set in motion—I realized I had to take full ownership of it. It was on me to set this thing up from the ground up. And not only did I have to do it, I actually had everything I needed to do it.

That’s when it hit me how big of a lift this was going to be. It meant I had to sit down for a while—not literally, but creatively. I had to pause my work as a director and producer and slow down from the rhythm I was used to. That was tough. I’m used to creating and moving fast, to bouncing between projects, and this work required a totally different pace and kind of focus.

The real turning point came toward the end of 2023. We were about a year in, and we had to make some major decisions about the future of the André Cailloux Center. It became clear to me that if this was going to move forward, I had to fully step into it and commit to shepherding the launch and early phase of the organization.

That said, I’ve always been clear—this isn’t something I want to do forever. I don’t find pride in being the founder or ED who retires after 35 years. That’s not my vision. So from the beginning, I’ve been thinking about succession planning: What’s a healthy, values-aligned way to transition leadership? How do I step back while leaving something strong in place for someone else to build on?

I’ve also learned a lot about myself in the process. If I ever doubted it before, I don’t now—I’m a visionary. And while I do have a stronger capacity for building than a lot of people who see themselves as visionaries, I also know I can’t—and shouldn’t—do it all. I need people around me who can sustain the work, manage the operations, and carry the vision forward over time.

How are you building up the team and structure at the André Cailloux Center? Are you actively looking for younger, passionate partners to take over the mantle in the future?

Absolutely. Building this team has been a process of deep learning—and unlearning. The closest experience I’ve had to this was assembling the team for No Dream Deferred, which is a for-profit S-Corp, not a nonprofit. So in many ways, this has been my crash course in nonprofit leadership. While I’ve worked in nonprofit spaces before, leading one—especially while trying to build out infrastructure and capacity with limited resources—has been a whole new challenge.

The biggest lesson so far? It takes time. You don’t just bring people in and instantly have a team that works. There will be transitions, and I had to learn not to internalize those too much. I used to take every departure as a personal failure, but a mentor helped me reframe that: this is what building a team looks like. People come and go—and that’s part of the process.

That said, I do want to ensure we have a strong onboarding experience and a supportive environment, even as we grow. Right now, we’re still small—our team is made up entirely of independent contractors. We’re not at the place, financially, to support full-time salaried roles. But I’m constantly asking, what can we still offer? What wellness structures, benefits, or support systems can we put in place to make sure people feel valued, even as contractors?

I don’t just want to replicate traditional nonprofit structures. I want to push boundaries, and question assumptions. Who says contractors can’t receive meaningful benefits? Who says a small nonprofit can’t structure itself in a way that aligns more closely with its values than with the expectations of funders?

At the André Cailloux Center, we believe that how we do the work is just as important as what we do. So we’re asking hard questions about our infrastructure—not to make it look like other nonprofits, but to make it work for our people and our mission.

And yes, I’m very intentional about the people I bring in. I’m in conversation with folks who can not only do the work but who can also connect with the vision and values of the Center. We're exploring what it means to operate under a liberatory framework—an abolitionist framework—and that’s not something everyone understands or is aligned with. So finding the right people is less about their résumé and more about whether they can connect to our purpose and our politics.

I’m building for the future. I’m not trying to hold this forever. I’m trying to build something that outlives me.

Can you explain what you mean by an “abolitionist” and “liberatory” framework in the context of how the André Cailloux Center operates?

Absolutely. At the core of an abolitionist framework is the belief that we have the power to create something entirely new. It’s not about reforming broken systems—it’s about transforming them. It’s a mindset rooted in possibility, in the radical idea that better structures, rooted in care and equity, can exist.

The liberatory element is about how we embed that into our policies and practices, especially our practices. We ask:

• Does this action or structure create more freedom for the people it touches?
• Does it help people—especially Black people—build a deeper understanding of what it means to live freely?
• Does it shift power over time, over resources, over decision-making?

Every decision we make is measured against those questions. We're intentionally working to undo policies and practices rooted in supremacy logic—systems that harm, exclude, or oppress. Instead, we’re building something in direct response to that status quo.

It’s about creating spaces—physically, culturally, operationally—that are free by design. That’s the vision. That’s the work.

When planning the work you want produced at the Center, are you looking for specific types of creatives and storytellers who align with your framework? How do you choose who to work with?

That’s a great question—and I’d say it’s really two separate processes.

At the André Cailloux Center, we’re not focused on curating specific works ourselves. Instead, we’re focused on curating access. Rather than having a rigid framework for what we produce, we’ve chosen to invest in building a framework for community co-creation. Our job as a space is to remain open, accessible, and responsive—to allow the community to determine what’s happening here. The priority isn’t gatekeeping content—it’s being a vessel that can be shaped by the needs and visions of those who use it.

Now, No Dream Deferred, which is a separate theater company I founded, has a more defined process. Our focus has always been on producing work that is written by Black playwrights and is culturally anchored. That means the stories don’t have to be explicitly about New Orleans, but they do need to carry themes or relevance that speak to this community—work that feels grounded in something meaningful to the people who live here.

When it comes to building our team and infrastructure at the Center, that’s where alignment with our abolitionist and liberatory framework becomes essential. I’m looking for people who not only understand those frameworks but actively advocate for them in their own work. That shared foundation allows everything else to grow more organically.

It also means our onboarding and hiring process takes time. Our RFPs often involve multiple conversations—not just about skills or experience, but about deeper questions like:

• How do you handle conflict?
• What’s your relationship to liberatory practices?
• How do you engage with the values we’re building from?

We want to ensure the people we bring in are aligned not just with the work, but with the moment—with how people of color are moving, organizing, and creating in this time. That kind of alignment can’t be rushed. It’s part of building something intentional and transformative.

When you plan what happens at the André Cailloux Center, is there any grassroots involvement or community input in the process?

Yes, absolutely—community involvement is central to how we’re building this space. The André Cailloux Center just turned two years old in March, and from the beginning, we’ve been intentional about creating co-designed models for how the space functions.

Early on, we launched a residency program for BIPOC-led performing arts organizations. The idea was that residents would co-create our artistic season. In exchange, they’d receive unlimited access to rehearsal, performance, and workshop space, shared marketing support, and use of our ticketing platform to help build their audience base. The goal was to incubate their work and help them operate more sustainably.

That was a major part of our co-design vision, but we had to step back and reevaluate how to support it structurally. We’re planning to relaunch the residency program this year with a more intentional foundation.

Outside of that, our programming so far has been largely responsive to community outreach. People reach out to us, we meet, and we ask:

• Are we the right partner for this?
• Can we support this with integrity, given our current resources?

We’re always honest about what we can and can’t do. We’re still a young organization—we don’t have the budget or infrastructure of a 30+ year-old institution. But with what we do have, we’ve managed to support over 100 community gatherings and events per year for the past two years—all through word of mouth alone, without any dedicated marketing budget.

And I had a realization earlier this year that’s really shifted how I think about the work: our purpose isn’t to “run programs” in the traditional nonprofit sense. Our work is to build and maintain accessible, equitable processes so the community can shape what happens here. That is the work—creating the conditions in which people can plug in, engage, and feel ownership.

Of course, that also means finding the resources to support that vision—but more than anything, we’re focused on remaining open and rooted in the needs and creativity of the people who walk through our doors.

This space doesn’t exist to program from the top down. It exists to hold space that honors Captain André Cailloux's legacy, uplifts Black storytelling, and supports community creativity with intention and care.

With the current political climate and growing pushback on language around racial justice and DEI, have you found it challenging to cover the costs of programming and sustain operations?

We’ve actually been really fortunate so far. We don’t have a long list of funding partners, but the small circle of dedicated funders we do have have carried us through key operational challenges and even supported our capital campaign—we’re acquiring the space this year, which is a huge milestone.

From the start, we’ve had a strong relationship with the Greater New Orleans Foundation, which supported the early visioning of the André Cailloux Center. They knew me from my work with No Dream Deferred, and they understood that this project was, in many ways, a continuation of that mission. Their early investment helped us find our footing.

That said, we haven’t had the time or bandwidth to build out a strong individual giving program yet. When we do reach out to our community for support, people show up—but we haven’t been able to maintain that relationship in an ongoing, structured way yet. It’s something I want to change.

More importantly, we’re thinking beyond just fundraising. I’m deeply focused on building a self-sustaining model rooted in earned revenue—so we’re not overly reliant on grants. Because what’s happening right now—the political pushback, the shrinking of DEI-related funding—it’s not new. It’s part of a predictable cycle. There’s always a period where government or institutional support for justice-driven work dries up, especially when it’s explicitly racial justice work. And that pullback is often rooted in racism, even when it's dressed up as budget constraints or “neutrality.”

After the Black Lives Matter uprisings, there was a brief window where more funding was available for Black-led, justice-oriented organizations. Some thought we had entered a new era—but it was short-lived. We knew that. At the André Cailloux Center, we’re preparing for the long haul.

That’s why we’re investing in alternative models—like an augmented reality tour we’re launching with Black Realities to tell the story of Captain André Cailloux and bring people into the Seventh Ward’s history in a meaningful way. We want to attract cultural travelers—not just weekend tourists looking for a daiquiri on Bourbon Street, but people who want to learn, to connect with the deeper cultural roots of this city. That’s where we see long-term opportunity.

This approach also aligns with my background. No Dream Deferred was always entrepreneurial in nature, and that entrepreneurial spirit is how I approach this work, too. I want to build stability through strategy—not just hope that the grant funding tide comes back in. Right now, grants make up about 75% of our revenue. I’d like to bring that down to 40–50%.

And here’s the other thing: a lot of Black-led arts organizations never had strong access to federal funding in the first place. So while we’re absolutely impacted by the cuts to agencies like the NEA and NEH, the reality is that we’ve never been fully funded by those institutions to begin with. The bigger impact for us is that now more organizations are turning to the same pool of private funders we’ve always relied on—making competition even steeper.

So yes, the political climate affects us. But we’re not caught off guard. We’re focused on resistance—on building systems that will carry us through the cycles, rather than being defined by them.

It’s fantastic that you’ll soon have control over your own space. There’s such a need for third spaces now more than ever. The pendulum is swinging away from the virtual and back toward in-person connection, which I think will become a premium experience soon.

Absolutely. It’s deeply needed. I’ve been spending a lot of time reflecting on what historians call the First Race Nadir Era—the period after Reconstruction, through Jim Crow. That era was marked by some of the most violent racial attacks and policies in U.S. history, yet it also gave rise to some of the most powerful institutional and movement-building efforts in Black communities.

That paradox fascinates me: how in the face of extreme violence and oppression, you also had the emergence of transformative movements like the NAACP, the cultural explosion of the Harlem Renaissance, and the economic engines of the Black Wall Streets across the country.

So I’ve been asking myself: What were the conditions that made that kind of resistance and progress possible? And how can we lean into those same conditions now, during what many are calling a Second Redemption Era—a time marked by renewed attacks on racial justice, but also by a rising need and opportunity for collective resistance and rebuilding?

One thing that was crucial during that earlier time: third spaces. Places like the Black church, which wasn’t just a religious institution—it was a political, social, and organizing hub. It was where people met regularly to plan, gather, and build community. That model matters today more than ever.

So instead of distancing ourselves from the fact that the André Cailloux Center is a redeveloped church building, we’ve decided to embrace it. While we’re no longer a religious space, we absolutely are a fellowship space. We’re a place where people can gather, be in community, exchange ideas, and build something together.

And I think that’s part of the magic—creating a stable space that remains open, no matter how chaotic the world gets. A space people know they can depend on. A space rooted in cultural legacy, yes—but also adaptable enough to hold what's needed now: truth-telling, healing, movement-building, art-making, and human connection.

So yes, I completely agree. Third spaces are going to become increasingly vital—not just as a counter to digital fatigue, but as necessary ground for organizing, imagining, and sustaining our futures.

What are some of the highlights from programming over the past two years at the André Cailloux Center?

One of the biggest highlights has been this year’s We Will Dream: New Works Festival, which was an incredibly powerful experience. The theme for this year was “The Water Remembers,” and we explored the deep cultural and ancestral connection between New Orleans and the African continent.

Our New Orleans-based production, “Wonder, Wonder City Park,” was a collaboration between the ACC, No Dream Deferred, and Lisa Shattuck. It was an immersive audio experience that guided people through Scout Island in City Park, weaving together Indigenous histories, stories of the 13 plantations that once stood on that land, and the lives of over 300 enslaved people who were forced to work there. These are stories that have been paved over—literally and metaphorically. People go to City Park every day and have no idea of the rich, painful history beneath their feet.

Then we took the festival abroad—to Ghana, standing on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, facing the place where so many were taken from us. Telling that story both here and there—alongside the 20th commemoration of Hurricane Katrina—gave the work even more emotional and historical weight. It was one of the most impactful and expansive versions of the festival we’ve done.

Another highlight was at the beginning of this year, when we partnered with local organizers to host the New Orleans Organizing Fair. It was a perfect example of our community co-design model in action. A few grassroots organizers reached out with the idea, and we helped bring it to life. Together, we created a space for over 500 community members and more than 60 nonprofits to come together in dialogue, resource-sharing, and reflection.

It was held shortly after the elections, and the energy in the room was powerful—it felt like exactly what the André Cailloux Center was made for. People came masked, thoughtful of others’ safety, and deeply committed to building something together. It felt healing, honest, and nourishing—a moment that reminded us we’re on the right path, and that this kind of gathering is the balance we want to strike in all of our programming.

When you host events like the We Will Dream Festival, how do you measure the impact these gatherings have on the community?

For both the We Will Dream Festival and the André Cailloux Center more broadly, we’ve become known as a space for connection. So when we think about measuring impact, it’s not just about numbers or economic returns—though we do look at things like local vendors supported, artists employed, or the businesses on Bayou Road that benefit from increased traffic during our events.

But beyond that, we’re most interested in relational and catalytic impact—how these events spark ongoing relationships, collaborations, or change. We often talk about our work like planting seeds. We may not always know where or when something will bloom, but when it does, that growth matters. Tracking that blooming is where we really start to understand our impact.

For example:

• If someone connects with a community group at the Organizing Fair and that turns into a new program or a coalition that increases food access or mutual aid in the 7th Ward, that’s impact.
• If someone attends a talkback or workshop during We Will Dream and then uses that data or conversation to secure funding or collaborate on a research project, that’s impact.
• If new regular meetings or organizing hubs form in our space because people met each other here, that’s part of our mission coming to life.

These outcomes may not always be directly traceable, but they are deeply connected to the core function of the ACC: to be a catalyst space, where people connect, build, and grow together.

To track this, we rely on participant feedback—surveys, follow-up conversations, and reflections. We ask:

• Who did you meet?
• What conversations stood out?
• What new ideas or projects emerged from this event?

While this kind of information is often labeled qualitative, and can be undervalued by traditional funders, we strongly disagree with the idea that it's less meaningful. In fact, some of the deepest, most transformative impact can’t be counted—it must be captured through stories, relationships, and ripple effects.

That said, we’re exploring ways to quantify that relational data, so that we can tell a more complete story of what this space is doing—not just in metrics, but in movement.

What are the markers you look for in a truly flourishing community—beyond just surviving, but thriving? What are some signs that a community is really coming alive?

I draw a lot of inspiration from the work of Peter Block, a community design thinker who reminds us that communities already have everything they need to thrive. He also emphasizes something that’s really stayed with me: services do not create community. And I think that often gets misunderstood. When people talk about what communities need to flourish, they usually start with services—schools, clinics, programs. And yes, those things are important. But for me, the deeper marker of a flourishing community is this:

The community’s capacity to define, shape, and share its own narrative.

That’s the core of it. When a community knows who it is—and has mechanisms to pass that identity on to future generations—it builds the resilience and vision needed to thrive.

I often describe this through the lens of family. Growing up, no matter what my parents told me they did, I would automatically set their achievements as my baseline. "If my parent did this, I know I can at least do that." It’s the same for communities. When young people know what their elders have already accomplished, it expands their sense of what’s possible.

And that’s why one of the first things to be attacked by oppressive systems or bad-faith political actors is a community’s historical memory—its ability to tell its own story. Because once people lose their sense of where they come from, it becomes easier to manipulate where they’re going.

So for me, true markers of a flourishing community include:

• Spaces for storytelling and cultural memory
• Support for artists and culture bearers
• Material support for those doing narrative and historical work
• Institutions that help preserve and protect local identity
• Intergenerational dialogue about who we are and where we come from

If a community can say: “You can’t come here and rewrite this story—we know who we are,”—that’s thriving. That’s power. And that’s how we fight back against cultural displacement and build something that lasts.

I think of the quote, “History is written by the victors”. The idea of owning your own storytelling, your own story, is a kind of victory. It’s reclaiming the power of narrative.

Absolutely. Owning your own story is a victory. It’s a declaration that you won’t be erased, rewritten, or misrepresented.

When I was in Accra for the International Black Theatre Summit, there was a dancer leading us through a warm-up. One of the movements he taught was mimicking the act of washing clothes. He explained that this dance is deeply significant in Ghana—it’s a movement taught to young people as a reminder of their strength and survival.

The message behind it is simple but powerful: “You come from people who have survived. You can survive anything.” That movement, that gesture, isn’t just about washing clothes—it’s about embedding a narrative of resistance into the body. So even during something as mundane as doing laundry outside, that motion becomes a living reminder: I can endure. I will endure.

That moment struck me deeply. Especially when you consider that in many areas of Ghana—and across the African continent—daily life presents incredible challenges. But when you're taught from a young age that you have inherited the tools to survive, you face adversity with a completely different mindset.

And I believe that kind of storytelling—rooted in the body, in culture, in lived experience—is what has allowed communities to thrive far longer than outsiders expected. Despite drought, poverty, colonization, and displacement, it’s that internalized narrative of survival that keeps people moving forward.

That’s the kind of powerful legacy we need to pass down—stories that don’t just document the past, but fuel the future. Because when you know where you come from—and you’re taught that survival is already in your bones—then no system, no policy, no oppression can fully strip you of your power.

With the next election approaching, what are your hopes for the next administration in City Hall?

One of my biggest hopes is for a more collaborative relationship between artists and civic leadership—one where policy and planning actively involve artists as partners in shaping the city, not as afterthoughts or decorators of public process.

I’m originally from North Carolina, and while no place is perfect, I’ve lived in cities where there were at least intentional efforts to include artists in civic design. That might look like cities leasing blighted downtown spaces to artists for $1/year for 15 years, so they have affordable places to create and gather. Or it could be partnerships where city government—not just the arts council—works directly with artists to tell the story of a place in ways that are essential to how that place functions.

That’s what I’d love to see here in New Orleans—a real embrace of artists as co-designers of the city’s future.

We’ve seen glimpses of that potential. All of the mayoral candidates came to the André Cailloux Center to film interviews during their campaigns. One even hosted his campaign launch here.

Another major hope I have is that we start taking a harder look at how developers are allowed to operate in our communities. Through my own experience navigating the ownership of our building, I’ve gotten a crash course in how predatory community development can be.

The current space we’re in was originally owned by the archdiocese, who sold it to a New York-based development company —a full Catholic campus with cultural and historical significance, located in a historically Black corridor. They refused to sell it to a Black woman who owns most of the buildings on Bayou Road, but handed it off to out-of-town developers without community consultation.

That developer brought in a balloon loan, took on debt, and tried to partner with a historically all-white theater company in a majority-Black neighborhood—without any meaningful engagement. That plan collapsed. Now, we’re in the position of trying to buy the space back for millions of dollars just to avoid our rent more than tripling.

This isn’t just about one building—it’s about a pattern. This developer has failed multiple community projects in New Orleans. One organization was forced to close under the pressure. Another initiative, which was supposed to bring fresh food access to Central City, failed completely. And yet there’s no accountability.

So my hope for the next administration is that they:

• Strengthen community control over development, especially in historically Black and cultural districts.
• Create safeguards around who gets to engage in community development and how.
• Ensure that local cultural organizations—not outside interests—are prioritized in the planning of our city’s future.

We can’t keep losing our cultural spaces to speculative development that doesn't understand—or care—about our communities. We need leadership that sees cultural preservation, artistic collaboration, and equitable development as deeply interconnected and worthy of investment.

When you think of the slogan “Good Trouble,” what comes to mind?

So many things come to mind, but at its core, “Good Trouble” makes me think about escape—the act of seeking freedom in a world that criminalizes that pursuit. I think about how nearly every freedom-seeking action in the history of my lineage—my people—has been deemed illegal. And yet, that trouble was necessary. That trouble was good.

I think of "good" not just in the moral sense, but as something that nourishes the human spirit. Something that is rooted in justice, and that pushes against what is unjust—even if it costs you. Because to me, justice is a supreme value—it outweighs rules, norms, and convenience. The just action is the right action.

I also think about the legacy of the Black church in the South, which was a cornerstone of the Civil Rights Movement. That’s where John Lewis came from. It was not just a place of worship but a space of organizing, resistance, and mischief—the kind of mischief rooted in love and liberation.

And then I think about my daily life, and the kinds of “good trouble” I find myself in as I challenge the constraints of the nonprofit industrial complex. I’m constantly asking:

• What can I walk away from?
• What part of the status quo needs to be challenged or reimagined?
• How can I create better outcomes for the Black people I work with every day—even if the way to get there isn’t conventional?

That’s mischief. That’s creativity. That’s good trouble.

I also think about Southern Black organizing traditions, particularly the leadership of Black women like Ella Baker, who championed decentralized leadership. She believed that movements shouldn’t rely on a single figurehead—because if you take out one leader, you risk taking down the movement. But if everyone leads, the movement lives. That’s a model I strive for: one where leadership is cultivated across the community, not concentrated in a few hands.

To me, “Good Trouble” is a call to action that’s deeply rooted in history, survival, innovation, and love. It asks:

• What kind of good trouble are you willing to get into?
• What rules are you willing to break for the sake of justice?

Everyone’s capacity is different—but all movements for equity, justice, and freedom have required people to step outside of what’s socially accepted or legally sanctioned. That’s how change has always happened.

So yes, this is a powerful campaign. And it's exactly what we need in this moment.

On this page

• Lauren Turner Hines, Founder/ Executive Director, André Cailloux Center for Performing Arts and Cultural Justice
• Key Points
• Can you share a bit about your background and the work at the André Cailloux Center?
• I’ve experienced this myself—planting an idea, watching it get embraced by others or the universe, and then suddenly realizing: “Oh no… now I actually have to do this.” At what point did you realize you had to fully commit to creating the André Cailloux Center and dedicate a big part of your life to making it real?
• How are you building up the team and structure at the André Cailloux Center? Are you actively looking for younger, passionate partners to take over the mantle in the future?
• Can you explain what you mean by an “abolitionist” and “liberatory” framework in the context of how the André Cailloux Center operates?
• When planning the work you want produced at the Center, are you looking for specific types of creatives and storytellers who align with your framework? How do you choose who to work with?
• When you plan what happens at the André Cailloux Center, is there any grassroots involvement or community input in the process?
• With the current political climate and growing pushback on language around racial justice and DEI, have you found it challenging to cover the costs of programming and sustain operations?
• It’s fantastic that you’ll soon have control over your own space. There’s such a need for third spaces now more than ever. The pendulum is swinging away from the virtual and back toward in-person connection, which I think will become a premium experience soon.
• What are some of the highlights from programming over the past two years at the André Cailloux Center?
• When you host events like the We Will Dream Festival, how do you measure the impact these gatherings have on the community?
• What are the markers you look for in a truly flourishing community—beyond just surviving, but thriving? What are some signs that a community is really coming alive?
• I think of the quote, “History is written by the victors”. The idea of owning your own storytelling, your own story, is a kind of victory. It’s reclaiming the power of narrative.
• With the next election approaching, what are your hopes for the next administration in City Hall?
• When you think of the slogan “Good Trouble,” what comes to mind?