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On March 11, 2020, when the World Health Organization first characterized COVID-19 as a global pandemic, Andrea Manrique (\"Andrea\") was detained at Irwin.5 She and her fellow detainees were terrified; without personal protective equipment (\"PPE\"), they began to organize-both to keep themselves safe and to demand better protections.6 They used torn t-shirts and whatever they could find to fashion makeshift masks.7 A group of detainees stopped eating lunch, stopped buying commissary, and then went on hunger strike, all to protest the dangerous conditions and the lack of information they were receiving about their health and safety.8 Then, Andrea and several other women made a video on a jailhouse tablet, later released on Youtube, in which they pleaded for help: \"[w]e're very afraid of being incarcerated here, and dying here. \"10 In the background, traditional legal efforts to effectuate release for detainees at high risk of contracting-and dying from-COVID-19, were ongoing, but largely unsuccessful in court.11 Meanwhile, inside the facility, hunger strikes and other forms of resistance continued.12 Finally, officers within Irwin began taking detainees' temperatures and isolating those who were sick.13 But by May, attorneys were needed back in court; at least one detained man in Georgia had died of COVID-1914 and attorneys representing immigrant detainees at Irwin hoped the judge would reconsider release. On May 20, 2021, the contract between ICE and Irwin County was finally terminated, with an end date of September 17, 2021.17 The last woman at Irwin was moved-transferred to another jail-on April 22, 2021.18 Using the organizing and activism that took place at Irwin as a case study, this Essay explores the demosprudential project of organizing for abolition in ICE custody and the ways in which directly impacted communities-including those in and around Irwin-\"restructured the politics of the possible\"19 to create space for what might be achievable if justice were to be made real.20 This Essay explores how the social movement within, and around, Irwin was able to make and interpret law in ways that are distinct-and often undervalued-as compared to the role played by lawyers, judges, and legislators.21 Too often the legal community has relied upon the narrative that lawyers and judges are the purveyors of social change. Civil litigation has played an important role in the advancement of certain rights, though there is certainly debate about how expansive its role has been.36 Increasingly, scholars remind us that courts are just \"one voice\" in the national discussion.37 Guinier and Torres explain that \"demosprudence requires us to ask two overarching questions: (1) How and when do disadvantaged or weak minorities . . . mobilize to protect their own rights in a majoritarian democracy?; and (2) Does the mobilization of these constituencies have a democracy enhancing effect?\"38 Demosprudence rejects the idea that courts and lawyers are the sole sources of authority, especially when we know that so often, and perhaps increasingly, marginalized groups cannot rely on courts to vindicate their rights.39 Instead of privileging these \"formal\" sources of authority, demosprudence centers the role of social movements, activists, organizers, and directly impacted people so that they can \"name their own reality and give that reality a heart, a soul, and a story.

Against the backdrop of today's increasingly multicultural society, are America's elite colleges admitting and successfully educating a diverse student body? No Longer Separate, Not Yet Equal pulls back the curtain on the selective college experience and takes a rigorous and comprehensive look at how race and social class impact each stage--from application and admission, to enrollment and student life on campus. Arguing that elite higher education contributes to both social mobility and inequality, the authors investigate such areas as admission advantages for minorities, academic achievement gaps tied to race and class, unequal burdens in paying for tuition, and satisfaction with college experiences. The book's analysis is based on data provided by the National Survey of College Experience, collected from more than nine thousand students who applied to one of ten selective colleges between the early 1980s and late 1990s. The authors explore the composition of applicant pools, factoring in background and \"selective admission enhancement strategies\"--including AP classes, test-prep courses, and extracurriculars--to assess how these strengthen applications. On campus, the authors examine roommate choices, friendship circles, and degrees of social interaction, and discover that while students from different racial and class circumstances are not separate in college, they do not mix as much as one might expect. The book encourages greater interaction among student groups and calls on educational institutions to improve access for students of lower socioeconomic status.

Lani Guinier was the first woman of color to be a tenured professor at Harvard Law School. Earlier, she taught for 10 years at the law school of the University of Pennsylvania.

Kynard cites that in the summer of 2016, the American Constitution Society held its fifteenth national convention. According to Twitter trendings, legal blogs, and the panel's own moderator, the session called \"Race, Speech, and Inclusion on Campus\" was the highlight of the entire event drawing in undergraduates, graduate students, activists, lawyers, and college professors alike. Prominent legal theorists and authors dominated the panel with the exception of one undergraduate student (Jirschele). Payton Head, the former student body president and central activist in the University of Missouri's 2015 protests against campus racism and white violence, seemed to be the headliner. Head spoke first from a deliberately crafted, queer race-radical critique that specifically connected his multiple temporal-spatial locations: the university's physical proximity to the protests against the murder of teenage Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri; the land now housing his own dormitory that had once been used for slave quarters; his understanding of himself as not the first black student body president but certainly the first black queer president; the first racial epithet hurled at him on campus while on his way to a friend's transitioning/T-party; his home in Southside Chicago and subsequent migration to Mizzou; ritual and routinized campus transphobia that segregates even the most casual neoliberalist consumptions; the sketch of his soon-to-go-viral Facebook post on the backside of his campus's gender-neutral bathroom map; and the extended drafting of his Facebook post during a problematic conversation with white student body presidents in the University of Missouri system who were unfettered by the specific concerns of DACA, Muslim, and international students.

We know about the lead in Flint's water because of organizers like Nayyirah Shariff. For well over a year, while officials insisted the water was safe, Shariff and members of the Flint Democracy Defense League tested their own water, reached out to journalists, filed grievances, and called protests. They set up a water distribution site, checked in on their elderly and homebound neighbors, kept telling their stories, and made the world pay attention. Today, the Flint Rising coalition, with Shariff at the helm, is working to build power among Flint residents for a long-haul fight for justice in their city. With organizing tools, they are developing a shared analysis and vision, forging relationships and organizational structures, and cultivating residents' capacity to tackle the water crisis and whatever problems they face next.