By Faith Fistler for Kent State NewsLab.
Broadcast version by Nadia Ramlagan.

The first time Tyana Barton was singled out because of her hair was when she was told to straighten it before a dance recital.

"That was like the first time in maybe 10 years I've ever had to straighten my hair. So I was like, distraught about that," Barton said. "And everybody was just like, 'it's not that serious'. And I'm like, 'it is, though. It is.'"

At the predominantly white studio in Dayton, Barton's instructor wanted all the dancers to look the same for a particular performance. Barton, being the only Black dancer, was asked to straighten her afro-textured hair to comply.

"I'm looking at all of these other girls with long hair, and it's just like perfectly straight. And then I'm having to go over my hair several times with the straightener just to get it to any form. It made me super emotional," said Barton, who is now a fashion merchandising student at Kent State University.

In Ohio, there is no statewide legal protection against hair-based discrimination from employers and schools. Individuals can be told to change their afros, braids, dreadlocks and twists or denied employment opportunities if it does not align with dress code standards.

The Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair Act, otherwise known as the CROWN Act, would provide statutory protection for individuals discriminated against for wearing protective hairstyles unique to Black culture.

Rep. Juanita Brent (D-Cleveland) has been trying to get the act off the house floor since 2020. In 2023, she reintroduced House Bill 178 for the third time, now with bipartisan support from republican Rep. Jamie Callender (R-Concord).

"This is my life story. My hair may be straight now, but most times my hair is in braids," Brent said. "And I just think it's crazy that there are people who are being removed from classrooms, who are not allowed to participate in sports events and are being removed from job opportunities because they're choosing to have their hair in braids and afros."

The legislation has already passed in cities such as Columbus, Akron, Cincinnati and Cleveland Heights.

"There are so many places where discrimination is occurring. So sometimes it takes a lot longer to do it in every city, and every community," she said. "Sometimes people don't realize the need for it until it happens to your neighbor, your grandchild, it happens to yourself."

The Ohio Chamber of Commerce has testified against H.B. 178, arguing that it "increases civil liability for employers, limits at-will employment in our state, and hampers the ability for businesses to set their own workplace policies."

Kevin Shimp, who testified on behalf of the Chamber, did not respond to interview requests.

The legislation is currently with the House Civil Justice Committee and has until December 2024 to pass.

"Controlling people's hair is almost like putting people in their place and saying you don't belong here," Brent said.

The history of what is considered an acceptable presentation of Black hair in the United States dates back to slavery when European aesthetics became the standard, said Mwatabu Okantah, department chair and professor of Africana Studies at Kent State University.

"On the one hand, many of our people have just ignored it and have lived according to our own aesthetic values, even within the context of being here in the United States," Okantah said. "Then, others of our people have internalized it and have struggled with extremely negative perceptions of ourselves, seeing ourselves the way white society sees us."

Black people's response to the European aesthetic has gone through cycles of assimilating to the social norm to embracing natural hairstyles in spite of it. Okantah said the cultural shift in recent years could be attributed to changing attitudes and Black people holding more positions of power.

"Enough of us now are scholars, mental health professionals, lawyers, and politicians. And so we have more tools to take that back. So I think the CROWN Act came out of that," he said.

The CROWN Act was introduced in California in 2019. It is now law in around two dozen states. The House of Representatives approved the CROWN Act in 2022, but the Senate did not.

Wendy Greene, a professor at Drexel University Thomas R. Kline School of Law and founder of #FreetheHair, has served as an advisor since the CROWN Act was conceived and has found the experience "rewarding".

"It's been really great to be able to see how this legislation is empowering young people to be advocates, young people to express their racial and cultural identities freely in their schools and their workplaces," Greene said. "And to see in turn, how people are using this legislation to educate and enrich others who may not really be familiar with this kind of discrimination because it's not their experience."

While the legislation will not end racial discrimination, the CROWN Act means employers could be found financially responsible for an individual's loss of job opportunity and emotional or psychological damage, Greene said.

"The major legal obligation is to just to stop engaging in the discrimination in and of itself," she said.


Faith Fistler wrote this article for Kent State News Lab. This collaboration is produced in association with Media in the Public Interest and funded in part by the George Gund Foundation.


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On Tuesday, President-elect Donald Trump called on the U.S. Senate to stop confirming President Joe Biden's nominees to federal judgeships, even as civil rights groups are pressing for the opposite.

Some 26 of Biden's nominees still need Senate approval; five of them from California.

Lena Zwarensteyn, senior director of the fair courts program for the Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights, is part of a coalition that recently wrote to senators, urging them to prioritize Biden's nominees.

"There are about 900 lifetime judges," Zwarensteyn explained. "The first Trump administration had 234 confirmations. We could be facing that again, which would mean more than half of the judiciary may end up being judges who have been appointed by the incoming president."

The Biden administration has confirmed 218 judges over the past four years, and the Senate has scheduled multiple votes this week. Republicans have taken votes to slow the process down but Democrats are motivated to get it done before they lose the majority in January.

Zwarensteyn noted federal judgeships are lifetime appointments.

"Every single one of the seats that we can fill now hopefully will be with somebody who is fair-minded, ethical, and does have a commitment to everybody's rights," Zwarensteyn stressed. "I think this is an important guardrail for our democracy, especially knowing the threats ahead."

Federal judges often make highly consequential decisions on topics including educational equity, immigration, fair pay, access to health care and the constitutionality of book bans.


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A North Carolina group is launching a new campaign to emphasize the importance of investing in people behind bars, so they'll have a better chance for normal lives when they're released.

The "Incarcerated Lives Matter" campaign is from Recidivism Reduction Education Programs Services, which advocates for programs like work release, vocational training and cognitive behavioral therapy as key tools for rehabilitation.

Kerwin Pittman, executive director of the group, said the goal is to challenge the belief harsher penalties create safer communities.

"It just won't work," Pittman asserted. "Dispelling that narrative that 'locking them up and throwing away the key' is the way to combat or the way to have public safety, it's not. It's investing in incarcerated people."

A study by The Sentencing Project confirms "tough-on-crime" laws like mandatory minimum sentences often cause more harm than good, and offer no significant benefit to reducing crime. To spread its message, the campaign has placed a billboard near Johnston Correctional Institution, which reads, "Incarcerated Lives Matter. We see you. We care."

The campaign also highlighted two major obstacles faced by people when they are released from prison: economic instability and the lack of housing. Pittman explained helping them get training and find meaningful work is crucial for their successful reintegration into society. He noted one priority is to revitalize work-release programs that have suffered since the pandemic.

"Since COVID happened, everybody had to stay home," Pittman recounted. "A lot of jobs that individuals were able to have while incarcerated, they lost. And those jobs, frankly, just never bounced back. And so, what we have to do now is go out and identify 'second chance' employers across the state, and match them with individuals who are incarcerated but who are eligible for work-release."

Pittman stressed work-release programs, coupled with vocational training, are keys to empowering people to earn a livable wage and stay employed after release. The campaign also plans to help people gain certifications to open doors to stable careers, making reintegration smoother and reducing the likelihood of reoffending.

A man who once faced the harsh realities of Alabama's criminal justice system is now working to ensure others in Mobile County do not have to endure the same struggles.

Chris "Champ" Napier, client advocate for the Mobile County Public Defender's Office, said before becoming an advocate he experienced firsthand the inequities between those who have money and those who do not. He pointed out in the legal system, a lack of financial resources significantly affected the outcome of his case.

"It's based on socioeconomic background," Napier explained. "I'm from a poverty-stricken area; I couldn't afford an attorney. So, the person that was sentenced the same day I was sentenced, because his family had money, he had a similar crime ... I was sentenced to life. He was sentenced to 20 years."

Napier said his personal journey fuels his commitment to leveling the playing field for people who cannot afford a private attorney. In Alabama, 59 of the state's 67 counties rely on court-appointed private attorneys or flat-fee contract lawyers to represent those who cannot pay for legal counsel, rather than having a public defender's office. Napier argued the system leaves many low-income defendants at a disadvantage.

While incarcerated, Napier noted he witnessed how systemic inequalities continued behind bars. He explained one example is the exploitation of prison labor.

"They have factories in prison where they pay the inmates 30 cents an hour but once those inmates are released, they can't get a job at those facilities," Napier observed. "It's really another form of economic exploitation."

Napier emphasized the disparities only deepened his resolve to educate himself while incarcerated. After 14 years in prison, he was paroled. Now, he works to build trust between the office and the community it serves.

"I get to go to the jails and talk to our clients on a one-on-one basis and use my experience -- my pain and my expertise -- to show them that change is possible," Napier stressed. "To show them that they can trust the attorneys in our office."

The Mobile County Public Defenders Office was created four years ago, in response to calls from organizations like Faith in Action Alabama, which recognized the urgent need for a public defender system to serve the most vulnerable in the community.