Since I was a kid, I was obsessed with heroes. X-Men. Static Shock. Naruto. You name it.
These were people who chose to devote their lives to making the world better using whatever powers or skills they had. Kids grow up with an instinct to help, to make people smile, to care for others. These were the stories I got lost in, the stories I bonded over, the stories I imagined for myself.
As I traded my comic books for textbooks, those heroes became tangible and free. No longer confined to my imaginary world, these heroes were real. They were problem-solvers, community builders, movement leaders. I didn’t have superpowers, but historical heroes fighting for liberation showed me that I could still make a difference.
That realization collided with learning the history of the country I was born in—the same country my parents saw as an opportunity, a place birthed from the idea of freedom. I learned the struggle for rights was complex, often fraught with nuance, discomfort, and unfortunate violence. I learned that protecting the most vulnerable couldn’t be wrapped in a few seasons, but warranted a lifelong commitment. And I couldn’t imagine any other goal.
So when trubel&co was still figuring out what it wanted to be when it grew up (or more importantly, what values it needed to hold), liberation was first on the list.
So when trubel&co was still figuring out what it wanted to be when it grew up (or more importantly, what values it needed to hold), liberation was first on the list.
Given the name, it’s hard to ignore. After the common yet awkward realization that yes, ‘trubel’ is pronounced like “trouble,” most people connect it to John Lewis:
“Get in good trouble, necessary trouble, and help redeem the soul of America.”
But what many don’t know is that our name was first sparked by Bayard Rustin. In a quest to find queer Black heroes, this engineering student (me) found Rustin’s quote:
“We need, in every community, a group of angelic troublemakers. Our power is in our ability to make things unworkable.”
That stuck with me. I knew there was work to be done, together. I wanted America to “be the dream the dreamers dreamed” (shout out Langston Hughes). I decided I’d help spark “good trubel” wherever it was needed most. With this as my base, fueled by the desire to give youth the tools to create the world they deserve, liberation had to be core. Not just social impact. Not just equity. Not even justice. Those words show up in our work, but they don’t go far enough.
Liberation speaks to the whole of it.
And yet, the word “liberation” makes people nervous. Advisors, funders, peers—even allies—have encouraged me to tone it down. I’ve been asked to remove it from our curriculum, our messaging, our branding.
Why? To make things more palatable. More “professional.” Easier to fund.
But the risk of forsaking liberation is far greater than the risk of losing support that’s afraid of a world in which all people are free.
So, why liberation?
Because liberation connects us
To critical frameworks that shape how we teach and build. It ties us to Black feminist thought, abolition, decolonial theory; frameworks that aren’t radical to us, but a baseline for the world we deserve.
Because liberation is active.
It’s not a concept; it’s a practice. Quite literally, it means the act of setting people free. It requires movement.
Because liberation invites radical imagination.
We get to dream up tools, systems, and futures rooted in care and justice, even if they don’t exist yet. We don’t settle for reform when transformation is what’s needed.
Because liberation centers joy.
The fight for justice can be exhausting. But liberation makes room for celebration, for breath, for lightness. It reminds us we are not only resisting, but simultaneously living. The journey to liberation is lost if we forget to prioritize joy along the way.
Because liberation is personal.
It calls up raw emotion. Sensory memory. A gut-level desire to protect and create, not just survive. These emotions guide us to dream big, and these emotions sustain us to carry on.
I’m used to the comments people make when I say liberation with my chest.
- “Isn’t that word a little divisive?”
- “It’s hard to define.”
- “Aren’t you worried about turning people off?”
What’s divisive about wanting people to be free? Aren’t we in the land of the free? If my freedom—or anyone else’s—is threatening to someone, then I have to question their priorities.
And as for it being hard to define—that’s the beauty of it. One of my favorite workshop activities is asking participants: What does liberation feel like? Taste like? Sound like? The responses are as diverse as the people in the room:
- Loud and celebratory. Light and airy.
- Like birdsong in green community spaces.
- Like your first lick of ice cream as a kid.
That’s liberation. It’s sensory, personal, collective.
When we invite people to define it for themselves, we’re democratizing the vision of what our communities could become. And no, I’m not afraid of losing support. Why should we sacrifice our vision of using technology to enable conditions where we all can thrive? If we lose that, then we’ve lost the plot. We are here to push the limits of how technology can serve racial repair, economic justice, and regenerative climate futures. If the support we receive is conditional to this, then maybe it’s not support that we need.
Today and every day, I’m proud to hold liberation as a core value and North Star. At trubel&Co, we believe liberation is a community affair—join us in building the world we deserve.
trubel&co (“trouble and co”) is a tech-justice nonprofit that recruits, trains, and mobilizes the next generation to tackle social and environmental challenges using data, design, and tech. Blending STEM, civics, and youth voice, we create spaces where students can document inequity, investigate injustice, and map the tools for their own liberation.
