The Community Organizer
"Clarice has mobilized her Detroit neighborhood for thirty years. When a foundation director offers funding, she discovers some campaigns run on more than grants."
My block is my family.
Three decades organizing—fighting blight, building gardens, keeping hope alive. I'm Clarice—fifty-nine, president of everything unofficial, voice for my Detroit neighborhood.
"Your work is remarkable."
The foundation director stands in my community center. Marcus Webb—wealthy, connected, here to tour our projects.
"Remarkable ain't funded."
"That's why I'm here." He pulls out paperwork. "My foundation wants to invest. Long-term. But only if you'll lead."
The money is substantial.
But Marcus wants more than receipts—he wants understanding.
"Walk with me," I say.
I show him everything—the gardens, the youth programs, the houses we've saved. He takes notes, asks questions that matter.
"Why do you do this?" he asks.
"Because someone has to." I stop at a lot we transformed. "Because change doesn't wait for permission."
The partnership deepens.
His resources, my vision, transforming blocks into something new.
"You're good at this," I tell him.
"I just write checks—"
"You show up." I face him. "Other funders send staff. You come yourself. Why?"
His pause is long. "Because you make me believe again."
"Believe in what?"
"That money can do good. That someone like me can matter." He moves closer. "That maybe the work isn't all there is."
"What else would there be?"
"This." He touches my face. "Whatever this is between us."
The kiss happens in the community garden.
Between rows I planted, his mouth finds mine—new growth.
"This complicates things," I breathe.
"This clarifies things." He smiles. "I've funded hundreds of projects. Never felt this before."
His Grosse Pointe mansion feels foreign.
"I don't belong here," I say.
"You belong wherever you want." He takes my hand. "Stay. Let me show you the man behind the foundation."
He undresses me reverently.
"You're magnificent," he whispers.
"I'm a community organizer—"
"You're a force of nature." His mouth traces my curves. "Let me appreciate what I've watched all these months."
His appreciation is thorough.
Hands that sign grants now serve my body. When his tongue speaks, I hear devotion.
"Marcus—"
"This is my investment." He settles between my thighs. "The most important one."
When he enters me, we're building something.
"So good," he groans.
"More. This campaign needs full commitment."
"Full everything. Forever."
Afterward, in his overwhelming bed, we strategize.
"Move the foundation to Detroit."
"What?"
"Put it in the community. Let people see where it comes from." He pulls me closer. "And let me move there too. With you."
"Marcus—"
"I've spent my life adjacent to change. I want to be in it." He kisses my forehead. "Marry me, Clarice. Let's organize together."
The Detroit office opens that fall.
Foundation in the neighborhood, Marcus in my life.
"To the woman who showed me where to invest," he toasts at our engagement.
"To the man who put his money where his heart is," I counter.
The wedding is in the community center.
Where we met, where we'll continue, where the neighborhood celebrates.
We kiss while our people cheer.
Some organizers work alone.
Some find partners.
And some discover that the best campaigns combine resources, vision, and love that refuses to be just professional.
Community built.
Hearts joined.
Forever fighting.