Opinion: Trump’s dismantling of drowning prevention team holds painful echoes for Black Americans

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Before they poured acid into the pool, before they drained it to keep Black children from swimming, there was a moment of stillness. Of promise. Of a child standing at the edge, hoping to feel joy.

That moment has always been fragile for us.

From Dorothy Dandridge being denied the dignity of dipping a toe in a Las Vegas hotel pool to children in St. Augustine attacked during a peaceful swim-in, America’s history with water has always revealed more than just fear of the deep. It has exposed our fear of equality. Of Black presence. Of shared space.

There’s a reason generations of Black families have passed down warnings about water. A reason too many of us grow up hearing that swimming is dangerous, that it’s best to stay away, that the pool is not for us. That fear isn’t superstition; it’s survival. It’s inherited memory. Because the truth is, we weren’t just denied access to the water. We were denied the resources, the lessons, the lifeguards, the protection. And when we dared to claim space in the water anyway, we were met with violence.

I carry that history with me as a member of Sigma Gamma Rho Sorority, Inc., which has spent more than a decade working to break that cycle through our national Swim 1922 initiative. We do it not just because too many Black children still don’t know how to swim, but because we know why. We know the legacy that emptied pools, closed community centers and left families with generational fear.

And now, in 2025, that fear is being compounded again. This time not with bleach or chains, but with silence.

Recently, the Trump administration quietly dismantled the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s drowning prevention team, the very group responsible for tracking where drownings were occurring, which communities were most at risk and what could be done to prevent more. The team that collaborated with the YMCA, the Red Cross and countless grassroots groups to offer swim lessons and safety clinics. The team whose work made sure that even if your child couldn’t swim, someone out there was trying to change that.

With one decision, that effort stopped. That data disappeared. That lifeline was cut.

This isn’t just a budget cut. It’s a betrayal. And for Black and brown families, it’s a familiar one.

Because we remember what happened the last time this country didn’t want us in the water.

We remember Dorothy Dandridge, whose toe in a Las Vegas hotel pool led to the entire thing being drained and scrubbed. We remember the wade-ins of the civil rights era, when peaceful protesters were met with violence. We remember the hotel owner in St. Augustine who poured acid into a pool to drive out young Black swimmers. We remember how, after desegregation, some cities closed entire public pool systems rather than allow Black families to swim.

That history didn’t just disappear. It echoes, in the numbers, in the deaths and in the fears passed from parent to child.

And now, instead of confronting that legacy, the Trump administration is burying the data that exposes it.

The CDC team’s work revealed that drowning remains the No. 1 cause of death for children ages 1 to 4. That American Indian, Alaska Native and Black communities experience the highest rates of drowning. That the pandemic made it worse. With fewer lifeguards, fewer lessons and more children at risk.

Now, that work has been stopped midstream. Reports unfinished. Grants imperiled. Programs abandoned. Why? Because acknowledging racial disparities in health and safety doesn’t fit this administration’s political agenda.

This is what erasure looks like. Not in theory, but in policy.

In Minnesota, the Land of 10,000 Lakes, we know water is not a luxury. It’s part of our culture, our recreation and our public responsibility. We take pride in our commitment to child safety, public health and evidence-based policy. That’s why the loss of this drowning prevention work must matter here.

We need our state leaders to demand answers. We need Congress to restore this funding. And we need every Minnesotan, from the North Shore to the Twin Cities, to understand that when data disappears, so does accountability.

The fight to save lives shouldn’t have to start all over again. Not in 2025. Not after all we’ve learned.

They drained the pool then. Now they’re draining the data. We can’t let them drown the truth.

Haley Taylor Schlitz is an attorney, writer and former public school teacher based in St. Paul.