My family and I often joke about Black History Month falling on the shortest stretch of the year. It’s as if the government signed some paperwork and said, here, damn — expecting us to cheer at a flimsy peace offering. Of course, Black History is relevant every month, so there’s no need to fuss, but this year, I tried to relish it. Stretch it. Feel it’s every curve. The goal was to see if I could force some deeper connection to my own identity. Honestly? My findings were inconclusive. I don’t feel any blacker today than yesterday, but I supposed that’s the point.
I’m able to be myself because of the work Black people have done for generations. That’s a fact I’ve always known, but the concept solidified last year when I began interviewing my grandmother. She’s a fascinating person with the brain of a historian. Though she’s in good health, I felt a push to ask about her life before it’s too late. Mind you, the woman’s a spry 80 years old. She drives herself to her local thrift every week. She outdanced me at her last birthday party. Her favorite drink is a stiff margarita. She’s fine!
Anyway, during one of our chats, she mentioned a relative of ours who was born a slave. I must’ve sighed because she was quick to remind me that circumstances do not define a person. Did this relative live through excruciating times? Yes. But does that mean their life was devoid of joy? No.
“Things are bad now,” my grandmother explained, “But you still enjoy your life, don’t you?” That, if anything, is what Black History Month means to me. It’s not about pity or some sort of capitalistic recognition of our suffering. It’s to celebrate the fact that despite it all, we’re still here. Still pushing. Still just as Black today as we were yesterday.
In the early 1900s, my great-grandmother fought to raise a family in the segregated South, providing a safe space in a chaotic world. Meanwhile, my grandmother fought for her career in nursing, aiming to help others live long enough to achieve their dreams, and my mother currently fights for DEI despite messaging that insists it’s useless. With each battle, the next generation is granted the liberty to be true to themselves and lead lives of joy. Because of them, I get to be exactly who I am — a queer Black woman who overshares on the internet. Some wins are bigger than others, but they’re all important.
I have an Aunt Reba, who passed years ago but remains one of the boldest members of our family’s tapestry. She was a funny woman. Cursed like a sailor, drank like a fish, and to her mother’s chagrin, loathed dresses. Nine times out of ten, Reba was said to choose a pair of pants over a gown. From what I’ve heard her sartorial choices caused quite a few arguments between her and her mother. But Reba wore pants anyway, honoring herself, and in turn, signaling that everyone else could do the same.
Now, reaching for a pair of trousers may not have the same flare as fighting for civil rights, but there’s joy in that, too. It was our ancestors’ hard-won battles that gave Reba the right, and confidence, to be herself—frills be damned. That’s not to say she didn’t face her own, more prominent challenges, but it’s nice to think that the load gets lighter as time goes on.
As always, I find it’s easiest to celebrate life through music. In honor of Black History Month, I’ve created a playlist of songs from Black artists whose music is unapologetic and wholly their own. I hope you enjoy :)
love <333
so good 🤎🤎🤎